My presence is appreciated.
And like every other person on the planet, that makes me happy.
It’s been two weeks since Oliver Thornton, London socialite, took over the company at the behest of Caleb. His job is to fix this company, throw out the trash, and rebrand it in his image before Caleb takes it back. It’s a surprising move for the tycoon to not handle his own business, but who am I to question him?
However, I was told that the Crisis CEO would be working alongside me, but I have yet to meet him. In the meantime, I’ve been hearing about him nitpicking through the staff, one by one. Nobody has been fired yet, but as I stare at the image of the man with slicked-back sandy hair and deep blue eyes, I wonder why he hasn’t summoned me.
I don’t know much about him except he’s British and he was married for four years before his wife died under mysterious circumstances, her death hushed up. There was a lot of speculation about whether he killed her or arranged for her death. He hadn’t been at the funeral, either, so people whispered quiet rumors. They haven’t yet been dispelled.
I close the search history.
I don’t believe in rumors.
If Oliver Thornton doesn’t contact me within the next few days, I guess Human Resources will have to make an appearance to let him know he’s being watched.
* * *
My office is on the fourth floor.
As I step out of the elevator, my black heels clicking on the marble floor, I hold my coffee and walk past the still-empty cubicles, people not yet returned from their lunch hour.
My carefully pressed white blouse is covered by a sharp maroon blazer paired with a pencil skirt that is elegant and stylish. I choose to dress professionally because of my position. A pair of dark-rimmed glasses covers my sea-green eyes, which people often like to say reminds them of the ocean. My dark hair, wavy and curly at the ends, lies smoothly at my back, put in place with hairspray.
I don’t need the glasses, but I wear them to give me a harsher appearance.
I’ve been told many a times that I have a baby face. The term offends me. Since I had to go through college without being taken seriously, this is my disguise of sorts. The glasses are ugly, thick, and black-rimmed—on purpose.
It has been extremely effective.
Or at least I like to think so.
I open the door to my office. My assistant, Hanna, spots me from over a distance, then rushes in my directions. I pause, waiting for her to catch up.
“Mr. Thornton was here,” she says, her eyes wild, and I freeze.
“What did he want?”
“He left a couple of files with me. I put them on your desk. And there was a note.”
When I open the door to my office, I blink.
It’s not a couple of files.
That’s a goddamn mountain!
After I push my coffee cup into Hanna’s hands, I cover the distance between me and the desk to read the note.
The first thing that crosses my mind is the man has elegant handwriting.
The second thing, as my eyes move over the words, is that I will kill him.
I crumple the note in my hand. Ignoring my spluttering assistant, I march toward the elevator. People jump out of my way, obviously able to tell I’m on a warpath.
Five minutes later, I’m exiting the eleventh floor and striding into the familiar fancy room that is supposed to serve as the office of the CEO’s personal assistant, but it’s empty. When Caleb took over, he told me not to hire him a personal assistant. Not yet.
I continue toward the blurred glass door with Thornton’s name on it. I’ve had plenty of conversations with Crawford in there.
I don’t bother knocking, still driven by fury.
When I open the door, I see a tall man with broad shoulders. His back to me, he faces the floor-to-ceiling windows, a cell phone to his ear. He glances over his shoulder, his body stiffening at the intrusion. I wave the crumpled-up note in the air, giving my identity away.
He raises a brow before facing forward and returning to the conversation.
Offended at being so blatantly ignored, I resolutely shove away the insult. Crossing my arms, I balefully stare at his back.
His accent is crisp, one that would have any woman wet after just a few words, and I hate that I like it. There’s an authority to his tone, one of a man who is not accustomed to hearing the word ‘no’.
My lips tighten.
He’ll be hearing it from me soon enough.
Averting my eyes from where his pants perfectly cup his backside, which looks very biteable, I scan the office, taking in the changes he made.
The coffee table is scattered with papers, unfinished takeout on one side. His suit jacket has been tossed over the arm of couch. In a corner of the room, a trench coat hangs on a coat rack. I blink at a damp towel dangling from a hook beside it, wondering what it’s for, before I feel the shift in the room. I snap my attention back to the man who has pivoted to face me.
“Miss Hill, I presume?” he says in that stupid accent that makes me want to grind my teeth. “How may I help you?”
I march over to his desk, then slam the note on the wooden surface, eyeing him frostily, “You can start by explaining what the hell this is.”
His hands are tucked in his pockets, his grey waistcoat defining his trim shape, as he gives me an inscrutable look. “It seems pretty straightforward.”
I scowl. “You can’t fire twenty people at once with no just cause!”
He watches me like a hawk, his blue eyes cold. “I can do whatever I like, if I think it’s in the best interests of this company.”
“You don’t even know these people!” I’m trying not to raise my voice, to not to sound like the hysterical woman my brothers often like to say I am.
“I know their salaries don’t match their output,” Oliver calmly Thornton says. “And I know all are receiving unnecessary perks that shouldn’t be parts of their jobs.”
“You’ve been here for two weeks. How on earth would you even know that?” I hiss.
His gaze sharpens. “Just like I know you happen to work overtime four out of five days a week… by going through your work record and your personal files.”
I stiffen, suddenly enraged. “You went through my personal file? You’re not allowed to access any employee file without the consent of Human Resources!”
Mr. Thornton peers through hooded lashes. “Caleb provided certain files for me to go through. His own research. I have not begun my own work… yet. The files I left for you are the ones I have approved for dismissal.” He takes a step forward, which almost seems threatening, but I hold my ground. “Caleb gave me forty-two files.”
His voice is low. “From those files, I concurred that twenty of those individuals are damaging to this company. Something you would have realized if you had gone through those files instead of marching over to my office to pick a fight with me.”
I feel a flush crawl up my neck, and I see his satisfaction at putting me in my place.
However, I didn’t get where I am by letting men walk all over me. “I wouldn’t have had to march over to your office if you had given me the consideration of introducing yourself, Mr. Thornton. You toss off files of employees I work with and expect me to fire them without so much as a courtesy call or a proper report.” I give him a withering glare. “Next time you decide to fire an employee, don’t leave files in my office. I expect you to follow the proper procedure. And if you don’t know that, my assistant will send you the SOP. You’re going to have to learn to work with me rather than around me, Mr. Thornton.”
Without giving him a chance to reply, I turn on my heel and stalk out of his office.
* * *
Oliver Thornton is right about me putting in overtime.
I do that a lot.
Even tonight, I sit in my office, my blazer hanging from the back of a chair, my bare feet curled up under me as I sit on the couch, pouring through the files before me. I’ve already gone
through eleven of them.
The man was right.
All of these individuals are high-level executives who are bleeding the company.
Adding another file to the ‘fire them tomorrow’ heap, I glance at the one file that is in the ‘Oliver Thornton knows jack shit’ pile. I scowl at that particular stack, wishing it were higher.
Rubbing my eyes, I reach for my coffee just as I hear a knock on my door.
A quick glance at the clock tells me it’s one in the morning. I freeze, wondering who else is in the office.
“Come in,” I say loudly. The handle twists, the door opening to reveal the man in question.
“Mr. Thornton,” I say, trying for an icy tone but sounding weary instead. “What are you doing here?”
Suddenly, out of nowhere, I remember the rumor he murdered his wife in mysterious circumstances. Fear chokes my throat before I force it down, scolding myself for being ridiculous.
His hair is mussed, as if he raked his fingers through it for hours, but his eyes are sharp. He looks deliciously rumpled, and I frown at myself for the inappropriate line of thought.
“I had a feeling you’d be here,” he murmurs, and I can’t help but notice how his eyes wander over my relaxed form.
I narrow my own. “Yes, well, I have a lot of work to do.”
“No, you don’t,” he says easily.
I stiffen. Does he plan on firing me next?
“You’re going home. I have a driver waiting downstairs.”
I straighten as shock and insult war through me. “Excuse me?”
He walks into my office, studying the spacious room I painstakingly decorated to be welcoming and official at the same time. Moving toward me, he leans down, crowding into my personal space. “I don’t need you wearing yourself out.”
I grit my teeth, uncurling my legs and standing, ignoring the sudden flare of emotion in his eyes when I get into his personal space. “My well-being is hardly any of your concern, Mr. Thornton.”
We are so close I can feel his breath on my face. I firmly stamp on the way my lower abdomen tightens at the proximity to this man, who is so much more attractive than his picture in the article I’d read. His lips are thin, his cheekbones high. It as if his face has been chiseled by the angels themselves, all sharp planes and haughty lines.
And I despise myself for feeling any hint of attraction to him.
He isn’t necessarily an evil person, but I’m not willing to break my own rule of keeping it professional in the workplace. Plus, I generally dislike him.
Mr. Thornton almost appears amused at my attempt to stare him down.
My hair, which I had struggled to put into a bun, is now coming undone, stubborn curls falling around my face. I’m still wearing my ugly glasses, though, so my armor is intact.
His voice is smooth, that lilting accent curling around me like a heady scent. “You did say we should work together, didn’t you?”
I narrow my eyes, wondering what he’s getting at.
“You and I are going to have a lot of work to do, so I prefer you get your rest.” He steps back now, a smug expression on his face. “I don’t enjoy working with inept employees who are sleep deprived because of their own unwillingness to understand their limits.”
I scowl. “You’re also here.”
He shrugs. “Jet lag.”
I feel his eyes on the two heaps, suddenly realizing I had put labels on both sides of the table. When his eyebrows arch, a sinking feeling in my chest alerts me that he’s read them. Reaching down to pick up one piece of paper, he quirks the corner of his lip. “Very articulate, Miss Hill.”
I snatch the label from him, deliberately putting it back in its place.
From the gleam in his eyes, I can tell he isn’t going to let this go.
“I still have work to do.”
“It can be done tomorrow,” he smoothly replies.
I purse my lips, but he simply watches me. “Go home, Miss Hill. It’s late.”
The exhaustion of the day slowly creeps up on me, so I admit defeat and reach for my blazer. “I have a car. I don’t need—”
“It’s one in the morning. My driver will take you home.” His voice brooks no argument. I sigh, knowing he’s right. I’m too tired to drive.
I put on my blazer, then pick up the paper that reads, ‘Oliver Thornton knows jack shit’. After crumpling it up, I toss it into the trash bin and meet his eyes. “I’m not going to apologize for that.”
“I don’t expect you to.”
He follows me out the door, waiting as I lock it.
Guilt nags as I process how he’s going out of his way to make sure I get home safe. “However, it was inappropriate.”
He follows behind me to the elevator, amicably agreeing. “It was.”
Side by side, we wait for the door to open. “So, I’m sorry.”
He waits for me to step into the gleaming metal box before inclining his head. “Apology accepted.”
His entertained expression makes me feel vaguely annoyed. “Good night, Mr. Thornton.”
“Good night, Miss Hill.”
He keeps eye contact until the elevator closes.
3
Oliver
Lana Hill.
I lean back on the chair, my eyes closed, as the fiery head of HR comes to my mind.
I had imagined someone a bit older, not a woman with sharp curves or such wide stormy eyes hidden behind glasses.
However, it’s not just her looks that have me thinking about her.
It’s the way she marched into my office, indignation written all over her face. It’s the pride in her set shoulders as she appeared ready to draw blood, a soldier—no, a commander—going into battle.
She knew she could lose her job over defying me.
Yet, she had risked it to protect the livelihoods of employees she knew nothing about, but simply because she felt a responsibility to them.
I admire the dedication, no matter how misplaced.
I admire loyalty.
It had been curiosity that made me check whether she was still in the building. Staying in the penthouse with all those memories is suffocating, so I’ve taken to finding excuses to spend the night in my office. The private bathroom accorded to me is pretty useful.
Miss Hill’s card hadn’t been swiped when I paid a visit to her office.
And the way she had been so casually curled on the couch, her delicate features in an adorable scowl, had stirred my blood.
When was the last time I had looked at a woman with any sort of awareness?
It felt like my interest in the opposite sex had died with Nyla. I’d dived headfirst into work to distract myself from the current pain—and any future pain the opposite sex offered.
After the first few months of speculation over whether I had murdered my wife, after the rumors had died down, the society women greedily started eyeing me and my wealth. I hated it.
My family name, my background, it requires me to attend certain events, rub elbows with the right people, but there was always a part of me which stayed detached, an idle observer to how I smiled coldly at the people who greeted me, offered sympathies, and tossed out coy remarks.
That’s why I had been so quick to take Caleb Starr’s offer.
The man hadn’t offered any condolences when he’d met me for the first time. He’d rescued me from a rather inebriated woman who had been insistent I escort her home.
My thoughts return to the dark-haired woman who so openly dislikes me and views me as the enemy.
Impulsive.
Hot-headed.
The words spring to mind as I open my eyes, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of my lips.
She tries to hide it so well, but it’s easy to see the way she vibrates with barely contained energy she hides under her civilized clothing, a sense of justice surrounding her.
She would make a horrible lawyer, I muse with a scoff. She doesn’t have the right kind of level-headedness needed for tha
t.
And yet, she seems to thrive at this job.
Maybe I’m wrong.
“Oliver Thornton knows jack shit,” I repeat aloud, my shoulders shaking with barely repressed laughter.
That was completely unprofessional.
So childish, I find myself thinking fondly. And yet, it suits her.
I spin my chair around to stare at the dark city, the gleaming lights serving as a reminder that there is life out there in the silence.
I should go back to the penthouse.
And yet, I don’t move.
I don’t want to enter that place.
I’m tired. Exhausted.
It’s three in the morning.
I stand, then make my way over to the couch before collapsing on it.
Sleep comes uneasily.
In my dreams, I chase after a woman with a soft smile, screaming at her to stop, not to leave me.
When I wake up bathed in sweat, I stare blindly at the ceiling before quietly turning over and closing my eyes again.
* * *
“You look like crap,” Lucas cheerfully informs me as he walks into my office.
I’m aware of the dark circles under my eyes. I should really look into getting another hotel room or just telling Caleb I want to take him up on his offer for company-provided living accommodations.
Instead, I just grunt. “What do you want?”
Lucas likes to stop my office every few days for a quick chat. My hostility seems to slide right off him. He parks his ass into the chair across from my desk, taking in my freshly washed hair.
“Taking advantage of the private bathroom, huh?” he asks.
I glare over the files I’ve been viewing of a Randall Forest, the CFO of the company, an overfed lug who seems more incompetent than his CV declares him to be.
I’ll be finding out soon enough.
“Are you my glorified babysitter?” I ask rudely.
The lawyer bares his teeth in what I assume is supposed to be a smile, not even bothering to deny it. “Of sorts. More like I’m wondering why you haven’t signed out of the building for the past week and a half.” He glances around the office. “Guess you are bringing a whole new meaning to ‘becoming the job’.”
Resisting the Brit Page 2
