No, you're here to work, not play.

“Damn it.” You mutter. As much as you would love to go and flirt with the gorgeous brunette you realize that doing it in front of the company tent, during your first day at work, while a hard-ass boss is waiting, just isn't smart.

Giving the backside of the sexy bandit one more view you watch her look about the empty circle, except directly behind her, thus not noticing you. She takes hold of both rings with each hand, seemingly pretending to be bound to the posts. Arching her back she bows her head down then slowly raises it up and looks straight forward. What you wouldn't you give for a front view.

It takes all your willpower to walk away. “Rick must be right. The hot ones are probably evil.” You ponder as you also hope to run into her again as you head to the Westmooring tent.

The tent is large and even has a double door. Inside is well lit, air-conditioned and professionally arranged with several computers, conference section and a visitor area. Working for such a high-end company helps a bit to get your mind off the girl at the pillory, seeing your new boss even more so does.

The only person in the tent is a tall woman, probably in her mid to late twenties and looks of African-Hispanic ancestry. She is leaning over a table in front of you using a laptop and doesn't acknowledge your presence as she types away.

“Hello. I'm Mark I've been sent . . .” You try to introduce yourself but she quickly cuts you off with a curt, “Wait.”

You stand for a few awkward minutes until she closes the laptop and looks up.

Her skin is a rich lite creamy chocolate color, with her piercing arrogant eyes framed by high cheek bones, short stylized black hair and shaped eyebrows. Tall with a stellar figure you are surprised someone so built could have such ample breasts. Her attire is simple, but expensive looking: Dark grey dress pants and a white tank-top half covered by an open designer black leather jacket.

“Maybe not double D.” You cannot help but thing, “but at least a C, more likely a D.”

Realizing it probably isn't a good think to be starring at your boss's chest you step forward and extend your hand, “Mark Danton. You must be Ms. Diego. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

She looks down at your hand with a contemptible glace, leaving you hanging, and then back at you. “Yes.” She simply says with a cold upper-class English accent. “I'm not your friend Mr. Danton, I'm your boss. Don't forget that, now back it up.”