Charles Massey Creevy, III arrived at work with a self-satisfied grin on his chiseled face. As he strolled the length of the third floor advertising company in which he was a Senior Vice President, every woman’s head turned and hungry eyes followed him. Carefully chosen and strategically applied musky cologne flowed in his wake. Sighs floated around him like hummingbirds taking sips of ambrosia nectar. His fingertips trailed along the one empty desk in the room. The butterfly-sighs ceased and eyes dropped back to glaring computer screens—clenched teeth or severe lips drawn in a straight line glowed in the camphor-colored light of desk lamps.
“It's late…again.” Mr. Frederick Rodman Clancy, owner of the Bright View Advertising Agency in Orlando, Florida said without lifting his eyes from the New York Times spread across his desktop-sized computer screen. He had one of the newest desks with the screen built into the top of the desk and adjustable to any angle for the ease of the reader. The soft blue glow of the screen in the darkened room lit his face with upward shadows that tweaked his features unpleasantly.
“Sorry, Dad. I mean Mr. Clancy.” Charles plopped unceremoniously into the burgundy leather wingchair facing the desk then crossed his legs, tugging on the tight crease running down the front of his crossed leg then brushing at invisible dust particles on the toe of the shiny burgundy dress shoe. He sat back with a nearly inaudible sigh.
Within moments a leggy brunette with a narrow waist and short gray pencil skirt carried two mugs of steaming coffee to the men. Bending over the side of the huge desk, pendulous melons inside a black lacy bra peeked out through the gaping neck of the gauzy black blouse she wore. She set the larger mug, a simple black ceramic one, on the blotter beside the computer screen and smiled at Mr. Clancy who ignored her. Before straightening, she turned just her head and chest in Charles’s direction, squeezing her breasts together with her elbows and straightening very slowly, never breaking eye contact. After taking one step that brought her hip against his chair, she bent slightly at the waist and handed the smaller silver mug to Charles. Her recently whitened teeth glowed in the dim light as she tossed him a grin which he returned with a wink after forcing his eyes away from the black lace in his face.
Mr. Clancy glared at Charles across the top of the screen. “Just because you’re married to my daughter doesn’t give you the right to be obnoxious or take advantage of me or my generosity. I’ve told you before I can show you no favoritism—it wouldn’t be fair to my other loyal employees who’ve been with me for years.” He dropped his eyes back to the screen and jabbed at the mouse to change the page. “I still don’t know what Miranda sees in you,” he muttered under his breath. Then he glanced up once more and raised his voice slightly, but not enough to carry through the closed door, “Now shape up!”
“Yes, sir,” Charles stood, wrangling with the grin still playing at the corner of his mouth. He couldn’t help that he felt this good or how women responded to him. He turned his head and glanced through the office door’s glass side panels at the desk that had been empty when he entered this office. A buxom blond now sat behind the desk. Her lollipop red, pointed-toed spiked heels peeked around the corner of the ash-wood desk frame where her legs were obviously crossed. Twisting her torso, she was opening a drawer to her left, which magnified her ample bosoms as her arm crossed her chest, squeezing them. His grinned widened remembering how he had squeezed them just this morning, and in the middle of the night and last evening and…
“Charles. Is there something more?”
Charles startled and swiveled his head swiftly forward, dropping the grin for a more chagrined appearance. “No, sir.”
“Work with the Creatives today on the Harby Seal account. We need that wrapped up in a couple of days and ready to shoot by Monday.”
“Sir.” Charles gently shut the door behind him while watching Cheryl’s cleavage when she reached for a pen from the mug on the corner of her neat desk. Her turquoise eyes flicked up at him for an instant before dropping back to the mug that read “Good to the last drop” where she grabbed a black ballpoint pen and straightened in her chair. She nodded at him.
“Good morning Mr. Creevy.”