The Professional

More money than sense

"Miss Stark," Andrea flushes as she enters the full but silent meeting room for the fifth time in the last ten minutes. "Mr Ivanov still hasn't arrived."

I scream inwardly, for the fifth time in the last ten minutes, I wonder where the fuck this Ivanov prick is. He is one of the few investors in Seattle that I haven't been introduced to, and judging by his regard for punctuality, I can see why. Late isn't my type - especially when it concerns an important project I have been working long and hard to achieve for the past year. In this very meeting room, there are investors from Tokyo, London and Brazil. They're all vital to the rainforest project - but not as vital as Alexander Ivanov. His company has been rising, practically booming, even in this difficult economic climate, and his investment is supposed to be the most important and hopefully the most generous. I haven't met him, but I know he has more money than sense to offer.

Yet here I am, ten minutes into one of the most important meetings I'll be hosting this year, and the one person I needed to attend is late.
What else did I expect from a twenty three year old Harvard dropout who probably wipes his ass with tissue paper made from 100 dollar bills - spoilt little fucker.

I shake my head, clearing it of all murderous thoughts, and turn my attention back to the table of entrepreneurs, who are either glaring at me or their hideously expensive watches.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Fuck Ivanov, I have to start this meeting before I lose the investors who actually bothered to attend.

I clear my throat, stand from my chair at the head of the oval table, and turn my blazing gaze to Andrea, who flushes once again under my anger.

Don't shoot the messenger, my subconscious scolds, and I close my eyes briefly in order to bring my temper under control.

I fail to do so.

"Please leave us Andrea, and next time, only interrupt my meeting if Alexander Ivanov actually does bother to arrive." Ignoring my assistants widening eyes, I turn once more to the investors. "Gentlemen, I think we should begin the meeting. I don't make habit of waiting for anyone - especially not for someone with such disregards to professionalism and punctuality."

Just as I start to sit myself back down, a rough, deep, unfamiliar voice, speaks from behind me.

"There's no need to bother your assistant Miss Stark, I'm here." I turn, both in shock and horror, and I am met with a sight that has my libido in frenzy. He is tall, at least 6ft5, and his tousled hair is charcoal black, like his narrowed eyes. A sprinkling of stubble lines a chiselled jaw, and his mouth - oh my, that mouth! - is set into a mischievous smirk. I try, oh I try so very hard not to flit my assessing eyes up and down his lean figure, but it's impossible. He's dressed in Armani, I think, or Saint Laurent - something expensive and upmarket that proves to be a sexy juxtaposition to his rugged features.

This is Alexander Ivanov?

Holy shit! This is Alexander Ivanov.

"...and it's not my professionalism or my punctuality you need to be concerned about, it's the rising problem of city traffic on Monday mornings." He smirks again, and gracefully saunters over to a seat on the opposite end of the table. From the way he walks and talks, I instantly know he is at ease with his attractiveness. Damn it, the asshole knows he looks like something from a Calvin Klein runway. The thought unsettles me. Suddenly, I become aware that I am still standing, and positively gawking, with an entire room of irritated businessmen glaring at me impatiently.

I clear my throat, and seat myself as graciously as possible considering the unwelcome wetness that has appeared between my thighs.
Fuck, that hasn't happened in a long time.