Free Mikalo's Grace by Syndra K. Shaw Page A

on his watch, I could see it was five
minutes to three.
    "Interview now, I think," he said, planting a
tender kiss on my cheek.
    He opened the door and stepped outside as I
frantically pulled my skirt down, fixed my jacket, my blouse, and
ran my fingers through my hair.
    The make-up was a complete do-over.
    I was angry. Exhausted and blissful, yes. But
angry.
    "You ripped these," I said, my torn underwear
in hand.
    "Yes," he said, running his through his
hair.
    I don't know why, but I was furious. They
weren't priceless or anything. And certainly easily replaceable,
yes. But, I don't know, it just pissed me off.
    "You can't do that. You just can't come in
here, do that, and then ... and then ... You just can't do
that!"
    He leaned forward, lifted the small bag from
Henri Bendel, and handed it to me.
    "Ah, but this I can do," he said.
    God, he was just annoying the hell out of me
right now. I don't know if it was because of the quickie or the
arrogance in coming here or the fact that I fell for it. That I was
weak. Had, in the space of fifteen minutes or something, gone from
super-successful attorney to Midtown Manhattan booty call.
    But whatever it was, I was seeing red.
    And that, in itself, was annoying.
    I shoved my hand into the bag.
    And felt silk.
    I looked down and discovered an exquisite
pair of panties. White lace. Stunning and beautiful and delicate
and gorgeous. Tied with a silk bow.
    "Mikalo ..." I began.
    "Trust, Ronan. I say I hurt something of
yours ..."
    Taking them from me, he lifted the torn
fabric.
    "I get you a new one. Here, I keep my word.
It is trust."
    He shoved them in his pocket as he walked to
the door, opened it, and stepped out.
    Janey stood breathless, two coffees in
hand.
    "Ah, it is coffee time," he said with a smile
as he took a cup from her.
    I shoved the white silk back in the bag, my
hand self-consciously running through my hair again.
    Sipping the coffee, he sighed.
    "You know how to make it perfect, Ronan's
angel," he said to a beaming Janey. "Thank you.
    "And now," he said, turning back to me,
"Meeting, yes?"
     

Chapter
Twenty-One
     
    The Byzan documents glared at me from my
desk.
    You're ignoring us, they silently screamed.
Millions on the line for the firm and you can't even focus on us
for five minutes, you bitch, they then hissed.
    I shoved them in the drawer and looked at my
watch.
    An hour had passed and no word from
Mikalo.
    Thoughts of him wandering the city, hurt and
in shock, wondering what to do and where to go filled my mind.
    Of him in a bar, a woman on his arm, the
eager stranger feeling his biceps, his shoulders, the smooth skin
of his cheek, as he knocked back one shot after another, finding
comfort in her sad eyes and desperate smile.
    Thoughts of him banging her in a cheap motel.
Or her six-floor walkup in Hell's Kitchen. Dirty dishes crowding
the sink, a baby screaming somewhere down the hall, the sounds of
traffic below as she writhed and gasped. Mikalo cruelly fucking
away the heartbreak of losing a job, losing what could have been a
good life, with an anonymous bar skank.
    I'm being stupid.
    He's a friggin' billionaire, for God's sake.
He didn't need this job. Probably didn't even want this job.
    I needed him to need this job. I needed him
to want this job.
    And I was the one nursing a wounded heart.
Not him.
    I'm an idiot. With a six-figure salary and a
wall of diplomas and more uber-expensive handbags than any human
could possibly need. An idiot.
    I stood, looking out over the city.
    Still, an hour had passed.
    I'd ask Janey to call down and see what the
gossip was, but she already knew too much, having met and OMGed
over him. And I was more comfortable with a clear Partner/Secretary
line. This breach, this blurring of that line, was getting too
fuzzy for my taste.
    I could even call Blazen and check in. But,
oh my god, I'd cum, hard, only an hour or so ago with him right
outside the door.
    The chances of me not blushing when I heard
his voice or, god forbid,