by Paige North
As everyone moves down the other corridor, I follow them. In a way, it’s a relief to have already shown myself to Jet. He doesn’t remember a thing, and that means I won’t ever have to see him again after he has his way with Glover Publishing and moves on. But disappointment and anger have taken the place of my numbness.
Disposable. Me. My coworkers. My daughter.
Screw Jet Bishop.
All of us stuff ourselves into the conference room like packed sardines. Jet is already in there, his broad back to us as he looks out the window at the same skyline I’d been so enthralled with only a short time ago. His hands are folded behind his back as if ice water is the only thing running through him. The bastard doesn’t even turn around to address us as he speaks.
“I’m assuming everyone received the email,” he says in a voice so deep, rich, and smooth that it fills me with even more unwanted need.
I remember that voice and, suddenly, all the dirty, hot things Jet said to me that night make me even wetter as I stand with my back to the wall. On one side of me Lila and Harvey are crossing their arms and glaring at Jet. On the other is a gaggle of pretty and svelte admin assistants and junior editors, all of them more attractive than I am, all of them more sophisticated in their tight New York skirts and heels and designer makeup.
I smooth down the nerdy plaid skirt and cardigan that hide my curves and really hope Jet doesn’t recognize me; he’ll instantly regret that he picked the plainest girl in the room to screw all those years ago.
Jeez, why am I even thinking of this when the hammer of doom is just about to come down?
Jet slowly turns away from the window, and everyone tenses even more.
“I’ve taken control of this company and will now be overseeing every level of operations and making changes to create a profitable publishing house.”
Harvey hisses out a breath from between his teeth. Lila mutters, “Goddamn Angel of Death.” Both of them are so over Jet already. Obviously, neither of them will be taking this quietly.
Then Lila yells, “Are you planning on laying off workers immediately?”
You can almost read everyone’s mind: Shit, she has balls. And as Jet nonchalantly glances at her, I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing. Or if he even gives a damn.
Without blinking, he says, “Of course. Many of you don’t add value to this company and are, in fact, bleeding it dry.”
There are a few groans from around the room. A few people chuff. A few more murmur protests. I think I even hear a prick and a fuck off somewhere in there.
None of it fazes the hard-ass in front of us. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that our anger and fear is only feeding Jet. What the hell is wrong with this man? And what’s wrong with me for getting so hot at the way he keeps his cool?
Now Harvey steps forward—and by “stepping forward,” I mean that he starts walking toward Jet, threading through other employees until he’s only about five feet away from our new boss. You can feel the tension rise with every passing second as Jet watches him approach.
The wiry editor leans forward and lifts a finger so that it’s just this far from Jet’s face. “If you start firing us you’ll regret it. You’d better have eyes in the back of your fucking head.”
Whoa.
Jet only stares back at him, and that makes Harvey angrier. He shoves his finger closer.
“I was recruited heavily for this job,” Harvey says. “After I came on, I brought this place from a tiny hole in the wall to what it is now.” He’s starting to froth at the mouth. “And if you think you can just waltz in here and dismantle us, you’re mistaken, you arrogant ass. It’s people like you who’re bringing this world down. It’s people like you who give business a bad name. It’s…”
Harvey trips over his own words, sputtering to a stop as he realizes that Jet isn’t taking the bait. Harvey lowers his finger and shifts on his sneakers, almost withering under Jet’s icy stare.
Then our new boss speaks. “Mr. Dahlman, just so you know, I’m aware of how many personal days you took last year during your quest to make Glover Publishing the very best it can be. And I suppose that quest involved surfing the net for porn during work hours, as well. You clocked in quite a bit of that.”
Harvey looks like he wishes a vortex would suck him out of here.
Jet continues in a level tone. “If you so much as raise your voice again, I’ll personally grab you and throw you out of this building. My building.”
Harvey shuts the hell up and lowers his head.
Jet gazes around the room. “Any other valuable feedback?”
Nope. And I don’t think anyone is even daring to breathe now as Jet scans every face, including mine. Once again, there’s not even a flicker in his pale eyes, and all I can do is look away, totally hot and bothered, totally wishing I could just leave now.
“Good,” he finally says. “Rest assured that, if you actually do your jobs, work hard, and contribute to the company’s profitability, then you nothing to fear. I’ll be meeting with all the major executives and senior editing staff throughout the day.”
With that, his right-hand man starts clearing a path toward the door, and Jet leaves the room like the emperor of the world.
It’s only after he’s gone that the first employee starts to cry. Then the second. Then there are a whole lot of hugs and commiserating. If it wasn’t like a funeral earlier, it sure is now.
I’m taking Jet at his word about working hard, so I go back to my office and, with my hands shaking, turn my e-reader back on. Yes, I still want to tell him to go to hell and that I quit, but this job is too good for me to put everything on the line just because I want to tell Jet Bishop what an absolute creep and shitty human being he is.
But how much do I suck that I also want to feel his cock inside me one more time? And, if I’m being really honest, more than once?
I’m so confused, frightened, and unfortunately turned on that I can’t even read or do any work. It doesn’t help that, one by one, my coworkers are being called in to the CEO office that Jet has commandeered.
Michelle, my fellow romance editor, sneaks into my office. “People are getting fired and laid off like fleas getting flicked off a dying dog. Did you hear about Harvey yet?”
“No. I’m keeping my nose to the grindstone, Shel.”
She looks around as if there might be ears in the walls, then bats her long lashes and whispers, “He got canned for taking all that time off as well as his porn habits. Then Lila was let go because of her ridiculous expense account. Thomas from cozy mysteries is out of here because of those long lunch hours he takes.”
I gulp. It looks like Jet has done his homework and knows the fine details of what every single employee has been doing every minute of every hour of every day since I started working at Glover. Has he done such extensive research on all of us? Does he know everything about our lives?
Dear God, does he know I have a daughter who would’ve been conceived around the time of the night we spent together?
Michelle glances around again and sneaks closer to me. “Damn, though, I have to say this—even with how much of a dick Jet Bishop is, I’d give all my Manolos to fuck him senseless. Every girl out there that I’ve talked to agrees, in secret of course.”
A surge of jealousy splits me. It’s intimidating enough to work day-by-day with some of these confident, gorgeous city women, but now they all want to screw Jet? If they want him, what chance did I ever really have of anything beyond a quick one-nighter with him?
God, never mind.
Michelle fans herself. “You know, if fucking him helped me save my job, I wouldn’t complain. Even if it didn’t save my job…”
The jealousy is back, and it’s really red. I sit up in my seat, steam whistling in my ears, only to be saved by Jet’s lieutenant, who comes marching into my office. Michelle immediately tries to fade into the beige walls.
“Miss Jordan,” he says without inflection, “Mr. Bishop is expecti
ng you.”
He goes outside to wait for me like a jail guard or something. Michelle scoots out of there. With my pulse choking me, I stand up and smooth down my simple plaid skirt and thin white cardigan, then follow the assistant down the hallway. Every step I take seems to explode in my chest, and I’m so dizzy that I can barely think. Nerves are biting at me, and I think I’m going to be sick.
Face-to-face with Jet Bishop once again.
Shit.
We arrive at his office, and when Right-hand Man opens the door, I hold my breath, then walk inside to confront the boss who holds my future—and my past—in his hands.
Chapter 3
I hear the door to his office close behind me, and just like that, I’m left alone with the ice man sitting behind his massive glass desk, immersed in whatever he’s reading on the screen of his laptop. I’m not even sure Jet Bishop realizes I’ve materialized in front of him, so I stand there like a tool, looking around at anything and everything but the father of my child.
As the faint sound of his fingertips on the keyboard taps away at me, I notice how the office has already been stripped of its Cubism paintings and how the color-blocked furniture has been erased in favor of nothing but the huge windows with views of New York, that glass desk, and the folding chair in front of it.
Hah, what a great reflection of Jet’s soul—next to nothing there.
Then I realize that the sound of him typing has disappeared. Actually there’s no sound in this room unless you include my stuttering heartbeat. The air is as empty as everything else, including his gaze when I finally get back to looking at him.
For a second, I think there’s something in his eyes, a flash of… God, I don’t even know. I’m not going to tell myself it was a memory or any kind of emotion whatsoever. Please. He’s been firing people all day. He’s got no heart. But, dammit, I do, and it’s still thumping inside me so hard that it’s now pulsing in my hot earlobes. My nerves aren’t exactly helped by the fact that he’s leaning back in his chair, surveying me with those steely eyes as if I was included in the price of this company. A thing. An asset to either sell off or keep.
I hate him, mostly because he’s still as perfectly unruffled as he was when I first saw him today in the hallway, a master of everything, a conqueror who has no idea that he’s already had this piece of territory.
“Sit down,” he says.
I want to stay standing, just to see what he would do, but once again, I really want to keep my job. Hence, I politely do as he commands, taking my place in the skeletal chair placed in front of his desk. I smooth out my skirt and cross my ankles. I’m wearing knee-high boots, but I feel like I’ve got on a pair of Mary Janes and anklets.
He keeps giving me that serious, distancing look for another pussy-throbbing second, then he comes right out with it.
“I believe your position is redundant, Miss Jordan.”
As the words ring through me, I fist my hands in my lap. Redundant. That means I’m truly not needed. That means all the work I put into this dream promotion is for shit. That means I won’t have a job that will support my daughter and me anymore.
Redundant means the same as disposable.
My nails dig into my palms. “Mr. Bishop, I’ve never taken even one minute over my allotted lunch time. In fact, I work through my breaks most days, and I stay late, take work home, and come in early.” My voice is wobbling. The lining of my belly is shaking, so I make an effort to get my crap together. “I’m a contributor, and I never take sick days. I was just hired into this new position, and—”
“Another romance editor is not needed.” He already looks bored. He’s even getting out of his chair as if to give me a major hint that it’s time to go—on to the next ho-hum firing, see-ya, sister.
Anger boils in my blood, making me shake even more as I look up at him on the other side of that imperious glass desk. “But, Mr. Bishop—”
He interrupts as he walks around his desk. “I’m of the belief that romance novels are trite and formulaic. The other two editors who currently work in your department will simply take on more work and do their jobs faster.”
Is he kidding? I’m about to ask him if he realizes how overworked they already are when he leans against the desk.
“The reader won’t notice any differences,” he says smoothly. “The demographic isn’t sophisticated enough to care if certain details are missed.”
Oh, he didn’t just say that.
I sit up straight in my chair and narrow my eyes. “Is it possible for you to present this in even more chauvinistic terms?”
He’s still as stoic as hell, and that pisses me off even more.
“Or maybe,” I say, “I should cut to the chase and call you a misogynist instead. Because that’s what we editors do, Mr. Bishop. Even in trite, formulaic romance, we pay attention to precision of language. You might wish to know that our readers are smart enough to appreciate solid writing.”
At first, he only shrugs one strong shoulder. Have I gotten under his skin by calling him names?
“Frankly,” I say with my own shrug, “you’re behaving very predictably. Everyone outside of this office—except for your little toady errand boy—is laughing behind your back about how you treat people.”
“Yes, they’re laughing all the way to the poorhouse while I focus on the job at hand and make money.”
“Oh, we’re talking truth about money, are we?” I move to the edge of my chair. “You must know that Glover’s romance imprint brings in the lion’s share of the profits. If you truly cared about making money, you should be expanding the imprint, not shrinking it.”
One corner of his mouth lifts, but his eyes stay frosty. I think he’s amused by this curvy, plaid-skirted, white cardigan-wearing schoolgirl in boots and curls who has the temerity to backtalk him. I think he thinks my spunk is cute.
But then even the fraction of that smile disappears. “You may be right, Miss Jordan, but I’m still going to have to let you go.”
He stands away from the desk and starts circling back toward his chair.
“Why?” My voice is back to wavering out of sheer frustration.
He stops in his tracks, his wide back to me. For a fleeting moment, I think of that night we spent together: my hands sliding over the hard muscles of his back, feeling the heat of his skin…
Stop it.
When he glances at me over his steel-beam shoulder, I once again see something in his eyes that I thought I witnessed when I first came in here, and it rattles me to the core.
But I repeat my question. “Why do I have to go, Mr. Bishop?”
He grits his jaw, a muscle ticking there right before he stuffs his hands into his trouser pockets and looks away from me.
“Because you and I had a romantic involvement in the past, Miss Jordan, and I can’t have that in the workplace.”
I blink. Holy crap. He remembers? So he did recognize me, and he’s just been pretending otherwise. Screw him for toying with me, for putting me out of a job because he couldn’t keep his cock in his pants.
I stand up and point my shaking finger at him. “You’re a coward.”
He halfway looks over his shoulder, not quite at me, but toward me.
“You’re a coward,” I add, “because you’ve been too afraid to look at me, to acknowledge my existence. To admit that you even remember me.”
His expression is granite, and I’m pretty sure he isn’t used to being spoken to this way. He obviously resents that someone has the gumption to do it, too. Where his gaze used to be cold, there’s a fire there now, burning with fury, but there’s something else as well.
When I realize that he’s watching me with the same passion I saw during our night together, my clit gives a throb. Is he turned on by my courage or something?
Oh, God, I’m turned on because I’m facing him down. So turned on…
“Of course I remember you,” he whispers roughly. “You were as sexy and fuckable as hell then, and you still ar
e.”
Oh. I grip the sides of my plaid skirt. My nipples are aroused, and I almost cross my arms over my chest as I realize he must see how stimulated I am through my thin, white cardigan. He runs his gaze from my face downward: over my neck, over my breasts, my stomach, my belly. He lingers on my skirt as if imagining my pussy, remembering how juicy I got for him that night. He might even sense how I’m throbbing and creaming for him now.
He takes a step toward me again, and I hitch in a tight breath, then whisper, “After that night, I managed to get your office number. I tried to contact you, but you wouldn’t return my calls.” I don’t mention my pregnancy. I read too many interviews with this ice man to know that he won’t want to hear about my daughter, which is ironic, given his past abandonment. But people as stony as he is don’t have relationships.
He takes another step toward me. “The reason I never took your calls was because I never forgot that one short night I spent with you. It’s fucking haunted me.”
“What?” I whisper.
He’s going to say something about knowing I had his child, isn’t he?
But as I look up into those eyes, I’m not sure that’s it at all. I see confusion and rage there. He doesn’t want to remember me. I think this is about sex and nothing more, and he probably doesn’t even want me to be staring into his gaze as if I’m asking him to touch me one more time, to ravish me and fuck me until my screams shake the walls and alert everyone outside this office that he’s blowing my mind again.
He looks at my sweater, and I bite my lower lip so hard that it pains me.
“You the best goddamned sex I’ve ever had,” he grits. “I felt…” He blows out a ragged breath, and I think it’s actually a self-hating laugh, as if he doesn’t have emotional connections and never will.
If I didn’t know any better, I might think that he has a heart after all, and it shocks him. It might even scare him, if he were the type of man who got scared.
But I think I’m seeing things in him that aren’t there. All I know is that, if he knew about Madeline, he would’ve said something by now. This is definitely just about that night we spent together, and now that I’m here, in his presence, his control and willpower seem to be slipping. I can tell by the way he keeps clenching his hands by his sides. I can tell by the electrical charge between us—something I can almost reach out and feel. Or am I only imagining how much he needs to have me again?
