Jennifer Rae - Sex, Lies and Her Impossible Boss

When Cash leaned down, his mouth was perilously close to Faith’s earlobe. She breathed in. He smelled delicious. Heady, warm and sexy. When he finally spoke it came out deep and rough in the broad, abrasive accent he used when he was angry. ‘As your station manager, I insist you prove that statement to me.’ But he wasn’t angry. He was...something else.

Faith’s heart beat in her chest. Being this close was not something she was used to. And not just close to Cash. She actually didn’t get this close to men in general. As a rule. Which was probably why her heart was pounding and a bead of sweat formed on her forehead. He’d find out. If he dug too deep—he’d realise her secret.

‘That is sexual harassment, Mr Anderson.’

Cash stilled. His eyes flicked to hers. There was no smile present on his face any more. He moved back a little. She felt the coldness of his look as it swept over her face.

‘If I wanted to sexually harass you, Harris, I’d do it properly. On top of my desk. With you screaming my name.’

His eyes went hard, which was helping to slow down Faith’s rapid heartbeat. He was still too close. Way too close and she needed him to step back. And now he was suggesting doing something she hadn’t done in so long. With anyone—let alone a tall, handsome, gruff man who was trying to get rid of her.

Everything in her body throbbed. This had gone too far. She had to leave. For no other reason than she was actually considering what it would feel like to have sex on the desk with Cash. Multiple times. Using every Kama Sutra position in the book. And possibly some that weren’t even in there. One after the other after the other after the other...

Faith mentally shook her head and pursed her lips together. She was a professional. She knew what this was—a man using his sexuality to get what he wanted. She’d read about that. She’d also read that those types of men wouldn’t take no for an answer. You had to show those types who was boss—apparently.

‘If you had any idea what I actually did every day, Cash, you’d realise that what I do is valuable.’ She lifted her chin and put on her poshest London accent, trying desperately not to broaden her vowels. ‘You’d realise how important my segment is to the Australian people and to this station.’

‘All right, then.’ He finally stepped back.

‘What?’ Confused, she tried to meet his eyes but he’d taken them off her and was now undoing the buttons at his wrists. He started rolling up his sleeves, revealing a set of thick tanned forearms. Lined with slightly bulging veins, she noticed absently before dragging her eyes off them and back to his.

‘Show me what you do. Show me how your work is relevant. Prove to me that sex is not just sex and I’ll keep your show on.’

‘Prove it to you?’

‘Yes. Show me Sexy Sydney. Teach me what you know. Convert me and you can stay on.’

Convert him? The man who thought sex was just sex? The man who—at last count—had been connected with over twenty high-profile women since he’d arrived back onto Australian shores four weeks ago? That was impossible. But it was her only chance to stay. So she grabbed it.

‘Fine. Be ready at six in the morning. I’ll pick you up.’

‘Great. Gives me time for my morning surf.’ He smiled and for once that smile didn’t make her feel like trusting him. This smile looked more like that of a great white shark. All interlocking white teeth, hungry for some flesh. The beating of war drums sounded deep in her gut. This battle would be to the death. The only way to keep her show and her dream alive was to win—and this time she’d have to go all the way.

THREE

Sydney looked different at six a.m. Quiet. Coiled, like a spring waiting to be let go and bounce crazily all over the place. When Faith had moved here two years ago it had seemed so foreign and strange. Everything was bright and sunny and sparkling. The people smiled too much. People in Australia worked to live rather than lived to work. It took a lot of getting used to. Sometimes it irritated her. She sometimes wished people would be a little more serious—a bit more ambitious, more like her. But as the sun bounced from the waves of the water onto the ferries that took people from work to the bars and restaurants and clubs that surrounded the harbour, she could admit that Sydney was growing on her.

What she loved the most was that it was a place where anything went. Where nothing was taboo. Where you could see a man dressed as a woman kissing a man passionately on the street at nine a.m. It was so different from the small country village she grew up in and literally a world away from the stuffy boarding school where she’d lived for ten long years. Here, she seemed to blend in a little bit more. With all the other crazies.

Faith stopped her car. There were no spare spots so she double parked and got out, hitting Send on the text she’d written to Cash.

I’m here.

She could only see the back of his building. Apparently he lived at the very top. His view would be magnificent. It would reach out so far he’d be able to see where the world curved. Of course a man like Cash Anderson would live at the top. He’d probably spent his life looking down at people like her. Small-town nobodies with only a sliver of talent but a truckload of determination. He was one of those people who determined the fate of people like her. And, frankly, she was getting a little sick of being beholden to the whims of people like Cash Anderson.

She’d finally started to feel different. No longer the nobody she’d always been at home. Or worse—the wacko everyone laughed at. Her mother had actually laughed when she’d told her she was going to be a journalist. Her father had given one of his lectures and her brothers had just had another angle from which to make fun of her.

She had always been an outsider—at home, at school, at every job she’d had since leaving college four years ago. But here, in this strange place, her fascination with love and relationships and sex had found a home. She had fans in Australia. Actual fans. And not just weirdo men with worn-out rewind buttons on their remote controls. She’d received letters from women who thanked her for showing them how to revive their marriages. From young girls who said she was the reason they learned to respect their bodies and themselves and from men who were happy she was able to teach them how to please their girlfriends in ways they wouldn’t have thought of themselves. Real people with real problems.

She was helping. She was important. For the first time in her life, she mattered. Which was why this show was so important to her. She needed to make it a success. She had to make sure it stayed on air. With this show—she was somebody and with this show, she’d never have to go back to being nobody.

Her phone beeped.

What are you wearing?

What was she wearing? Faith’s cheeks heated. Perhaps he thought she was someone else. One of his harem of twenty women he’d apparently bedded. Just for sex. She decided Cash Anderson was a pig. A sexy pig, but a pig nonetheless. She texted back.

It’s black and hot and covered in leather straps.

Triumph made her lips curl into a smile. He’d be disappointed when he got down here and it was just her in her T-shirt and jeans.

Your car is covered in leather straps? Who are you—Batman?

Faith paused. What? Her phone rang and she pushed the green button.

‘I asked, “What are you driving?” Are you the yellow bug or the red clunker?’

‘The red clunker. I thought you said what was I wearing...’

As it always did when Cash was involved, her skin turned a bright shade of beetroot. Lately, she’d found herself trying so hard to impress him in order to keep her job—she more often embarrassed herself in front of him.