Step Boss Read online

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Epilogue

  Epilogue

  Carley

  Marcus

  Breaking Stone

  About this book

  Katrina

  Stone

  About the Author

  Also by Ash Harlow

  Step Boss

  Stepbrother Romance

  Ash Harlow

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Carley

  2. Marcus

  3. Carley

  4. Carley

  5. Marcus

  6. Carley

  7. Marcus

  8. Carley

  9. Carley

  10. Marcus

  11. Carley

  12. Marcus

  13. Carley

  14. Marcus

  15. Carley

  16. Marcus

  17. Carley

  18. Carley

  19. Marcus

  20. Carley

  21. Marcus

  22. Carley

  23. Marcus

  24. Carley

  25. Marcus

  26. Carley

  27. Carley

  28. Marcus

  29. Carley

  30. Marcus

  31. Carley

  32. Carley

  Epilogue

  Breaking Stone

  About this book

  1. Katrina

  2. Stone

  3. Katrina

  4. Katrina

  5. Katrina

  6. Stone

  7. Katrina

  8. Stone

  9. Katrina

  10. Stone

  11. Katrina

  12. Katrina

  13. Stone

  14. Katrina

  15. Stone

  16. Katrina

  17. Stone

  18. Katrina

  19. Katrina

  20. Stone

  21. Katrina

  22. Stone

  23. Katrina

  24. Stone

  25. Katrina

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Ash Harlow

  Copyright © 2017 by Ash Harlow

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Prologue

  MARCUS

  “What’s your name?”

  She hesitates. “Poppy.”

  Even in the poor light of the bonfire her eyes tell me she’s lying.

  “Yours?” she asks.

  “Sir works for me.” Yeah, I’m that sort of asshole. Most women back off at this point, but Poppy does something rare. She bursts out laughing.

  “Sorry, I don’t mean to insult you.” She’s still laughing. “Did you have to pay excess luggage for that ego?”

  “I fly first class, we get an extra bag allowance…for egos.”

  I keep my eyes fixed on her, and she touches her hair, shifting a strand behind her ear, glances down, back at me, over at her friend who has moved to another group of people, then back to me. “So, sir, what do you do when you’re not chatting up women around bonfires?”

  “I’m fucking them.”

  “And is that what you want to do with me?”

  Two days ago I was dining on crab bee hoon in a tiny eating house in Singapore, so exclusive it only seats ten and has no roadside signage. Now I’m at a winter solstice bonfire on a beach in New Zealand talking to a woman who is shuffling her feet and angling her hips in a way that tells me I’ll be eating her pussy within the hour. “After I eat your pussy, yes.”

  There’s a burst of sparks behind her as somebody throws more driftwood onto the fire. In that moment I see the long swallow she takes. She glances around the gathering. It’s decision time and I get the feeling she wants to consult her friend before agreeing or blowing me off, but her friend has vanished.

  Poppy lifts her red plastic cup to her mouth, finds it empty and sets it aside. “You’re a tourist?”

  “You won’t see me again.”

  She’s back to flipping her hair, head tipped, exposing her neck. “I’ve never done this sort of thing before.”

  She’s close to agreeing, I can tell. I open my arms wide. “No axe.”

  “No rope?”

  “Not unless you want it.”

  “I’m not like that.”

  “So you said.”

  She glances around again, then leans into me. “These things are kind of boring.”

  “I can leave if you want, and you can go back to your boring.”

  She touches my arm. “Or, I can leave with you.”

  One

  Carley

  Monday morning.

  I stare up at the glassed entrance of Truebridge Towers, pausing before I take the next step that signals the automatic doors to slide open. I hate that moment when the black marble foyer reveals itself like a gaping maw, waiting to suck a bit more life out of me.

  This is my fifth week as an assistant at Truebridge Group—the company owned by my most recent stepfather, Randall Truebridge.

  I’m not an executive assistant, or personal assistant, just a general floating assistant without any specific job classification, which basically translates to ‘problem stepchild who needs to get her life in order’.

  The doors are activated by a colleague far more eager than me to reach his desk, but I pin back my shoulders and follow him, mentally preparing myself for the mundane tasks that are assigned to me. I am literally the bottom of the food chain here. Truebridge krill. I file and shred, photocopy and collate. It’s boring and I’m close to sabotaging something, I can feel it. Like a random dick pic inserted in the middle of one of the perfectly collated weekly reports I neatly tuck into the individually named black files.

  It’s childish, I know. But this place is killing me.

  “Morning, Dirk,” I call to the security guy. Dirk, and his sidekick, Sione, are my favorite Truebridge staff members. Both of them are perpetually happy.

  “Good morning, Carley. How was your weekend?”

  “Hideous. I shadowed my mother on a round of coffee meet-ups and cocktail parties. I think she’s trying to civilize me.”

  “Poor little rich girl.”

  “I knew you’d understand,” I call from the bank of elevators. Two perfectly groomed executive PAs scowl at me. Mostly, the staff here seem totally dedicated to the Truebridge way. It feels like a cult.

  I have an issue with respect. In my mind, you earn it. And by earning it, I don’t mean it automatically comes by holding an executive position within the company. You earn it by being a decent human being.

  Some of the staff are quite fun, but I don’t plan on being here beyond my year of enforced servitude, so I’m not trying to forge any lasting relationships. They all know that I’m Randall’s stepdaughter, and I think there might have been a company memo about his desire to make me conform, and that everyone should treat me like a regular employee. That didn’t work. Most members of staff are nervous around me, the others are hostile. They must think that whatever they say will be reported back to Randall.

  Fat chance. The only consolation for Randall being loaded is that his house is huge so I’m able to avoid him with little trouble.

  Don’t get me wrong. Randall’s not a bad man, but he’s not my sort of person. He’s dour, and disapproving, and just because he’s my stepfather doesn’t mean I have to become like him.

  I exit the elevator behind the two identically dressed PAs. Freaking clones. Truebridge Group has a corporate uniform. We get to select from four different styles of s
kirt, a half-dozen blouses, and matching jackets. We can choose our own shoes, although there is a guideline on color, heel height and whether toes are covered or exposed, depending on the season.

  We look more like bank workers, or fantasy librarians, and if you work for Truebridge, you’ll continue to look that way until you make it to the top floor. Penthouse workers can apparently be trusted to wear appropriate attire of their choice. Unless you’re into the straight-laced-secretary fantasy, those of us on the lower floors appear totally sexless. Occasionally I’m tempted to push the boundaries, throw off my jacket and knot my blouse around my midriff, but there’s not a single man in this building whose attention I’d like to attract.

  I pass the centerpiece that graces the reception area. It’s a massive scale model of Truebridge Group’s current project consisting of a casino, hotel, golf course and lakes, out on the west coast about an hour north of Auckland. Part of me yearns to add some Lego figurines and a couple of glittery ponies.

  The other part of me knows I have to knuckle down, get through this year and get out of the city so that I can return to my real home and friends on the Coromandel Peninsula.

  The staff cafeteria is busy with people making tea and coffee, and writing passive-aggressive notes to try to stop people from stealing their food from the fridge, or leaving dirty cups on the counter. I open the fridge and look at the array of plastic containers trying to find space for my sandwich.

  The atmosphere hums, like there’s been an announcement of the second coming and it’s happening inside Truebridge Towers. Of course, they fall silent when I arrive because they’re still trying to work out whether being associated with me is the path to promotion, or a career killer.

  “Carley will know.”

  Sonia is a top floor resident, an administrator with a roving mandate. She monitors the pulse of every PA and secretary in the company. She’s in her mid-thirties, a natural leader, and the other girls look up to her. She’s beautiful, too. All long lines, sleek hair, and amazing makeup. I don’t think Sonia sleeps, rather she spends her free time grooming so that the moment her golden opportunity presents itself, even if it’s at 2:00 a.m., she’ll be ready, and looking the part. Even though she’s free of the corporate uniform, she wears her own version of it like haute couture. And she does not have a yogurt stain on the lapel of her jacket like the one I’ve just noticed on mine.

  How old is that stain?

  “What will Carley know?” I ask, taking a bunch of paper napkins from the stack, wetting them and dabbing at the creamy mark.

  “There’s a new guy starting today. Anything you can tell us about him?”

  I don’t know what sort of conversations they think I have with my stepfather, but they certainly don’t revolve around his company hiring process.

  “I have no idea who you’re talking about,” I tell the gathered group. My efforts have managed to spread the stain further down my lapel.

  “But you’re related to him. He’s what…your stepbrother, I guess.”

  I shrug and keep scrubbing at the smear. I have a number of stepbrothers. You get that when your mother is a serial-bride. Randall has a son, but the only time his name came up, he was exiled somewhere in Asia.

  “Mr. Marcus Truebridge just returned from Singapore and he’s here to take over the emerging developments section,” Sonia announces.

  “You know more about it than me,” I say, tossing the soggy napkins into the trash.

  “That’s a mess.”

  “Thank you, Kim, I hadn’t noticed.” I call her Predictable Kim because she loves to state the obvious. Your hair’s out of control. Your blouse doesn’t match. You have a run in your stockings. The only time she changes course is when she reminds me several times a day that whatever I’m doing is not the way we do it at Truebridge Group.

  “Tell us what he’s like. This new guy…Marcus Truebridge.”

  I glance at the woman who spoke—Linda, Miranda, Amanda, something like that. Sonia pointedly looks at the wall clock then back to me before leaving the cafeteria.

  “Oh, you mean Creepy Marcus, the misogynist of the family? Well, let’s see. He’s never married because nobody can stand him. He keeps frogs, of all things. Rare frogs, and I don’t know if it’s because he handles amphibians a lot, but his hands are warty. He can’t keep staff, mainly because he has this awful body odor, and terrible breath. Honestly, I swear it can strip paint. He’s also losing his hair and has a greasy comb-over that flops around in the wind. He’s always plastering it back in place with some hideous concoction he makes himself, because he might be rich, but he’s too cheap to buy pomade.”

  I’m on a roll. My small audience is spellbound, wide-eyed, eating up every word.

  “He’s quite gropey, too. If you don’t keep your blouse buttoned to the neck, he makes you stand close to his desk and bend over to examine something non-existent so that he can leer down your shirt. You always know what Marcus has eaten at his previous meal because it’s embedded in his beard,” I continue. “He spits when he talks… What?”

  Reassessing the group, it appears they’re not so much spellbound, as frozen in place. They’re not looking at me, they’re looking past me, mouths gaping. Clearly, somebody’s entered the room.

  I turn slowly, and holy hell, there’s a guy… No, this one’s a god. The particular type of god who embodies perfection in a finely tailored suit. My gaze starts at the floor, working its way up from the well-polished shoes, the perfectly proportioned legs, a torso that’s lean if the fine cut and fit of his dark suit is anything to go by. There is nothing about this man that disappoints, that is, until I reach his face. The mouth would be beautiful if the expression there wasn’t one of supreme irritation. His eyes, a rare emerald color, lock into mine. I recognize the look. Shock, briefly, then he shutters the emotion and leaves me with a blank stare.

  I want to see those lips part in that way I’ve never forgotten. Half smile, half smirk, filled with the satisfaction of a guy who knows he’s just given a woman the best orgasm of her life. The smile of a wolf.

  I swallow, take a breath, I’ve got this. “…So that describes the antagonist in the movie I watched on Saturday. You know what these art films are like, they never have anyone appealing in the lead role.”

  The only sound you can hear is the sizzle of melting panties. One look at this man and every woman in the room has rendered her underwear crotchless.

  “I was of the impression that you were all paid to be at your desks at eight-thirty.”

  His voice actually rumbles.

  “I presume one of you is Miss Renshaw because I’ve been waiting in my office for her for twelve minutes. If Miss Renshaw had been at her desk on time, she would have known this.”

  With that, he turns on his heel and leaves. We all check out the best male ass to have walked this floor since I’ve been here, before Predictable Kim speaks up. “You have to go to his office.”

  “Who is he?” I ask. I may have hooked up with him one night, but we exchanged body fluids rather than real names.

  Kim smirks. “Your brother, I presume.”

  Holy hell. “Step,” I correct her, “that would be stepbrother.” I’m surprised how level my voice sounds when my heart pounds with a force that’s all but cracking ribs.

  “Semantics,” Linda-Miranda-Whatever says. “You’re family, so that takes you out of the race.” She flicks her glossy hair and looks pointedly at my lapel which now has a stain the size of a poached egg.

  “Truebridges aren’t my type,” I lie. Three months ago, this particular Truebridge had been very much my type. “Sharpen up, ladies, he’s all yours.”

  I make my way back to my desk on shaky legs. My cubicle is at the far end of this floor. It’s small, windowless and depressing. In the center of my desk sits a handwritten note asking me to go to Marcus’s office the moment I arrive. I don’t even know where his office is.

  How could this have happened? My one and only casual hook-up h
as not only turned out to be my new boss, but my stepbrother!

  I crumple up the note and throw it into the trash. I don’t have this under control at all. Perhaps if I ignore him, he’ll find somebody else to do whatever it is he wanted me to do.

  Two

  Marcus

  I don’t know which one of those women is Carley Renshaw, but I’m praying it wasn’t the one giving the rambling dissertation on somebody I can only presume was supposed to be me. The one who has the sweetest pussy I’ve ever licked. The one who nearly made me break my one night, no names rule. The one you could tell in an instant is even more trouble than my father hinted at.

  The one who still hasn’t managed to find her way to my office.

  Worse than her appalling timekeeping skills is the way she looks. Like sweetness and sin. Dirty innocence, stunning curves, rich brown hair that tumbles in chaotic curls down her back. Hair that looks as difficult to control as she is, unless it’s wrapped around my fist. Her full lips in bright red lipstick, provoke thoughts I should not be having about my PA, let alone my stepsister. And, holy shit, hips, waist, tits—all of her soft and firm.

  Carley looks like defiance, erroneously packaged in a corporate uniform.

  Insisting that I have her as my assistant is nothing more than Randall testing me. Well, I’m not that twenty-five-year-old guy anymore and I’ve more than proved my worth and abilities in the past ten years, making impossible deals possible in every corner of the world. I’ve been trouble-shooting, hopping from one company to the next, working as the fix-it guy, making things happen, setting up projects and once they were running, heading off to start a new one.

  In all that time, my goals stayed focused on Truebridge Group. Everything I’ve done has been a stepping stone on a carefully laid path to walk me directly to the center of power of our family business.

  Randall wants to step aside and spend more time with his new wife. This is my moment, and at the end of this contract I’ve been hired to see through, Randall will know I’m the right person to take over the helm.