by Cari Quinn
When Grace arrived precisely at one o’clock, I was on the phone with a supplier who needed the personal touch to deliver the quantities we needed—overnight, at cost. I didn’t acknowledge Grace in any way, but the definite tightening beneath my waist caused me to shift in my chair. There were all kinds of ways to pay for sins, and my physical discomfort was topping the list right now.
Jack stepped off the elevator just as I hung up, and I expected him to stop by to razz me about who knows what as he always did. I wasn’t in the mood for it, but that wouldn’t stop the bastard. He usually leaped upon my malcontent like a dog with a Frisbee.
This time, however, I wasn’t his intended target. No, he aimed right for Grace’s desk, and within moments, I heard her laughter. Light, unrestrained. As if I hadn’t just fucked her against the glass hours ago. As if the man in front of her was capable of making her happy where I only brought her stress.
Irritation dogged me as I reviewed the notes for that afternoon’s video conference with the head of a new tech company that was hoping to develop a new two-way conference system using Carson Covenant’s glass. I tried to block out the sound of Grace laughing and Jack’s deeper, teasing voice. I should’ve made this room soundproof as well.
Lost opportunity, one of many.
When it became clear Jack had no intention of stopping by my office—or ever allowing Grace to return to her work—I sent her a message.
I’m happy to see you have such a free schedule this afternoon, Ms. Copeland.
It wasn’t long before I received one in return, though Jack hadn’t budged from her desk. Glad to see my authority struck such obvious fear in her heart.
Are you interested in lunch or have you satisfied all your appetites for the day?
I narrowed my eyes. Did she think she was funny? I didn’t. Not one bit.
I didn’t respond to her. That wasn’t for her benefit, but mine. At the moment, I couldn’t be sure of what I might say.
And fuck, I never lost control. Grace Copeland wouldn’t make me start.
Too late. Exhibit A, lobby vestibule. Exhibit B, steel erection just from reading her name on your computer screen and hearing her laugh.
For him, not me. She’d never laughed for me, never would, and I couldn’t forget that.
The worst part was now I was hungry. I hadn’t stopped to eat, hadn’t done anything but grab a power bar and a coffee on my way back into the office. Now? My stomach was growling like the rest of me when it came to dealing with Grace.
But I would ignore it. My appetites were satisfied, all right, and I wasn’t about to sit through another interminable lunch while Grace cheerfully mocked my chopstick technique.
I returned to my notes, determined not to glance toward the glass. Then my IM window flashed again.
Jack ordered Chinese. He got you your favorite—nutty chicken. It will be here soon.
Nutty chicken? My eyebrow lifted as I tapped out a reply.
Peanut chicken is not nutty chicken.
Hmm, sounds like nuts to me. I like nuts. A lot.
She was baiting me. I was almost sure of it. Whether she was hoping to make me uncomfortable or was just having a fine time at my expense, I couldn’t be certain. Either way, I wasn’t going to engage. We worked together. Work was all we would do, this morning aside.
Have you had a chance to prioritize this morning’s correspondence yet or has Mr. Hollister’s witty repartee kept you too occupied?
That wasn’t what I had intended to say. I wasn’t jealous. I was simply annoyed that Ms. Copeland clearly didn’t value work as highly as I did. Otherwise, she would send Jack back to his office to play with his brightly-colored tie behind closed doors.
Damn guy was always smiling. Always. Jolly asshole.
This time, she didn’t reply. Shortly afterward, Jack ambled off, whistling.
I went back to my notes. Work, I understood.
It wasn’t long before my IM chimed again.
Your mail has been sorted and prioritized. Shall I bring it in now? Perhaps gather you a cup of tea and a scone?
Your sarcasm is neither welcome nor appreciated.
My apologies, sir.
I narrowed my gaze on Grace’s form through the glass. She sat at her desk, her hair restrained in a neat braid, her fingers flying over the keys. Beneath her desk, I could see the hem of her long skirt flirting with her slim calves. Her shoes weren’t sexy. Far from it. They appeared to be chunky-heeled, buckled things that were for function more than form. I shifted on my seat just the same at the telltale stirring in my pants. Between her calling me sir and those narrow ankles, strong and delicate both, peeking out from between skirt and shoe, I had to fist my hands on the edge of my desk.
I also couldn’t avoid her forever.
Please bring in the mail when you get a moment. No scone or tea required. I’m reasonably sure we have neither on the premises.
A moment later, she rose from her desk, her arms wrapped around a stack of mail and a white bag clutched in one hand, when the elevator opened and a courier stepped off with a large box. He smiled upon sighting Grace, his professional demeanor falling away in favor of flirtation.
Was I doomed to see every man within miles swarm Grace?
Apparently so.
She chatted easily with him, setting down the mail and the bag in favor of accepting the box. She drew the top off, her smile faltering at whatever the courier was saying, too low to be overheard. She nodded and he left, leaving her to withdraw one of the envelopes. Then her head lifted, her gaze connecting with mine through the thin pane of glass that separated us.
She didn’t know I was staring. That I stared far too often, helpless against my need to watch.
Her.
She picked up everything again, leaving behind the box she’d just received though she brought the single envelope she’d taken out with her. Curiosity had me rising from my chair as she opened the door and breezed inside on a cloud of lilac perfume and indignation.
“You support this charity?” She slapped the gold-embossed envelope on my desk without relinquishing her hold on the rest of her pile.
Frowning, I picked up the envelope. Foundation for the Lost was printed in the upper left hand corner, and a seal in the right said Bring Home Jimmy Calagnino.
“Yes. The company is one of their primary sponsors for this year’s Light Up The Night community gathering. Why?”
Why does it make you angry?
“So it’s some corporate shill. Just something you do to seem important and use as advertising.”
“Of course not. Why would we need to use a missing boy for advertising? I think we’re doing just fine on our own.”
She compressed her lips and set down her stack of mail. The small white bag started to tip off the pile and I reached for it, but she snatched it back.
“He was six. Just six,” she said quietly, without looking at me.
“I know.”
“Do you?” She clutched the bag to her chest, and I wondered what was in it. Why she gripped it in white-knuckled fingers. “He vanished in plain sight, moments before his parents arrived to pick him up. A playground should be safe for kids. It should be safe for everyone.”
“I agree.” I had no reason to want her approval—to need it, for reasons I couldn’t explain even to myself. But I was driven to receive it just the same. “Without getting into all the technical jargon, we’ve developed a kind of glass we’re using as part of their gathering for community awareness about missing children. It’s reflective, and under streetlights, it will appear to glow as if it’s lit.”
“So you’re doing it for the spectacle?” Her cheeks reddened. “For attention and to gain community favor?”
“No,” I snapped. “I’m doing it because that playground meant something to me when I was Jimmy’s age, and I’ll be damned if I don’t use my name and money for something other than making more.”
She fell silent, the shields dropping down over her e
yes more effective than my one-way glass at shutting me out.
The fact that I deserved no better didn’t stop it from stinging.
After a moment, she opened the white bag and withdrew a single tea bag. Lipton. Yellow and red, with a frayed string.
“I stopped off at the deli on my way in. I was going to bring you coffee, but I decided tea might be better. Too much caffeine isn’t good for anyone.” I thought I heard a tremor in her voice, but I wasn’t sure. “The scones were two for one, on special. So I brought you one of those too.”
She turned the bag, and the small grease stain in the corner mocked me with a glimpse of the blueberry pastry inside. My stomach roared again, and I was sure she could hear it. That had to be why she relented enough to drop the tea bag and the scone, to leave them there without another word.
I fell into my chair as the door closed behind her and swallowed hard. The lump in my throat made no sense. None of this did.
But I reached for the bag and drew on the frosted scone, setting it on the tiny square of napkin within. I withdrew the Carson Covenant mug from my drawer, and set it on the warmer some employee had bought me for Christmas one year. I picked up the tea bag and set it inside before going in search of hot water.
It should be plentiful, since I was submerged in it.
The tea didn’t taste as bad as I’d expected. I’d been drinking coffee since long before I’d actually enjoyed the taste, and this required a bit of sugar to be palatable—from the hidden stash of packets in a secret compartment in my desk—but it wasn’t awful. Grace buying it with me in mind couldn’t improve the taste. That wasn’t possible.
Except maybe it was.
The mail had been sorted and tagged in the organized system she had already devised. She had colored little flag things she slapped on everything, but it was easy to see at a glance what needed to be dealt with when.
Almost against my will, she was making my life easier. Even if she had forced me to drink tea.
I’d just finished a glad-handing phone call with a client that involved promises of playing golf—I hated golf—when Violet and Jack stepped off the elevator, bags of food in hand. It was already time for my meeting with my security head, but she must’ve figured it was appropriate to break bread with Jack first.
The two of them barged into my office, breaking the comfortable stillness and bringing with them the scent of peanut chicken and fried rice. Peanut chicken, not nutty.
“Hey there, captain of industry, thought we could all eat together but Violet says you two have some business. Private business,” Jack added, waggling his eyebrows in the way only he could.
I ignored him and focused on Violet. “Lunch can wait. I trust you’d like to speak first?”
“I would,” she said slowly as Grace strode into the room, tablet in hand. She hadn’t had one yesterday. Where she’d gotten it, I didn’t know. Probably from her good buddy Jack.
“I’m here to take notes,” Grace said as everyone looked her way. “I’m Blake’s assistant. That’s what I should be doing, right?”
“Not this time,” I began.
“No. You’ve done quite enough,” Violet replied, her tone as icy as her expression. The change from moments ago when she’d stepped off the elevator with Jack was startling.
I didn’t like it one bit, especially since I had an idea what was behind Violet’s temperature change.
“We’ll be fine on our own,” I said gently to Grace, who glanced between me and Violet as if she couldn’t figure out where to look next. Then she nodded and left the office, shutting the door quietly behind her.
“You too,” Vi said, nudging Jack toward the door. “Go eat your lunch. We’ll be along in a few.”
“Yeah, yeah, you two and your private time.” He backed out the door. “I’ll just have some private time with Ms. Grace. How’s that suit you, Gracie?” he asked, strolling toward her desk and offering her one of the bags of food.
I set my teeth and schooled my expression as Violet closed the door and turned to face me. The sooner we dealt with this situation, the faster we could get back to work.
Work was the only thing I understood.
“I’m not going to beat around the bush.” She gripped the back of one of the chairs in front of my desk. “Romtex called me earlier today to inform me of some…irregularities in the security feed from this morning. That feed is monitored at Romtex as well as displayed via cam in the security room inside this building. A cam that will be monitored twenty-four/seven, starting tomorrow once the new hires have finished training on the equipment. Which I thought you damn well knew.”
I said nothing. Because I had damn well known, once. And I’d lapsed. I’d forgotten this morning with Grace, and then I’d done a shoddy job of covering my tracks.
Sounded like I’d been lucky to even cover that well, however. Twenty-four security cam monitoring had been something I’d pushed for. We’d had it before this new system had been installed, but this was supposed to be an upgrade. Before, only vital sectors of the company had been under surveillance. Now, thanks to Romtex’s cutting edge equipment, the entire company was under watch at all times.
That I had been the first one to test out its use was a fine irony.
“It’s a new system,” I began, before shaking my head. There was nothing more to say.
What I’d done had been reprehensible on several levels. Not the least of which was that I had helped to cause the coldness in Violet’s tone when she spoke to Grace. She was suspicious of her now, simply because she was protective of me.
And that was insane. Who suspected Little Red Riding Hood’s virtue without acknowledging the lack of the Big Bad Wolf’s?
“That’s not even the worst of it. When I viewed our tapes, I discovered something shocking.”
Somehow I managed not to roll my eyes. Violet definitely had a flair for the dramatic. Probably why she enjoyed Jack’s buffoonery so much.
“Someone attempted—poorly—to hide their ill-timed behavior, thereby altering sensitive company materials. That footage is to be left intact, Blake. No matter what.”
“My company,” I said lightly. “My materials.”
She moved forward and leaned across my desk, planting her hands on my blotter. “You hired me to protect both.” She lowered her voice. “Don’t hamstring me now because you can’t keep it in your pants.”
I didn’t flinch, didn’t so much as blink. Just held her stare. “I think you know how to see yourself out.”
“As you wish.” She’d made it halfway to the door when I spoke again, my tone low.
“Think what you prefer about me. But Grace will have your respect.”
Violet hesitated, then nodded. She walked out of the room without glancing back.
She aimed straight for Jack and Grace, who were still talking quietly as they opened dishes and dug out cutlery. I couldn’t hear what was said between them, but Violet shook her head and headed for the elevator without touching the food.
So I’d offended her. Par for the course for the day, I supposed.
When Jack came in, aromatic food in hand, I exhaled and sat back in my chair. Clearly, the idea of accomplishing anything was a joke. “Don’t say it,” I said as he opened his mouth.
“What?” he asked, all innocence. He dropped into a chair and used a pair of chopsticks to shovel noodles into his mouth.
More chopsticks. It seemed the world was adept at them.
“Just that Violet seemed awfully pissed after your private pow-wow,” he continued while I fought to ignore that blinking cursor on my screen that I hadn’t noticed until now.
Grace had IM’d me, probably while I was being grilled by my head of security. She’d likely offer something innocuous like, “your nutty chicken is getting cold,” and I just might sweep my whole damn computer off the desk like a petulant child having a tantrum.
Or I could look at Jack, at how his tie was never quite straight, and how he sprawled in any chair he s
at in, whether at a desk or in front of a TV, and laugh. Just fucking laugh at the ridiculousness of this whole entire mess.
I held out a hand. “Give me some of that.”
He lifted a brow. “You never eat off my plate.”
“Yeah, well, today I do.” Today I couldn’t face Grace’s wounded eyes as she passed me my nutty chicken. Violet’s dismissive behavior had registered with her, and I felt to blame.
For so goddamn much.
“Take it,” Jack said, shoving the carton at me. Obviously, he realized the situation must be dire if I wanted to share his chopsticks and noodles.
I opened another drawer and removed a fork—there were desperate times, and then there were levels to which one should never descend—then reached for the carton.
It was Jack’s turn to laugh. Hard.
“Sure you wouldn’t rather go eat with Grace?”
“Positive,” I said darkly, shoveling in noodles.
Now that I’d been reminded yet again that we were being observed at all times, the very last thing I wanted to do was to spend time with my assistant.
Three
For more than a week, I avoided Grace. We spoke mostly through instant messages and voicemails, along with the occasional clipped directive as I passed by her desk on the way to the bathroom. She usually responded with snark or that prim little “yes, sir” that set my blood to boil.
While we rarely talked, I hadn’t stopped watching her from behind my safety zone of glass.
She always dressed conservatively, with the kind of flair that pegged her as an artist. A hint of purple shoes peeking out from an otherwise sedate outfit, the sparkle of unusual jewelry at her ears and throat. One day she’d worn an off-the-shoulder sweater that revealed her collarbone and all that creamy skin.
