Penthouse Perfect: BBW Erotic Romance Read Free Page A

stairs that would take her to the storage room in the basement, her black heels clicking her progress. She loved these heels, even though the day she had shown them to her mother, the woman had tsk-ed at her.
    “What?” Lia had asked.
    “A woman your size shouldn’t wear such high heels, Lia. They’ll destroy your knees.”
    Not the vote of confidence that every girl wanted to hear from her mother. Even now, five years later and with her mother gone, the remark still stung. Lia didn’t let that stop her from wearing the sexy shoes, though.
    On her way down the second flight of stairs, she swung around a turn and ran smack into Chelsea, who was still trying to sneak out of the place. Lia groaned from the impact, and then again when she saw that the contents of the girl’s purse were strewn all over the stairs. Papers, makeup, and hair accessories scattered around their feet.
    “Lia!” Chelsea whined, and for the slimmest of moments Lia wanted to slap her. “What are you doing?”
    Your job. She almost said it, but didn’t. It wasn’t Chelsea’s fault that her bosses were morons, or that Lia was feelings more frustrated than usual this morning. She let it go.
    “Let me help you,” she said, then bent and began to gather up the papers from Chelsea’s purse. She couldn’t help but skim over what she was holding: receipts, overdue bill notices, pay stubs, and -. Hey. She makes more money than I do. A lot more. As in, a couple of thousand dollars a month more.
    Anger shot through her. She hurried to finish helping Chelsea, shoved the papers into the girl’s pale, perfectly manicured hands, and headed back up the stairs.
    How dare they? How could they pay that girl so much to do nothing, while she worked her butt off for almost half the pay? It wasn’t fair, and she intended to get a few answers. Her nostrils flared and her fingernails bit into her palms as she went.
    She knew she needed to calm down and keep careful track of her tongue, but she wasn’t sure that was even possible at this point. She hit the landing almost at a run, heading for Marcus Bailey’s office. It was in sight, and she hadn’t slowed down a bit, when a man stepped out the door.
    “Are you Lia Davies?” he asked. That brought her to a screeching halt.
    “Yes. Why?” The guy was chubby, around her age and dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, and scuffed sneakers. He didn’t look very official. What did he want?
    “Could I speak to you? Privately?” he asked.
    She glared at her boss’s door, but nodded and followed him to a bench near the top of the stairs. He sat very close, forcing her to back up a little, and leaned in toward her.
    “I have information that you were with Mr. Joel Cortran this morning. Is that right?”
    She wasn’t sure what to answer, and it was surprising to hear his name in connection with her own. Was he in trouble somehow? Had she unwittingly made herself an accomplice or something?
    “Who wants to know?” she asked finally, scooting back a little more.
    “Oh, sorry. I work for the Post.”
    “The Washington Post?” She stared.
    “Yes, ma’am. Were you with him this morning?”
    “Briefly. Why?”
    “Well, ma’am,” he said, then his voice dipped even lower. “I believe he wrote something down for you. I believe that it was his personal number. Is that correct?”
    Bailey & Blake were momentarily forgotten, and alarms were going off in her head. She remembered Joel writing down the number, now tucked safely away, and the way he looked when he asked her to keep it to herself. She had promised.
    “I’m afraid that I can’t respond to that, Mr…”
    “Ian. Ian Orson,” he said. “And before you say no, I’m prepared to offer you a large sum of money for the information on that card.”
    “You’ve got to be kidding.”
    He shook his head, pulled out a pen, and wrote a number on the palm of his hand, making Lia feel like she was in an old spy movie. The number itself, though, made her feel more