“We’re not doing red,” he said flatly.
“Let’s ask the other investors.”
He stopped messing with his tie and looked up at me. “Let’s not.” My finger, which had been picking at an itch on my arm, stilled. This was it; it was coming. He twisted in his chair, turning it to the side, then slowly to the front, considering me.
I waited for the next line, my lungs tightening, the simple act of breathing in and out in a normal fashion a chore.
“Come here,” he said softly, pushing on the edge of his desk with one smooth-soled dress shoe, his heavy chair rolling back. He waited, his hands on each arm, his knees spread, the dress pants stretched tight over his frame.
“What?” I breathed out the question in a mild state of panic. This was off script. He was supposed to ask about my husband, or lack of.
“Come here.” He nodded to a place before him.
“I’m fine right here.” I set down the ad cards.
“I’m not gonna bite you, Ida. Come here.”
I shouldn’t have moved. Ida wouldn’t have. Ida would have primly told Mr. Mitchell where he could stick it.
I moved. I walked on uneven floors in unsteady heels over to him and stopped, five feet or so away, my hands clasped before me. I could feel the soft hum of the camera beside me, could hear the shift of our audience behind me, the loud click of someone’s walkie. Cole’s eyes never left mine, his stare burned up the path between us, and he rotated his chair slightly, ’til he faced me. “Closer.” The word came out a little hoarse, and he cleared his throat. “Closer,” he repeated.
I moved closer, one slow step at a time, my heels loud in their clicks against the wood, then I was before him, and he rested his head back against the chair and looked up at me. “Sit. On the edge of the desk.”
My hands reached behind, found the ledge of the desk, and I leaned back, grateful for the support.
“No,” he corrected. “Sit on it. Or I will put you on it.” The order in his voice, the image of his threat… it stirred a feminine place in me that shouldn’t, in this moment, surrounded by onlookers, be touched. I pushed up on my toes and worked my way onto the desk, my skirt pushed up by the action. I pulled at it, crossing my legs and covering myself as best I could. Surely, Don would call for us to cut. Surely, someone would stop this waste of valuable film time.
“Do you know why I hired you, Ida?”
I lifted my eyes from the tassels on his shoes. “No.”
“No, sir,” he corrected.
I pursed my lips and said nothing.
“Do you want to know why I hired you, Ida?”
“Not particularly,” I said tartly. “Sir.”
He pushed off the arms of the chair, standing up in one fluid motion. I tensed, waiting for him to step forward, but he didn’t. He stayed in place, his hands slow and deliberate as they rolled up one white shirtsleeve to the elbow, then moved to the other. “I hired you,” he said quietly, stepping forward and stopping before me, his eyes dropping to my legs. I lost a breath when his hand settled on my knee, and I uncrossed my legs, pinning them together, my hand pulling down my skirt. “I hired you because you walked into my office in your cheap little dress, and I thought ‘I bet that woman will be one hell of a lay.’” His hand moved higher, up under my skirt, and I stiffened, my hand falling on his forearm and pushing, resisting. He chuckled, his second hand pulling my legs apart, and, with a sudden jerk, he slid me to the edge of the desk, my knees spread, my skirt pushed high enough to expose the ridiculous garter straps. His eyes met mine for a moment, his fingers light and slow as they drew lines across the bare skin of my upper thighs, tracing the edge of the garter straps to the place where they crossed my panties, a lace set that matched. “I hired you because I pictured you right here, on my desk, moaning my name.”
My hands closed hard on his in the moment before his fingers moved again, the edge of my panties too close, my need too great, my composure a tiny step away from begging. I told him no with my grip, and he listened, pulling his hands away, back to my stockings, then my knees. When he looked at me, his hands were already back to his tie, tightening the silk back into place. “What I didn’t do was hire you because I cared about your opinion or your advice. You make a fairly decent cup of coffee and look good in a skirt. That’s why you’re here. Don’t forget that.”
“You’re an ass.” The rough words scraped through my mouth but barely hid the tears at their formation, and Cole smiled at their receipt.
“Oh yes, my dear.” He leaned forward and yanked at the edge of my skirt, covering me up with one hard motion. “That just might be the smartest thing you’ve said all day.” The response hit the script, the familiar line the only thing I could hold on to, and I did, biting back a hundred stupid feminine words. I pushed off the desk, my heels shaky when they hit the floor.
“Thank you for making your position on this point so clear, Mr. Mitchell. I’ll keep my opinions to myself from this point forth.”
“Good to hear.” He settled back into the chair, and I turned away, moving to the door, looking past the camera which focused on my face and caught the tear moving down my cheek.
Later, Don would tell me I was brilliant, that the scene was perfect—one of the few in his career that had been captured in a single take. Later, I would nod and laugh and accept his praise as if I hadn’t been breaking, as if Ida and Royce had no correlation with Cole and me, as if I had been acting and not living through the skin of Ida Pinkerton.