I choose not to reply to that, demanding instead, “What the fuck kind of name is Siemens?”
Lucas steeples his fingers, his eyes gleaming in mirth. “One where we try to address him with his last name, Warte.” He winces. “Not that that helps any since the ‘e’ in that is silent.”
Semen Wart, I mouth.
Shaking my head, I say, “Senior executive in the finance department. He’s been promoted over this Jace Hunter, who seems to have more to his profile and projects. Mr. Warte,” my upper lip curls in disdain, “has worked on two projects throughout his tenure… and one is still pending completion. And he’s been promoted five times. Was HR sleeping on their job?”
“Say that to Lana, I dare you,” Lucas replies with a grin. “She’ll bite your head off.”
I’ve not seen the woman in the past three days.
Every time I try to go to her office, she’s somewhere else. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she was avoiding me. However, whatever I need is efficiently delivered to my office within moments of my requesting it.
It irks me that Lucas is on a first-name basis with her.
The fact that it irks me irks me.
Suddenly, I have an insane urge to throw this grinning bastard out of my office.
The knock on the door has me looking over, and I let out a curt, “Come in.”
When it opens, I find myself blinking at Lana Hill, who’s marching toward me, her pretty features disgruntled. She dumps a heap of files on my desk. “I hope you’re happy.”
I wonder what I’ve done to piss her off now.
I scan the files. “I’m sure you’ll give me a reason to be.”
Am I imagining the blush on her face?
“I checked, rechecked, did interviews, heard sob stories, and got threatened.” She waved her hands as if the rest of the list was pointless, ignoring the way I stiffen at the last part, and continues, “It seems you were on to something. I’ve started typing out letters of dismissal.”
She scowls as if I’m personally responsible for all those people failing to do their job properly.
However, I have something else on my mind. “Who threatened you?”
She gapes. “What?”
This time, I speak slowly, “Who. Threatened. You?”
“Carson. His usual blubbering crap, but it’s not important.” She shrugs it off as if to say, ‘it’s part of the job,’ but I’m not so easily deterred. Neither is Lucas it seems.
“What did he say?” the lawyer asks gravely, his handsome features twisted into a frown.
Lana appears unsettled at suddenly being the sole focus of two very intimidating men. Then, she tilts her head, a shutter drawing across her pretty face. “It was a private conversation.”
So, Miss Lana Hill doesn’t like to be protected?
I reach out, yanking Carson’s file from the heap on my desk. His name was sticking out, so it’s easier to identify.
“I’d like to fire Mr. Carson myself,” I say pleasantly, a sadistic part of me enjoying the flash of outrage on Lana’s face.
“That’s not your—” the head of HR hisses, but Lucas cuts her off.
“I’d like to sit in that interview, if you don’t mind.”
His features are carefully arranged into a neutral expression, but I see the bloodthirsty shark behind his light green eyes.
“If you insist.” I incline my head in acknowledgement.
Lana struggles to gain control of the situation. “That is not within your right, Mr. Thornton, and you know it. And don’t take his side, Lucas!”
The familiar way in which she addresses the lawyer has me narrowing my eyes for reasons I don’t comprehend. It annoys me.
Lucas gives her an inscrutable smile. “It’s just a conversation, Lana. Look at it this way, we’ll save you half your work on Mr. Carson.”
“My ass,” she mutters, and I tilt my head in her direction.
“I beg your pardon?” Innocently, I blink. “I didn’t quite catch that.”
The tops of her ears burn as those stormy sea-green eyes that resemble ocean depths focus on me. However, to my delight, she doesn’t retreat.
“Why?” she demands, taking a step closer to my desk. “Why him? If you want to fire them personally, why not fire them all yourself?”
She has boxed me into a corner.
I can come out and say I want to have a few words with Mr. Carson, another high-level executive, because he threatened my head of HR, but that will make it seem personal. And I don’t want it to.
“Sure,” I say, gritting my teeth while keeping my expression calm. “But if I do, don’t march into my office after I rip them to pieces over their shitty performances over the past few years.”
She stiffens. I’m surprised to find myself on my feet now, not willing to back down.
Lucas watches us curiously.
She breathes as if calming herself down, her eyes still spitting fire. “Fine. You can fire Carson.” She stalks closer to the desk until her black skirt is pressed against the gleaming wood, then she slams her hands onto it. “But one word of misconduct and I’ll make you regret it. Just one word.”
Is she aware of how much authority she wields here?
She doesn’t let me say anything else before gathering up the files and walking out. I gaze at her shapely calves, admiring them, as my blood heats.
“She hates you,” Lucas says slowly.
For reasons unknown, the words sting, and I sit heavily in my chair.
“You’ve really pissed her off,” he continues, his gaze on me almost admiring. “I’ve never seen anyone get under Lana’s skin like that. Even Crawford. Although, they did have quite a few shouting matches.”
“Why didn’t he fire her?” I ask, curiosity outweighing discomfort at the idea of being hated by Lana Hill.
“He tried,” Lucas replies, seeming faintly amused. “But Lana brought his actions to the attention of the board, and things went downhill from there.” He leans forward. “Don’t underestimate her. She’s gone her whole life being underestimated, which makes her an even deadlier opponent. She looks harmless, but Lana is not an adversary you want.”
I snort. “She’s head of HR. You’re making her sound like the mafia.”
Lucas isn’t smiling. “Yeah, but she’s extremely skilled at her job.”
I wonder if the man is being overdramatic for the sake of it… or if Lana really is someone I need to watch out for.
I’m suddenly curious about this woman. And the man before me seems to have answers.
“Do you want to order lunch?” I ask, a plan forming in my mind.
* * *
When I exit the elevator on the fourth floor, there are hushed whispers around me. People stop what they’re doing to watch me.
One pointed stare has them hastily rushing about their work.
I stride over to where Lana’s office is. When I make eye contact with her assistant, she blinks at my appearance, then stammers, “Should I—”
I wave her off, lying easily. “She’s expecting me.”
I open the door to see Lana scribbling furiously on a piece of paper, her hand smudged with ink. She looks up blankly at the sound of the door opening, then her entire expression darkens.
Beautiful.
The thought crosses my mind before I can stop myself, making me frown. Stepping forward, I hold the bakery box out as an offering.
“What’s that?” she asks finally, suspicion lacing her voice.
“A peace offering,” I reply, putting the box before her.
Eyeing me with uncertainty, she opens the offering and sees the red-velvet pastry in the center in all its glory.
She tucks her tongue in her cheek before meeting my gaze. “I see Lucas has been talking.”
I settle into the seat across from her. “Don’t be too mad. You and I are odd allies of sorts. I crossed into your territory today, and this is an apology.”
She narrows her eyes. “How did your
interview with Mr. Carson go?”
I stifle the rage at the mention of the man who had casually told me that women belong at home, especially pretty little things like Lana Hill, and that he had put her in her place.
“Enlightening,” I say, choosing the word with care.
She doesn’t comment. Instead, she traces the box with her finger.
“So, this is your attempt at an olive branch?” she asks.
“Of sorts.”
“Everybody here is terrified you’re going to fire them, that their reckoning is upon them.” She watches me.
“I will fire as many as I need to. I have to get rid of the bad seeds, Miss Hill. That’s why I’m here. I’m not some villain.”
She blushes, and guilt flashes in her eyes.
“There’s an office party next Friday,” she begins hesitantly. “There is one every March. It’s a tradition we have here. You should come. It might help un-demonize you.”
I haven’t heard about any office party.
“Will you be there?” I say abruptly, then curse myself for the way that sounds.
Her eyes widen, and she blinks rapidly. “Well, yes.”
I don’t like parties, even when I’m forced to attend them, but I also don’t want to miss out on the chance to see Lana dressed in more informal wear.
Why it matters to me, I don’t yet know.
I’m not willing to explore my reasoning.
“I can stop by,” I say, reluctance heavy in my voice. “I have a conference call on Friday night with Caleb, so, I’ll be in the office anyway.”
This time, she smiles warmly, the contrast with her previous cold looks so strong I stagger. “Thanks.” She paused, then adds, “For trying.”
“Of course,” I say, standing.
She touches the pastry box. “And for this.”
There’s an odd softness in her eyes I find very appealing. “You’re welcome.”
I pause at the doorway, then turn to innocently ask, “Is it true you once tied Lucas to a tree because he called you a cry baby?”
She scowls. “Get out.”
I chuckle all the way to my office, feeling oddly cheerful.
4
Lana
“Do you plan to hire replacements or just keep firing people right, left, and center?” I ask with a frown, my fingers tapping on the desk before me.
Oliver doesn’t glance up from his laptop. “This is one of the worst cases of mismanagement I have ever seen. I can’t even find a decent assistant.”
“I could always hire one for you,” I offer, putting down the last file that contains the last letter of dismissal I have written up.
“Don’t have the time to train one,” the CEO replies, his blue eyes glued to the screen as he studies financials.
I’m pouring through a list of potential employees who have good certifications, but the bastard keeps rejecting them. Annoyance flares as I’m forced to discard yet another Harvard graduate who has an impressive skillset.
“What’s wrong with this one?” I wave the CV in front of Oliver’s face, making him tear his eyes away from what he’s doing. When those blue eyes settle on me, something moves in the pit of my stomach, a sensation that has become oddly familiar over the past few days of working together… or of being forced to.
Lucas tattled to Caleb that I was snarling at his CEO.
“I need you to present a united front,” he had said, pacing his office. I was forced to hunch in the seat, feeling like I had been called in to the principal’s office for poor behavior.
“It’s morale building. If you accept the change, others will follow.”
“You got that from a seminar you had me download for you,” I’d accused, scowling.
“What difference does that make?” Caleb replied, obviously casting his mind back to the numerous management seminars he had attended over the years in order to regurgitate this crap. “I want him to restructure this firm from scratch. It’s paramount to the well-being of every employee—”
I had given up at that point, because he’d been treacherously close to sounding like a rambling old hippy that was going to stand over Oliver and me and make us sing Kum Ba Yah.
My history with Caleb was as complicated as my history with Lucas was.
I had skulked off when Caleb had dismissed me.
And now, whilst I didn’t entirely hate the new CEO, I still feel annoyed at being forced to work with someone who dismisses people with a whim, not caring about how they would struggle to find a job again, not giving a single fuck about how they would feed their families.
After the initial people he had fired through me, Oliver has been randomly calling employees into his office, conducting rapid-fire rounds before telling them to pack up and leave.
Whatever good will I had started harboring for him has vanished into thin air, being replaced by a desire to strangle him. It doesn’t help that his presence makes me feel unnerved, his voice like a physical caress on my skin.
At times, I see him watching me, a strange gleam in his eyes, as if he doesn’t know quite what to make of me. He’s not the only one.
When Oliver suddenly slams the lid of his laptop shut, I jump at the sound.
“Let’s go get some lunch,” he says out of the blue.
Surveying all the work that has to be done, I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I hardly think—”
“Lucas told me about this Italian place nearby,” he says, ignoring my protests, already putting on that trench coat of his, which makes him looks so British.
“I have a lot of—”
“I haven’t had breakfast, and I think skipped dinner last night. Maybe that’s why I’m lightheaded,” he murmurs, making me blink worriedly.
The sneaky bastard takes advantage of my momentary weakness. He has me on my feet and halfway out the door before I can say anything.
I try to dig my heels in, but he isn’t having any of it. “It’s just lunch, Miss Hill.”
When I had insisted he call me Miss Hill because the way he says ‘Lana’ with his accent makes me weak at the knees, I had thought it would be a good way to fight against my growing desire. However, every time he calls me ‘Miss Hill’, his tongue rolls the words, flirting with them, adding a teasing quality that makes me blush.
Right now, it isn’t any different.
“I’ve been stuck with you in your office since morning. I have other work to do.”
“No, you don’t,” Oliver says, behaving strangely today.
He’s almost cheerful.
Usually, he’s growling or snapping at somebody. He doesn’t do it to me, though. It’s always polite banter, laced with hints of amused arrogance, as if every time I say something, he’s fighting the urge to laugh.
Highly unprofessional, I think darkly.
I’m herded down the street, my complaints falling on deaf ears, as he tucks my hand in the crook of his elbow. He strolls leisurely on the sidewalk, seeming to soak in the thrum of life around us.
Twenty minutes later, I’m seated at a cozy little table with a plaid cloth and a menu in my hand. I glower at the man across from me. “We could have ordered in.”
“We could have,” he agrees amiably. He glances through the menu, and I grit my teeth before perusing my own.
When he places the orders in fluent Italian—to the delight of the owner of this quaint little place—my irritation is replaced by surprise.
“You speak Italian?”
Leaning back in his seat, Oliver now studies me, a faint smirk on his lips. “I speak a number of languages.”
“Why?” I find myself asking, unable to contain my curiosity.
“Why not?” he counters easily.
Feeling a little stupid, I backtrack, trying to rephrase my question. “Sorry, I meant to ask you how many languages you speak?”
“Seven.”
He’s clearly not going to expand. I struggle with the urge to kick him under the table. “Which are?”
�
��German, Italian, Spanish, English, Mandarin, Portuguese, and Russian. That’s it.”
A weak laugh bubbles out of me. “Oh, is that all?”
He leans forward now, raising a brow. “Is that not satisfactory to you?”
Suddenly feeling crowded, I lean back in my seat, away from him. “What? No. That’s not what I mean.” I adjust my glasses, suddenly desperate to solidify the barrier between us.
There is a playfulness in his tone that makes my heart beat faster. I can’t get it to calm down.
“What about French?”
He arches a brow. “What about French?”
“You don’t speak French?”
“Not yet,” he says airily.
I feel a little smug, as if knowing something he doesn’t pleases me. “I speak French.”
The corners of his lips twitch, and he murmurs, “You don’t say?”
Overlooking his laughing eyes, I ask, “Why did you bother to learn all those languages?”
He shrugs. “Knowledge is never wasted. Besides…” His shoulders move in an elegant shrug. “It gives me something to do when I have nothing on my hands.”
“Oh,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Normal people relax, maybe watch a movie, but what do I know?”
“What, indeed?” His eyes are on my face. There’s this look in his eyes that makes me feel like I might be walking into trouble. “You’ve asked me a few personal questions. Now it’s my turn.”
I splutter, but it seems fair, so I wait.
He reaches forward. Before I realize what he’s doing, he takes off my glasses and studies them. “These are not prescription.”
Suddenly feeling naked, I growl, “Give those back.”
“In a moment,” Oliver replies, his eyes lit with curiosity. “Why do you wear them if you don’t need them?”
“It’s none of your business,” I snap defensively, this feeling of being exposed making me act rude.
He doesn’t seem perturbed, clearly waiting for me to respond, and I contain the urge to jump up and snatch the glasses that are just out of my reach. “It’s a fashion statement.”
Resisting the Brit Page 3
