To Love a Shifter: A Paranormal Romance Boxed Set Page 2

  But of course I know the answer to that. They don’t actually pity me. They just plain hate my guts for whatever reason.

  Finding a private space to enjoy my peanut butter sandwich and orange juice is never easy. You see, my workplace also happens to be one of the city’s major tourist attractions, thanks to its 18th floor viewing deck, which continues to snap up architectural awards left and right. Veganista is also located on that floor, a world-renowned restaurant that caters exclusively to human herbivores. It’s always fully booked for months in advance, but twenty of its 200-plus seats are reserved every day for walk-in patrons. The lines for those twenty seats sometimes force me to take the stairs instead.

  I take a short trip to the ground floor lobby to see if there are any available spaces left in the lounge areas. There are none, with every seat occupied by Asian tourists. I smack my forehead. I forgot about that. A memo was posted about it last week, telling us that we’re having busloads of tourists from China for some cultural exchange project Moretti Inc. has with a Beijing company.

  Stepping back into the private employees’ elevator, which is surprisingly empty, I swipe my card then punch 5 on the digital keyboard. It’s where the library and records center is, and in the two months I’ve been working here, I’ve never bumped into another soul there.

  I take out my peanut butter sandwich and start eating. It’s been my favorite since my orphanage days, mostly because we only got to choose between this and rice broth for breakfast. My BFF back then, a Chinese girl named Mei Li, was the only one who went for the rice broth. Nothing against it, but my Western mind’s been pre-conditioned to only want it when I’m burning up with a fever.

  Then again, there’s always a first for everything, I think moments later with a sinking heart. The good news: there are finally employees other than myself who appreciate what 5/F has to offer. The bad news: we don’t appreciate it for the same reasons. I come here for the free books, these two come here for the free — personal space, I guess? Or so they thought.

  In full view of the elevators is Janice Rudely, the glamazon lipstick monster who works as receptionist of Ze Morgue. She’s on her knees, head bobbing up and down, like a constantly bowing servant.

  Before her is William Grant, the balding octogenarian mid-management executive from the 10th floor, with his pants pooled around his ankles.

  Ding-dong. It’s the elevator, alerting the lovers to the fact that they have a reluctant Peeping Tom in their midst.

  Oh, shick.

  It’s a word I made up for the twins and me so we wouldn’t end up swearing in front of Nicole and Andy. And if this moment isn’t shicky, then I don’t know what is.

  I spin back to the elevator, stuffing my half-eaten sandwich into my mouth so I can slam my free hand on the down button.

  Sharp fingers dig deep into my shoulder.

  SHICK!

  Clawed in place, I turn around to face Janice with a weak smile, but she’s clearly less than thrilled to see me.

  “Hello, Janice.” The words come out all wrong since I’m speaking with my mouth full. In the background, I see William Grant hastily tucking his shirt back into his pants, which are still unzipped, revealing a protruding, limp --

  I do my best not to gag.

  For the love of --

  That was --

  Okay, I’m gagging.

  “Fuck!” Janice jumps back as I puke out the last bites of my sandwich on the carpet. “God, you’re gross!”

  I was gross? That’s rich, coming from a woman who thinks nothing of --

  I gag again.

  “You will not tell anyone what you saw.”

  I nod in wholehearted agreement. In fact, I’m already wishing I can forget the entire nightmarish episode.

  “Swear it,” she screeches.

  “I swear,” I mumble, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. I take several gulps from my plastic tumbler. Powdered juice has never tasted this great.

  “I’ll kill you if I hear one word about this,” she says when I finally force myself to meet her eyes again.

  “I already promised I won’t.” If I do, I’d have to recount every second of what happened, including what I saw----

  I gag for the tenth time.

  Her face has hardened into a stony mask when I recover from my last puke fest. Maintenance will kill me for this.

  “One word,” she hisses.

  I force myself not to rear back. This woman is terrifying when she’s mad. She looks like she wants to eat me. The only other time I’ve been this scared was when the kids corralled me into watching Paranormal Activity 4 with them.

  Her mascara-heavy eyes bore through me. “Not a word.”

  “Not a word,” I repeat, trying not to sound too ardent given the situation.

  The elevator’s bell rings again, this time like a boxing referee. So far, between Janice and me, it's a draw. She walks past me into the elevator, head held high.

  William follows, pausing beside me to whisper in an oily voice, “Let me know if you want the same thing.”

  I rush to the restroom even before the doors close on their faces. There goes the rest of whatever was left of my lunch.

  4:35 PM

  My phone beeps. It’s Nanette, my foster mother.

  I need $200. Withdraw on your way home.

  OK, I text back. It’s not like I have a choice. She steals Andy’s allowance when I don’t. Andy – who is five years old and the most adorable boy in the world. On my lowest days, I think of Nanette as a pedophile because she preys on kids as much as pervs do – except it isn’t sexual at all. Most of the time, I try to fool myself with some feel-good Ellen DeGeneres philosophy. Forgive her, for she knows not what she does. Pray for her, so that she may go to Hell.

  There’s another beep. This time it’s from eighteen-year-old Kevin, who’s closest to my age along with his twin sister Kelly. The orphanage says the twins are half-American, half-something-European. Apparently, a still-anonymous woman made the mistake of literally dumping the twins in the arms of a semi-deaf nun. When she took the twins to the orphanage, she couldn’t remember whether the woman had said the twins’ names were Pedro/Pedra or Petro/Petra.

  Personally, I think they’re half-Italian, but Nicole insists the twins look half-Greek. Something about their swarthy complexions and all that. I’m just three credits away from getting my Mass Communications degree, but even I don’t know what swarthy means. Whatever. Kids these days are so nerdy it’s uncool.

  It doesn’t really matter either way since the twins don’t give a shick about their lineage – to the point that they chose the Americanized names Kevin and Kelly when Nanette adopted them.

  I tap on the unopened message in my inbox.

  Nanette has another.

  Shick. Drat. FRACK.

  I’m blaming Angelina Jolie for this. It’s her fault that Nanette’s turned foster care and adoption into a lifelong business.

  I hurriedly text Kevin back. We’ll fix it later.

  4:45 PM

  “Misty?” It’s Ed again, but this time he doesn’t look into my eyes. He pulls on his collar, which he has a reason for doing since it’s buttoned all the way up, nearly choking him with the stiffness of its starched fabric.

  “Yes?”

  “You’re, ah, asked to go to the CEO’s office at the penthouse.”

  My heart stops beating.

  Interns don’t get summoned by the CEO for nothing. The word ‘intern’ isn’t even supposed to exist in a CEO’s vocabulary unless--

  It’s Janice and William, I think to myself dully. They hadn’t trusted me to keep my mouth shut so they’ve concocted some wild story to get me fired by the CEO himself. Fracking apeholes. Cunning of them, but really – total apeholes.

  I clear my throat. Maybe Ed heard wrong. Maybe it’s Do…Donaldo from 14/F who’s looking for me, and not the Big Boss himself. “If you’re really sure,” I say slowly, silently begging him not to be sure.

  Ed
still doesn’t meet my eyes. “I received the call myself,” he mumbles. “He even gave your complete name,” he adds unhappily.

  What the hell did those two apeholes tell the CEO anyway? That I grammatically sabotaged their papers or something? It’s not like I can do anything else.

  Ed coughs, drawing my attention back to him. I have a feeling he wants to wish me good luck but doesn’t want to because that means something is wrong. And nothing can be wrong in his happy place.

  He’s a good man, really. Nerdy, meek, but a good guy. I’m secretly terrified I’ll be like him if my life doesn’t change in the next few years.

  Wait –

  I shouldn’t be terrified. I should be ecstatic. Boring is good. Boring is safe. Boring puts food on the table and doesn’t get called on by the CEO to get royally fired.

  Why do you listen to me, God? I’m stupid. I don’t know what I’m asking for. Don’t listen to me again.

  The walk to the elevator feels like the green mile, and I feel the zombies of Ze Morgue grinning behind me. The elevator’s mirrored walls taunt me with my reflection. It’s saying – you don’t look boring enough. That should teach me and my big, fat mental mouth.

  It’s a long way up to 19/F, with people coming and going nonstop. I while away the journey by reviewing what I know about Domenico Moretti.

  He’s 29 – eight years older than I am. Make that seven in a few months’ time. He’s the eldest in a brood of six, with extraordinary dark Italian good looks – so much so he’s had to file a TRO against a supermodel who’s gone maniacally obsessive over him after their one-night stand.

  All the business journals describe him as “ruthless” and “cunning”. Moretti Inc. only used to do business in Italy and the United States, but when Domenico took over less than 10 years ago, he turned the family business into a global empire by taking some mind-blowing, risky gambles that paid off big time.

  The doors open one last time for me as the elevator arrives at 19/F.

  It’s my first time to be here since this floor is strictly by-invitation only. According to the office grapevine, there are only 3 reasons you get an invitation to the hallowed offices of the CEO. You either pleased someone very high up in Moretti Inc. – so much so that you’re worth a thirty-second congratulatory message delivered personally by the great Domenico Moretti himself; pissed off someone important enough that you warranted a meeting to get personally fired by said CEO; or you’re a female who’s hit the jackpot by snagging a highly-coveted invite to his private orgy room, which rumors say are hidden somewhere on this floor.

  His secretary, a stern-looking woman in her forties named Evelyn, looks at me with genuine pity in her eyes.

  Oh, shick.

  “Do you have a restroom somewhere?” I’m about to pee in my undies. I’m that scared.

  To give her credit, she doesn’t even blink and just gestures to the hall to her right. “There’s a ladies’ room at the end.”

  I do my business as quickly as I can and return to the sitting area because I don’t want to leave Domenico Moretti waiting. I don’t want to give the CEO even more ammunition against me.

  Evelyn knocks twice before opening the door to usher me in.

  I trip on my way inside.

  Her scent seduced and enslaved him the moment she came into his den.

  Domenico had always been proud of how different he was from the rest of his kind. He never lost control, never let passion rule him the way others did.

  This once, however – just this once he wanted to ignore his meticulously laid-out plan. Her scent alone made Domenico want to just fuck Misty into oblivion, fuck her hard until they both lost themselves in the pleasure of it.

  Fate was truly on his side, he mused while listening to her hesitant steps toward his office. He could not have chosen any better. Of course, it would have been nice if she had happened to be of royal birth as well or perhaps the daughter of a senator – a Democrat preferably – but Domenico could work with what he had. Besides, the reports showed that one of her sisters, Nicole, was a cross between a budding Machiavelli and Jackie O. If Domenico groomed her early enough, she could be the start of a new political dynasty.

  He smiled when he heard Misty nervously asking his faithful secretary for the restroom, but his smile faded when he sniffed something else in the air – something unexpected. He frowned. Every emotion had its own unique smell, and right now he could smell fear on her.

  Why?

  She should have been excited. Or curious, at the very least.

  He took the remote control on his desk, punched a few buttons, and the panel to his right parted, revealing a wall of monitors connected to the building’s CCTV system.

  He fast-forwarded the replay from the moment Misty left her office for lunch, his face darkening when he saw what happened to her at 5/F. It insulted him – it offended him greatly that his future princess would be subjected to such a sight.

  For a moment, Domenico wanted to simultaneously rip the old man apart and castrate him. He was a very possessive man – yet another unusual trait among his kind. Others didn’t mind sharing. All they cared about was the rut – the mindless raw sensations that came with the pleasures of the flesh.

  He wasn’t like that. Life had shaped him to go for what he wanted. It had taught him not to stop until he had conquered what he desired – and how to keep it in his possession even if he no longer wanted it.

  Right now, he sought Misty with such fierce need it took every ounce of his control to keep still in his seat – to think before acting.

  A red haze of rage blinded Domenico when he saw William whispering to Misty. He did not like seeing anyone coming on to her, and his fingers clenched around the remote control so hard he accidentally crushed it into pieces.

  Shit.

  He took out the spare from one of his drawers and had the panel slide back into place. It wasn’t that he made a habit of grinding remote controls. He just liked being prepared for every eventuality – and he never failed to do so until this. Until now. Until Misty.

  Misty was coming. Her scent beckoned to him, a siren’s call that Domenico’s body strained to answer. His cock had never felt this huge inside his pants, this near to bursting just because he was anticipating meeting a slip of a girl.

  Damn. Domenico had not been prepared for this – had not made a contingency plan against this.

  What would happen if he fell in love with Misty Wall?

  Chapter Two

  That the CEO’s office is huge has to be the understatement of the year. My whole house can fit here, and there would still be extra space for a garage – two or three cars, minimum. The place is dimly lit, blinds shielding the room from the fiery glow of the setting sun. The walls are bare and made of black-coated steel, the cerulean carpet muting the sound of my approach. Too bad it can’t do the same for the pounding of my heart.

  The ceilings have a weird look and feel to them, and it takes me a while to realize they appear that way because the entire office is soundproofed. My eyes widen. Maybe there really is a pleasure house here somewhere.

  A complete set of living room furniture is at the far end of the room. It even has its own liquor bar.

  More seconds pass, but I know I can’t keep delaying the inevitable. Unable to stand the silence any longer, I force myself to face the man sitting behind the vast – no, it’s more majestic than vast – desk in the center of the room.

  Ah.

  I manage to swallow back the instinctive gasp that rises from my throat, shocked by the unexpected wave of heat coming off of Domenico Moretti. I don’t see much of the CEO, but what I do see is more than enough for me to know that this guy is hot. Intensely so – but it’s the first time I find someone so literally hot that cold sweat actually starts bathing my skin.

  “Sir?”

  Shick. It sounds like I’m about to cry, which I don’t want to do. I try again, and this time my voice comes out more confident, stronger. “Mr. Moretti? I wa
s informed you wanted to speak with me.”

  There’s a chuckle in the dark at first, and then a voice. It’s soft but hard at the same time, with a faint accent, almost like a wolf’s growl. “I want something more than that, I’m afraid, but I suppose this will have to do for starters.”

  I’m -- I’m going to pretend there’s no sexual innuendo behind those words.

  This guy is Domenico Moretti, after all. Since he’s so used to having beautiful women throw themselves at his feet, why would he even bother hitting on me?