“I did,” she answered.
He stared at her for a moment before continuing. “And did you or did you not allow Isaac Miller to cover your travel expenses via his corporation, Quantum Ventures, again identified as the codefendant in the injunction you were directed to file?”
“I didn’t allow it. The use of the corporate jet was exclusively his decision.”
“But you didn’t request that he travel commercial or, at the very least, allow you to meet him at your final destination, which, I believe, was Dublin, Ireland?”
“Mr. Mitchum, you and your two fellow partners are obviously aware that I spent the weekend in Ireland with Isaac Miller and that I traveled to and from the country via Mr. Miller’s corporate jet.” The corners of her mouth turned up, but the gesture, the look, was far from anything one might constitute as a smile. “In the name of expediency, let’s allow that to stand as established fact. This way you can skip the inane questions and move on to those that you most want answered.”
Christopher Lord turned positively puce. “Don’t be irreverent, girl.”
“With all due respect, don’t call me ‘girl’...sir.”
Andrew Taylor held up a hand, staying Christopher Lord’s response. “Miss Sullivan, answer me this. Did you or did you not engage in inappropriate activities with Isaac Miller between the hours of 7:00 p.m. Thursday, October sixteenth, and midnight Sunday, October nineteenth?”
Her mind filled with memories of her time spent with Isaac, from their initial meeting to what proved to be their final goodbye. No matter what he thought of her now, no matter what these men ever thought of her, she would not under any circumstances label anything she’d done with Isaac as “inappropriate.” Sitting up impossibly straighter, she looked each man in the eyes before answering. “No, sir, I did not.”
Christopher Lord looked at her with undisguised smugness. “You’re lying.”
“No, sir, I’m not.”
He leered at her, looking her up and down. “Do you deny you engaged in sexual intercourse with Mr. Miller?”
“Among other things? Yes, I did.”
“Do you contend that sleeping with the defendant in a complaint you were ordered to file is not a serious conflict of interest?” He looked so pleased with himself, the bastard, that he might sully what she’d had with Isaac.
At the time, what they’d had had been authentic, untainted by the lives they led during business hours. She had to believe this was true, couldn’t entertain the ideas that had flooded her mind earlier—that he might have known, might have used her. The man she believed him to be wouldn’t have done something so—so...cruel.
“It would have certainly been a conflict of interest had I known he was going to be named as a defendant in a case one of our clients hired us to file and pursue. But, for the record, I did not know that this firm had been retained by Date Me. Nor was I at any time during the weekend aware that I had been assigned to represent our client in any action involving either Quantum Ventures or Isaac Miller.”
Andrew Taylor again held up a hand to stop the others from questioning her and, when he spoke, his words held more gravity because of his soft delivery. “You expect us to believe that you didn’t receive any of the texts, emails or phone calls made to you by employees of this firm despite the fact you carry a smartphone for which you receive a monthly stipend and, per your employment agreement, you are to keep on your person at all times?”
He had her there. She was going to have to admit to her own stupidity and, perhaps, Isaac’s request that they leave their phones off for the weekend. Sitting up straighter, she looked from man to man and then answered. “I did have my phone on me. I checked my texts and calls prior to departing. There were none. Then Mr. Miller and I left the country, and I turned my phone off preflight.” In a split second, she chose to keep Isaac’s request to herself. What good would it do either of them if these men decided she’d been used? Her shoulders sagged a fraction before she forced them back in place.
“The true problem arose later when I failed to turn on the international-calling feature on my phone. I’ve never traveled abroad before, so the thought didn’t cross my mind. I did power my phone up when we arrived in Dublin, but, without international calling enabled, I didn’t show any missed texts or calls all weekend. When we returned to the United States, I was exhausted. I went home, dumped my bags by the front door and went to bed. Alone,” she said with emphasis as she looked over at Mr. Lord. “I woke this morning and immediately retrieved my cell. The battery was completely dead, so I plugged it in and got ready for work. I checked my phone on the ride to the subway and discovered all of the messages that I’d failed to receive while out of the country. I immediately got off the bus, caught a cab and came into the office as directed.”
Andrew Taylor nodded, but she had no idea what he was nodding about. “Did you have any messages from Mr. Miller, Miss Sullivan?”
She swallowed past the dense regret that threatened to choke her. “Yes, I did.”
“How many messages did you have?”
“Two.”
“And what were they?”
She recognized the look on his face, and knew it for what it was. He was setting her up for the kill. Like hell would she give him the satisfaction. She knew her job here was over. The hostility and disdain she’d been subjected to had made that clear. She wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of carrying out what amounted to a public execution.
“The messages from Mr. Miller have no bearing on this interview.”
Bradley Mitchum had been slowly twisting his pen between thumb and forefinger. “I’m sure you can understand that we might see things a bit differently.”
“As is your collective right, Mr. Mitchum. But I will not disclose the content of those messages. I’ve had no further contact with Mr. Miller and would assume there will be no personal contact moving forward. I’ve also been advised by my immediate supervisor that I’ve been removed from the case, so, again, there’s no merit in disclosing the content of personal messages.”
Mr. Mitchum leaned back in his seat and stared at her.
It was a good stare...if one hadn’t been stared down by Isaac Miller, and recently.
“Miss Sullivan, I will allow you to keep the content of those messages to yourself. However, it is imperative that you disclose any and all conversations, written or oral, that you had regarding the development, strategies and/or marketing plans for Quantum Ventures’ client, Caffeinated Brainiacs.”
So there it was. The ultimatum. To keep her job—but no doubt give up any hope of promotion—she would have to turn on Isaac and tell this panel of misogynistic assholes everything she knew about Power Match, about Quantum Ventures and, without question, about Isaac Miller. Sure, she’d remain employed. But for how long? And was her job worth it? Was it worth tearing down a man whom—as furious as she was with him—she had come to respect...and possibly, very possibly, care for?
No matter what the weekend had been to him, it had meant something very, very real to her. It had been the best weekend of her life, and he’d given it to her. Whether under pretense or not was debatable. But the truth of her feelings was hers to interpret, and she wouldn’t sell out that part of herself for any amount of money, let alone superficial job security.
Folding her hands in her lap, she let herself grow still. She needed to let her heart catch up with current events before she answered. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but this weekend was a private affair. I won’t share information that was shared with me in good faith that could now destroy not only Mr. Miller, but also his corporation.”
“You’re treading a very fine line here, Miss Sullivan.”
“And I’m of the opinion that I have conducted myself in a professional manner and have answered each and every question that is relevant to this matter, sir.”
Christopher Lord sl
apped a hand on the table, and everyone jumped. “You’ve behaved like a woman whose morals are loose and whose ethics are, at best, questionable. You will address this panel with respect and answer any question we ask. Do you understand?”
Rachel stared, as shocked at the outburst as she was at essentially being called an unethical whore.
Jim reached over and grabbed her arm with more force than was either necessary or professional. “Answer him, Rachel.”
And that—Jim grabbing her—was her breaking point.
In the small, rational corner of her mind, where she found herself watching the fallout with interest, she realized she had wondered where that point would be, if it would come, and what she would do if it did.
Now she knew.
She stood with enough force that her chair careened across the room, one caster catching on the carpet and nearly tipping the seat over. She yanked her arm free from Jim’s bruising grasp, straightened her jacket and then faced Jim. “Do not ever, ever grab me again, Jim Franks. You have no authority to touch me without my consent and never, ever in anger. Do you understand me? Please respond verbally as I’ve been required to do.”
“Get out,” Jim growled at the same time Christopher Lord bellowed, “You’re fired, Miss Sullivan.”
She rounded on the rotund man with slow control, channeling Isaac Miller, mimicking movements she’d seen him make with ease and grace. Lifting her chin, she met the gazes of the three men who had created the firm that had been her professional home for the last seven years. No more. She’d sworn she would never, ever give another man power over her, and this was where she took her stand. Not only for Isaac Miller and what they might have had, but also for herself. “You can’t fire me, you arrogant, judgmental, pompous sons of bitches. I quit.”
And she walked out of that conference room with her head held high knowing she’d taken the final step in asserting her freedom from her past.
Rachel Sullivan had opened the door to her future.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
BEN KING HAD done exactly as Isaac had asked, but the plaintiff’s counsel claimed extenuating circumstances and had put off the requested meeting until Wednesday afternoon. When Isaac and Ben arrived, they were as prepared as could be for the media, saying nothing more than “no comment,” over and over as they pushed their way into the high-rise, crossed the lobby as fast as possible and stepped into the first available elevator car to open its doors.
The digital display silently counted the floors as the car climbed, and, with each level they passed, Isaac found his chest growing tighter and tighter. He slowed his breathing, counted backward from twenty, focused on his heartbeat, pictured a sunny beach and the sound of the waves—all things he’d taught himself to do to beat back panic attacks.
Yet this time, nothing helped.
Rubbing the heel of his hand up and down his sternum, he knew he had to look fierce. He felt fierce. In five minutes or less, he would be facing off with Rachel for the first time since they’d said goodbye.
The first time since he’d learned she had lied to him.
She had played him, and it wasn’t something he was proud of. Worse, she had managed to pull years of suppressed emotions to the surface—emotions he wasn’t equipped to handle.
On cue, his chest tightened another degree.
The elevator stopped and the digitalized feminine voice announced they had arrived at the forty-sixth floor.
Ben stepped out, tugging his jacket straight and adjusting the messenger bag he carried. The doors began to close before he realized he was alone. He looked around and, seeing Isaac still standing in the elevator, slapped a hand on one door as it began to close. “You coming?”
“Yeah.” No.
“That would require you to actually get out of the elevator, Isaac.”
“Yeah.” No.
But he did, his steps leaden, his movements far from smooth.
Ben cleared his throat. “Ah, Isaac?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re going to have to pull it together and say something other than ‘yeah’ when we’re in there. If you aren’t up for this—” the slightly older man whipped his head to the side and popped his neck “—now would be the time to tell me.”
“I’m good.”
Ben studied him with open concern. “You sure?” He held up a hand. “Wait, wait. I know the answer. ‘Yeah.’”
Shaking his head, Isaac turned and approached the double doors that led into the firm’s reception area.
At the desk, a young man worked the phone lines with practiced ease, holding up a finger to indicate he’d be right with them. After transferring the call he’d been on, he smiled at Isaac. “How may I help you?”
“We’re here to see Rachel Sullivan and Jim Franks.”
“Certainly. Your names, please?”
“Isaac Miller and Ben King.”
The receptionist issued two visitor’s badges before instructing Isaac and Ben to take a seat.
They did and were left waiting an inordinate amount of time.
“Stupid power games,” Ben muttered. “Piss me off.”
“Which is exactly what they’re supposed to do,” Isaac answered.
“Sure, but they aren’t nearly as effective when each party recognizes the other’s common strategies.”
A feminine voice interjected. “It’s the uncommon ones you have to guard against.”
Isaac looked up and found a tall woman with short dark hair and cool green eyes standing over them.
She held out a hand. “Gentlemen, I’m Casey Bass.”
Isaac let Ben stand first and shake hands before he rose and followed suit. “Pardon my directness, but we’re here to see Miss Sullivan.”
Her eyes cooled further. “I’m sure you are.”
There was an underlying hostility that Isaac didn’t understand, but he knew he wasn’t imagining it when Ben shot him a mystified look.
“Follow me, please.” The dark-haired woman started down a long, nondescript hallway, moving at a sharp clip.
Isaac followed, rolling the woman’s name around in his mind. Casey Bass. Casey Bass. Why did it sound so familiar?
Rachel called a woman named Casey before we left for Ireland.
“Excuse me,” he said, increasing the length of his stride so that he passed Ben and caught up to the woman. “Are you Rachel’s friend, Casey?”
“I am,” she answered, not bothering to slow down let alone look at him.
Irritated, he refused to be deterred by her attitude. “I was under the impression we’d be negotiating with Rachel—Miss Sullivan,” he quickly amended.
The woman stopped so abruptly that Isaac had to scramble to keep from running over her.
She shot him a bitter look, her mouth a hard, inflexible slash across her face. “I’m sure you did, Isaac... Mr. Miller.”
The way she amended her address of him was less correction and more verbal sneer.
“Do I know you, Ms. Bass?”
“No, Mr. Miller. You don’t.”
“Then may I ask why you’re treating me with such open disdain?”
“Yes, you may.” And she started down the hallway again.
He caught up to her in four long strides and began walking shoulder-to-shoulder with her. “And?”
She stopped again, and this time Isaac had to turn back to face her.
“You’re free to ask. That doesn’t entitle you to an answer. I’m of the opinion that the lines between personal and professional relationships have been crossed one too many times of late, and you’re clearly not the one to have suffered the consequences.” She reached around him and shoved open a door. “We’ll meet in here. Mr. Franks will join us momentarily.”
She strode in, not offering them refreshment or even choice of seating. She simply went to
the other side of the table and sat down, folded her hands and stared at the door.
“Ms. Bass, I’m certainly not trying to provoke you.”
“Then stop asking about Rachel,” she snapped.
He knew he should let it go, that the very lines between personal and professional that she had referenced were blurring, but she was pissing him off. “We came here under the impression that we’d be dealing with Miss Sullivan.”
“Don’t you think you’ve ‘dealt with’ her enough?” she asked.
The question wasn’t lobbed at him with aggression, as he’d anticipated. Instead, it was dropped at his feet, the weight of accusation so heavy he felt smothered by it. “I don’t understand.”
“That’s on you, not me. And it’s certainly not on her.”
“Loyalty is admirable,” he bit out, “but not when it’s misplaced.”
Ben looked between him and Casey. “Clearly there’s subtext here, and I’m missing it entirely. Someone want to bring me up to speed?”
“No,” Isaac and Casey answered at the same time.
“Isaac.” Ben’s warning was clear.
“No,” he repeated but with less heat.
The side door opened, and a middle-aged man with dark circles under his eyes and a serious paunch entered. “Mr. Miller. Mr. King. I’m Jim Franks.” Everyone stood, and the men shook hands.
Casey just glared.
“Ms. Bass,” the older man said with a note of warning. “Mind yourself.”
“Yes. Sir.”
Curiosity was eating Isaac alive.
The negotiations began, but Isaac only half listened. He knew Ben would handle it. The cold glances Casey kept shooting him were of far more interest. Even more was Rachel’s absence. They hadn’t been notified that she’d recused herself from the case, and there hadn’t been any notice of a change of representation. That meant, in theory, she should have been there.
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