This book is set in London; I wasn’t sure whether my subsequent stories would be located somewhere else. But readers seem to like the idea of Americans working in London – and there are plenty of them, believe me! – and, although there aren’t too many American characters in this book, there are plenty in other subsequent titles…
Barbara Edwards goes for an interview for a position at a prestigious law firm, and finds herself face-to-face with her former lover. How can she win him back? Complications arise when her former boss seduces her and gives her the best sex she's had in years. What's a girl to do? Is a man in the hand worth two in the bush? Or should she take a wild risk to manipulate her first love into returning to her? And how can she do it without hurting anyone?
Here's the first chapter. Please note that the paragraphs here are double-spaced; I'm fussy, and I don't like that format but it's out of my control in this blog. Grrr! When you read this in any ebook format, the text is formatted so that paragraphs are single-spaced, as I had originally designed.
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Interview For Love
by Rachel Cray
Copyright 2011 Rachel Cray
CHAPTER
1
“Hello. I’m Barbara Edwards, and I’m here to see Mr.
Andrews. We have a meeting scheduled for
6 p.m.”
I had walked confidently into the
reception area, deserted except for a pretty clerk, half-hidden behind an array
of shelving on her long desk. I guessed
she was wearing the law firm’s standard uniform for receptionists, a dark blue
nondescript cotton dress; probably in her early 30s, and wearing a headphone
and microphone, she looked at her monitor and smiled back at me.
“Yes, Ms. Edwards. You’re expected. I’ll just ring him to let him know that you’re
here. Would you like to take a seat?”
“Thank you.” I sat in an armchair and watched the
receptionist pressing some buttons on her console.
“I have Barbara Edwards in
Reception for you,” she announced, and paused.
“Very good. I’ll tell her.” She
turned to me and smiled again. “He’ll
only be a couple of moments.”
I looked round, soaking in the
ambience of the place; I particularly liked the fine oak panelling and the
royal blue upholstery of the plush seating.
Evans and Carlisle
had a very good reputation in the international legal community, and I would
love to work here. My skills as a legal
secretary had been honed at one of their smaller competitors, and a situation
here could be seen as a logical progression in my career path. Obviously the Reception area was designed to
give visitors a good impression, especially to clients; the standard of decor
in the offices behind this facade could be entirely different. I turned my head to peer through an open door
in the far corner, leading to what could be a conference room.
“Barbara! How lovely to see you again!”
I turned to face Mr. Andrews, a
dark-haired 30 year-old who stood smiling in front of me; his whole aura oozed a
warm, professional charm, and I was astounded to see this gorgeous face from my
past suddenly reappear in my life.
“Peter –” I gasped. I struggled for words when I realised I was
being prematurely familiar with a potential employer. I rose to my feet and mechanically shook his
proffered hand.
“Come through to my office – this
way.”
Feeling a little bewildered, I
stepped in the direction he indicated, down a short corridor, and soon found myself
sitting in his office; although it looked businesslike, the furnishings still
reflected something of the grandeur of the reception area. Still reeling from surprise, I waited for him
to begin.
“So you’ve come about the
secretarial position.” He sat down behind his desk.
“Yes. But I had no idea that the Mr. Andrews I’d be
seeing would be you.”
He grinned. “I had the advantage there, being able to
read your resume. And when I noticed you
graduated at Nottingham
University, I just knew
it had to be you and I wanted to see you again.” He chuckled. “Five years is a long time. And we’ve got a lot to talk about. But first, let’s get down to business. I don’t want you to think that I dragged you
in here under false pretences. There is
an opening here, and you certainly seem well-qualified to fill it. So let’s do the interview and then we can
catch up with each other. Is that O.K.?”
I nodded.
“My standard interviews last
around 40 minutes,” he began. “First, I
tell candidates about the firm. Then
they tell me about themselves. Then I go
into more detail about the job they’ll be doing here, the benefits, and so on,
and then you get the chance to tell me why you are the right person to fill the
vacancy. Finally, we round off with any
other questions you might have. I rather
suspect that we just might take a little less than 40 minutes this time. All right? So let’s get started....”
* *
*
I had already prepared for the
interview and had most of my answers ready.
Peter Andrews had not presented me with any surprises; he asked me fewer
questions about myself than I expected – since we were already acquainted – and,
within 30 minutes, it seemed as if everything was drawing to a conclusion.
“How soon can you start?” he
asked.
“Does that mean –”
“Yes, you’ve got the job. If you still want it, that is. And provided you can give us the
commitment. Remember that I told you we
sometimes have to work crazy hours here when the pressure is on – 70 or 80
hours a week – but mercifully not every week.
Much the same demands as your present employers are making on you, I
daresay.”
I heard myself sigh with
relief. “Thank you! But won’t there be a
second interview?”
“No. Only if I needed a second opinion. But this time, I don’t. So... are
you tied to a notice period with your present firm?”
“One month normally. But I expect you’ve heard that they’re
presently going through a difficult patch and they might be prepared to release
me sooner if you wanted.”
“Yes, that would be good. Let me know when you’ve spoken to them. Here’s my card.”
He handed me a business card,
which I put away in my handbag.
“Now I did say my interviews last
40 minutes and, by my reckoning, we’ve still got ten minutes left.” He stood up
and walked across to sit in an armchair on the other side of his desk, so there
were no barriers standing between us.
I turned my chair slightly to
face him.
“I seem to remember that you
stood me up after we’d been going out for seven months. No message, no explanation. Your exams were finished, and you went home a
couple of days later. I never saw you
again. You didn’t return my phone calls,
and you never replied to my letters or emails.
And I thought our relationship was going places.”
Throughout my meticulous
preparation for the interview, I hadn’t prepared myself to answer this
question. Indeed, I hadn’t expected to
be interviewed by a former lover.
“Or had I misread all the
signals?” He was pressing me now.
“No. You know
we were close. And I wanted us to get
even closer. Truly, I did. But I got cold feet.” I looked anxiously
around the office as I struggled for words to explain. “I was just 21, remember. I was terrified that everything was going too
fast. I’m not sure whether you’ll
remember my telling you about a relationship I’d had when I was 18. He let me down very badly. If you want the truth, I had fallen in love
with you, and I didn’t want to risk losing you.
But something even worse for me was the fear of going through all the
pain of a breakup again, in case things didn’t work out between us. So I panicked; it was easier for me to run
away from you. I’d suddenly lost all my
self-esteem. I know it sounds crazy now,
but I was younger then, remember, and my brain was all mixed up.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “And have you found anyone else since?”
“No. There’s been nobody. I’ve immersed myself in work, making a pile
of money. And that’s what I was hoping
to continue doing, working here.”
“Perhaps this isn’t the place to
continue this conversation,” he smiled. “I’m
just about done here, so may I take you for a drink down the road? Just for old
time’s sake?”
“I’m not sure...”
“No strings attached. I promise.
Just two old friends together, talking about old times. And, if you’re interested, I can tell you
what’s happened to me since I left university too.”
“All right, then. But I can’t stay too long. I have an early start tomorrow morning - my firm
has a client flying in for an early breakfast meeting and I’ll be very busy.”
“Good. I’ll walk you back to our Reception. I won’t keep you more than a couple of
minutes while I lock up here. There’s a
cosy bar down the road where we can talk.”
I sat in the same chair that I
had used when I first arrived, but I now felt so much more relaxed; I had
secured my new job. But there was a new
and unexpected hurdle facing me: Peter might want to ask me some soul-searching
questions about our former relationship – questions that I had never even asked
myself – and I was unsure whether I could answer them. The receptionist was still there, typing at
her desk and quite oblivious to my return.
True to his word, he came along
quickly and took me out for the drink.
* *
*
When we entered the bar, Peter
chose a table at the far end of the room; the lighting was dimmed, and soft,
slow music was playing in the background.
This seemed an ideal place to come and unwind after a hectic day before
going home. I asked for a dry white
wine, and he soon appeared with two full glasses.
“Cheers!” he smiled, and we
clashed our glasses gently together.
“So what happened to you after
university?” I asked after I had taken a sip.
“I got my Masters’ degree and,
just a few weeks after you left, I was offered this post. And I’ve been here ever since.”
“You were doing International
Business, I seem to remember?”
“Yes, that’s right. And you got yourself a BA in History, didn’t
you?”
“Much good that it did me,” I
smiled. “Landing me a job as a humble
legal secretary.”
“But the world needs legal
secretaries! And we have one legal secretary working here who is a fully
qualified civil engineer, for instance.
Yes, the world needs civil engineers too, but the lady we have says she’s
more satisfied doing this job than designing bridges. And I’m all in favour of people enjoying
their work.”
“And you obviously enjoy what you
do too.”
“Well, I’ve been able to immerse
myself in work, just like you. Maybe for
the same reason.” He raised his
eyebrows, anticipating my reaction.
“You think we’ve both been
working to forget each other?” I asked. “Or,
at least, to drown any feelings of regret about breaking up?”
He chuckled. “I wonder which psychology books you’ve been
reading?”
“For what it’s worth,” I
continued, “I did really regret breaking up with you. But I couldn’t bring myself to write to you
to explain. I couldn’t put it into
words. When I spoke about it in your
office a few moments ago, it all tumbled out of my brain incoherently. I knew I’d hurt you, but I didn’t want to
prolong the pain with lengthy exchanges of long-distance correspondence.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “We’ll be seeing each other every day when
you start working here. How do you feel
about that?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “It wouldn’t bother me. And obviously you’re relaxed about it,
otherwise you wouldn’t have offered me the job.”
We continued reminiscing about our
time together at Nottingham
University, and stayed
for a second drink. The more animated our
conversation became, the more I found herself looking forward to the prospect
of being near Peter again, even though there was no thought of resuming our
relationship.
The time came for me to leave; he
walked me to the station and, in parting, shook my hand with the same distant
professionalism. He walked off, and I
boarded my train home.
* *
*
When I arrived home at my flat, I
began to prepare dinner and, while waiting for it to cook, I turned on the
television. It was too early for the ten
o’clock news broadcast, and nothing attracted my attention on any of the main
channels, so I turned it off again. I
reached for an old photograph album on the shelf of a bookcase, and put it on
the coffee table. After dinner, I
decided, I would explore my old memories of the months I had together with
Peter.
I ate somewhat mechanically,
hardly able to wait to get it finished so that I could delve into my photograph
album. When I had finished, I put the
plate in the kitchen sink, rinsed it, and sat on the sofa to look at the
pictures.
The memories quickly came in a
flood. Peter looked younger, certainly,
but he still retained that self-assured maturity that had attracted me to him
in the first place. I pored over the
scenes, trying to remember the occasions on which the photographs had been
taken; in one, we were dressed for dinner together - he in black tie, I in a
long flowing evening dress - where was that? And when? In another, he posed on
the beach in his swimming trunks, smiling at the camera; I had not previously
noticed his semi-erect penis and bulging testicles under his close-fitting attire.
My mind turned to the times when we
had made love together in his bed. He
had been such a kind, understanding and patient lover, but all I had left now
were memories of the intense pleasures we had shared - not only his absorbing,
intellectual conversation, but the most exquisite orgasms he had given me. He had treated me as an equal in all things.
And now there was so little that
remained of him in my life. True, I was
going to re-enter a world where he occupied centre stage, and in a strange, new
capacity, but it would never be the same again.
All that I had in front of me as a memory of his closeness was these
photographs.
I felt a sudden twitch between my
legs. It was as if the photograph of
Peter on the beach had stimulated a primitive desire within. I felt my crotch; my sex had lubricated
itself quite unexpectedly.
I looked at his picture
again. His private parts appeared about
to explode. I began to rub myself, and
felt ashamed. I had not masturbated for
years, it seemed, and now - out of the blue - I felt the urge for a
climax. My selfish, inner being demanded
it. Right now.
I rubbed harder this time. Furiously, with my middle finger. And then with two fingers, and they slid into
my vagina. I pulled my panties to one
side so that my fingers would be in direct contact with my sex.
I remembered how Peter had done
this to me. We had stood against the
doorway in his room when he had first entertained me there. In the middle of a violent kiss, he had put
his tongue deep into my mouth, and I had willingly given way to him; he had
then put his hand up my skirt - and I had not resisted. Reaching the top of my thigh, his fingers had
found their way through one leg of my panties and had caressed my damp public
hair before descending into my secret crevice and discovering my clit,
stiffening with an urgent desire for him to take me.
I had felt his erection pressing
against my thigh, and had pressed my hand against it, and round its thickness,
through his trousers, encouraging it to grow even bigger and to harden into
steel. It would not be denied its
fulfilment, I had promised myself.
Then Peter had got on his knees
and pulled my panties down; holding up my skirt, his head had reached forward
and begun to give me oral sex. Nobody
had ever done this to me before; of course, I had fantasised about it, but it
had brought a new private delight to me and I had no desire for it to stop.
But this had not been the only “first”
for me, I remembered now. When I
climaxed - in the doorway, before we had reached his bed - I had actually
ejaculated. My very first time. And I had felt totally bewildered and
embarassed, but Peter had been very kind and understanding about it.
I could not continue this reverie
here on the sofa. I needed to go
somewhere more comfortable, and decided to go to the bedroom, where I
immediately pulled down my panties and, laying on the bed with a pillow between
my thighs, began to writhe. I put one
corner of the pillow inside my moist vagina, and rubbed the side of the pillow
against my clitoris. It was as if he,
Peter, had re-entered into my body once more.
I longed to have him, to hold him, to explore his body, to share his
innermost thoughts and, most of all, to share his life again.
In my mind, Peter was thrusting
into me; I wished I could have stretched my arm between my legs to cup his
testicles. I used to run two fingers
gently over his balls while we were making love - that made him climax so much
faster, he said. But he always held back
for me to come first.
And I was not going to take long
now, I thought. I was nearly there. I pushed harder and harder against the pillow
and then... the excitement reached its
peak, I felt a gush of joy overwhelm me, and I collapsed on my back on the
bed. I had forgotten what it had been
like. Sidestepping all approaches from
potential suitors, and deliberately avoiding any temptations to pleasure myself,
I had never bothered with the Pill or purchased a vibrator. All thoughts of sex had been banished from my
mind ever since Peter left my life.
And now he was returning into my
world. But that return did not signify
that we were taking up the strands of the relationship where we had left off.
Or did it? He, too, had not taken
a lover since we parted.
Surely this was some kind of
sign?
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I do hope you enjoyed that!
Best,
Rachel
email: rc (at) rachelcray (dot) com
Twitter: @RachelCray1
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