by July Hall
It didn’t seem right to badmouth a client who’d been cooperative, and who was willing to spend tons of money. Feeling an odd sense of loyalty, Sandra said, “Well, she knows what she wants.”
“They all do,” Indira said. “Until they don’t.” With a wink, she returned to her laptop.
Before Sandra could reply, her stomach growled. Her lunch awaited her in the break room’s fridge. Maybe before Arnaud wanted to see her, she could grab a bite and…
But then she heard Arnaud’s deep voice. “Sandra,” he called from his office down the hall. “Get in here. Let’s talk.”
Sandra pasted on a smile and hurried to her boss’s side.
Unlike the waiting room, Arnaud’s office was busy. Mahogany bookshelves held portfolios, binders full of samples, design books, and trade journals. His desk was covered with forms and invoices, and in the corner stood an easel with blueprints for his latest project. He never slowed down. Sandra liked that.
She sat in front of his desk and offered him the leather-bound notebook containing her notes, photos of the condo, a cost estimate, and the agreement Mrs. Harvey had signed to work with the studio. “Here you go,” she said.
Arnaud looked over all of it, his eyebrows lowered in concentration. He was a tall, slim man in his early thirties, with dark brown skin and warm eyes that belied his cool approach to business. And he was gorgeous. If Sandra wasn’t with Bradley, and Arnaud wasn’t her boss—well, he probably wouldn’t have looked twice at her anyway. Just as well. He had a reputation as a lady-killer.
“Well done,” he said as he perused her notes. “How did you get along with Matilda? I hope she wasn’t insulted by my sending a new employee. I did reassure her that you were highly qualified.”
“Oh, it wasn’t a problem at all,” Sandra said quickly, and gave him the rundown of the consultation. He seemed especially amused by the way she’d name-dropped Bradley.
“And how are things going with Mr. Cliffe?” he inquired.
Sandra refused to squirm. “Fine, thanks. We’re having drinks after work.”
Arnaud gave her a long, considering look. She met his gaze. He could be intimidating when he wanted, but being intimidated wouldn’t get Sandra far if she wanted to succeed. She knew that from experience.
She’d been bullied during her childhood, when she was a gangly carrot top who never raised her voice. In fact, she’d been so shy that she’d cried when her third-grade teacher made her do a math problem on the chalkboard. After that, her fate was sealed. Life was hell until her freshman year of high school, when she transferred.
By then, she’d learned what to do: wear a polite smile, make a good impression, but never let anybody get too close. And never let them see you sweat. It was the most valuable lesson she’d learned to date.
“What do you want, Sandra?” Arnaud asked.
Sandra sat up straight, jerking herself back into the present. “To do the best job I possibly can,” she said automatically. “There’s so much I want to learn, and I know I can—”
“Stop. Let me put it like this,” Arnaud said. “When I interviewed you for this job, I could tell you wanted something. It was written all over you. You’ve been here for two months as a model employee, you just landed an infamously picky client, and I still haven’t figured it out. What do you want, Sandra?”
She faltered. The look in his eyes told her he wasn’t going to put up with any bullshit. It figured—his business thrived on peeling away artificial ornament and exposing the essence underneath.
“Perfection,” she said.
Arnaud’s mouth twitched, but he still said, “You might consider a more modest goal. I’ve heard yours is a recipe for disappointment.”
“You asked what I wanted. That’s what I want.”
Perfection. The perfect job: check. The perfect boyfriend: check. Knowing her life was right on track, that she wasn’t lost or confused: check. All that sounded great to her. Why shouldn’t she want it, why shouldn’t she work hard to get it?
Kristen said perfection was boring. She called Sandra a goody-two-shoes, a fake. She thought life had to be sloppy to be “real.” Sandra was sick to death of hearing it. An orderly, predictable life could be a happy one.
She glanced back toward the waiting room with its spare, but exacting attention to detail, the way its pale colors made it seem filled with light. “Look out there,” she said. “Don’t tell me you don’t want perfection too. That’s what your designs are all about, right?”
“Is that what you think?” Arnaud shook his head. “You’ve got a lot to learn. But I’m glad you’re learning it here. Nice work with Matilda.”
Sandra swallowed hard. She’d obviously missed something. At least she hadn’t said…whatever she’d just said wrong…in her job interview. “Um, thank you.”
He clapped her leather notebook shut. “Now let me give you a suggestion about Bradley Cliffe.”
“I—okay?”
“Get that fish on the hook,” he said flatly. “And fast.” Sandra gaped at him, but he merely gave her a benign smile and returned her notebook. “Start calling the contractors. That will be all.”
Sandra returned to work, but for the second time today she’d been shaken by someone throwing her insecurities into her face. She really needed to have drinks with Bradley and let his easy charm banish her fears. Everything would be fine then. It always was.
Everything was always fine, and that was good enough.
At seven o’clock on the dot she arrived at Ruskin, one of the newest, hottest bars in the Garment District. Not the most convenient location, but Bradley said sometimes he needed to get the hell out of the Upper Either Sides.
Of course, he was late. Sandra took a seat at the bar and set her handbag on the empty stool next to her. The bartender frowned. “My date will be here in a few minutes,” she said, crossing her fingers in her lap.
“A few” turned out to be “twenty,” and by the time Bradley finally showed up, Sandra was pretty sure that the bartender was her enemy for life. But then Bradley gave her a big, toothy grin, and it stopped mattering. She smiled and raised her face for the brief kiss he pressed on her lips.
“Hey, babe,” he said, and then turned to the bartender and added, “what’s your most expensive drink?”
“Probably the Laphroaig single malt,” the bartender said, giving Bradley a dubious look.
“Two glasses for me and the lady. Sorry for the wait, I’ll make it up to both of you.”
Bradley looked great tonight in a designer blazer paired with jeans that accentuated his lean build. His dark hair was appealingly tousled, and his green eyes sparkled—both features were Magister hallmarks, if Sandra had heard correctly. His mother had them too. He used the whole package to full effect now, turning his grin on the bartender who’d been staring daggers at Sandra.
Of course, if the bartender decided to be a jerk instead of succumb to the charm, Bradley could always buy the bar and fire him. But the bartender blinked at Bradley’s grin, and then turned away with a surprised smile. Mission accomplished.
Then Bradley leaned forward and murmured into Sandra’s ear, “Laphroaig? That’s horse piss. Sorry I dragged you here. We’ll have a glass and then go find the good stuff.”
“I’m not nuts about straight whiskey,” Sandra said, glancing at the fruity dregs of her raspberry cosmopolitan. “You can have mine and get me another one of these.” To take the sting out, she kissed his cheek right above one of his dimples.
“That’s my fair lady’s prize for waiting so long on her prince,” Bradley agreed, though his smile turned sour for a second. “Whatever you like, babe.” He put his hand on her knee, rubbing his thumb slowly against its inner curve.
Bradley’s caresses always felt—well, fine. This one tickled a little. Sandra kept waiting for sparks, for his touch to light her up inside like the books and movies always said, like her college friends used to brag about. She’d been hopeful at the start. After waiting for s
o long, she’d been dreaming of ecstasy. Instead, she got weekly encounters that were totally adequate.
Perhaps that was as good as it got. She shouldn’t complain, since he did try. He got upset if she didn’t climax, so maybe that was something? Or maybe she just needed a little more time to get used to it. After all, Bradley was so handsome and outgoing, always willing to buy everyone a round, insisting that a good time should be had by all.
But he also insisted that he wasn’t like the other guys in his social circle, the ones who got away with anything just because they could. Drugs, women, all of it—that wasn’t him. He’d said that Sandra might not have been his first, but he lived a clean life and he was so glad she did, too. He’d said there was nothing wrong with how she’d waited, because she’d been waiting for him, and he was honored.
If he wasn’t Prince Charming, nobody was.
So she let Bradley stroke her knee and said, “How was work today?”
He pulled his hand from her knee and rolled his eyes. “God, I hate this job. I have to deal with jerks from ten to five, no letup. And my uncle called me on the carpet today to tell me I’m slacking off. Does he even live on this planet?”
“Which uncle?” Sandra asked.
Bradley glared at her. “Which one do you think?”
Yeah. Stupid question. “Well, you’ve got two. And you said you mostly work with Stephen, so…”
“Uncle Stephen is a pushover. That’s exactly why I work with Uncle Stephen. I don’t think he knows where the carpet is, much less how to call anybody on it.” Bradley turned to scowl at the bartender, his sunny charm momentarily banished. “Hey, can we get those drinks?”
“I’m sorry you had a bad day,” Sandra said as the bartender set down two whiskeys. Now probably wouldn’t be the best time to ask for another cosmo.
“They’re all bad. I hate working for Uncle Charles. I thought it would be okay since he’s family, right? Sure, he was always kind of a hardass when I was growing up, but I really had no idea how bad it would be. He acts like he’s my dad, which is such a joke. And he doesn’t give an inch.”
“Well, it seems to have worked for him.” Sandra didn’t know the details, but from what she’d heard, Magister Enterprises had been on the brink of ruin until Charles took control of the business in his mid-twenties. Over the past two decades, under his leadership, it had skyrocketed. Now it was the third-largest privately owned multinational in the US. You probably couldn’t do that if you gave too many inches.
Bradley snorted. “You should be the one working for him.” He took a long drink of his whiskey and winced. “You’re both so anal about schedules and the bottom line, I bet you’d get along great. You could live at the office with him, that’d suit you.”
Sandra’s skin prickled when Bradley got like this, when she couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. He’d been all sweetness and light when they’d started dating. What happened? She said, “I’m not anal. I know how to have a good time.” Bradley rolled his eyes. “What? I do. I just like my job—”
“Like your job? You’re a total workaholic. I have to call you twice before you pick up—”
“—and I don’t know if I’d get along with your uncle because I haven’t met him!” Then she caught herself with a little gasp.
Bradley raised his eyebrows. “Huh,” he said, and took another drink. “Looks like I hit a nerve for once.”
Sandra reached for her own whiskey, not caring how it was going to taste. “Sorry. It’s been a long day.”
“Yeah. Yeah, me too.” Bradley looked down into his glass and kindly pretended not to notice when Sandra nearly choked on her first sip. “Hey, I know it’s been a long time and I still haven’t introduced you to my family, not really.”
“That’s okay,” Sandra said, and added, “but—I would like that.”
“I know. I’m sorry. You deserve more. You’re great and I ought to show you off.” He grinned at her, the sparkle back in his eyes, and Sandra smiled too, mostly in relief. There he was: the old Bradley who’d made her feel like a princess. “I was just telling Mom about it, actually.”
Oh. Fantastic. Rosalie Magister had probably relished the opportunity to tell Bradley, yet again, how lucky Sandra was to be dating him at all. When Bradley fell silent, Sandra prompted, “Okay?”
“I told her, ‘Listen, Mom. It’s time. Sandra’s been neglected long enough’.” Bradley took a deep breath and met her eyes with a rueful smile. Then he said, “Party at my uncle’s house on Friday night. Black tie. You’re invited.”
Sandra slowly set her glass back down on the bar.
“Careful what you wish for, babe,” Bradley said, and knocked back the rest of his whiskey. “Hey, bartender? Laphroaig for everyone. This round’s on me.”
CHAPTER TWO
Magister Enterprises was staffed by idiots.
At least, so the evidence told Charles today. Hong Kong was a disaster zone, the Los Angeles office had precious little to show for the last quarter, two memos had failed to reach his desk at the appointed time, and his own nephew hadn’t shown up for work until half past ten, in spite of repeated reminders.
Charles glared at his sideboard and its gleaming crystal decanters. He never drank spirits before five o’clock, but some days proved quite the temptation.
Still. Bradley, of all people, wouldn’t be the straw that broke the CEO’s back. Charles simply needed to speak to a family member who wouldn’t prove a disappointment, and as usual, there was only one answer. He pressed one of the buttons on his desk intercom. “Stephen?”
After a few moments, the intercom buzzed a reply. “Yes?”
“We need to discuss Chao’s replacement.”
After a pause, Stephen said, “I’m on my way.”
Charles frowned. “That isn’t necessary.”
“Be there in a minute!”
Marvelous. That meant Stephen was going to try to talk him out of it. So much for family. And since his brother’s office was the only other one on this floor, he wouldn’t have long to wait.
Charles sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the bristles of his short-trimmed beard. Then he went to the sideboard.
Within moments, his secretary, Violet, knocked on his office’s double doors and then pushed them open, admitting Stephen. “Thank you,” Charles told her, and then offered Stephen a glass of his favorite bourbon without another word.
Stephen accepted it with a resigned smile. “Nothing for you?”
“Of course not.”
Stephen checked his watch, the Breguet that Charles had given him for his most recent birthday. “It’s nearly five.” Charles raised an eyebrow. Stephen shook his head. “Right, never mind. Thanks. May I take it that my impassioned defense of Lian will be wasted?”
“Ms. Chao has mismanaged the Hong Kong office for a year now.” Charles sat back down behind his desk, the leather chair creaking as he leaned back. “What is there to defend so passionately?”
“She showed a lot of potential when we promoted her. Give it some more time. I think she could still turn the ship around.”
“Turn it around? It’s on the verge of sinking. You saw the reports.” Stephen sighed and nodded. “I want Andrew Huan in her office within the month. We’ll begin making the arrangements tonight and put the board to a vote by Monday.”
“If you insist.” Stephen tugged up his pants legs and sat down on the opposite side of the desk. He took a long drink.
Charles took advantage of the pause to look his brother over. Stephen’s dark hair was thinning at the top, but showed less gray than Charles’s own. Stephen also seemed more at ease these days, if also more…rotund. His recent domesticity appeared to suit him.
“This is the first I’ve seen of you today,” Stephen said. “How’s it going?”
Charles reached for the half-finished bottle of Perrier on his desk. “You mean besides firing Hong Kong?”
“Besides that. Did you fire our nephew too?” Charles ga
ve Stephen a quick glance. Stephen shrugged. “I saw him returning to his office. His shoulders were all…” Stephen bent forward and let his own shoulders slump. “Like Charlie Brown after he missed the football.”
“He’s not Charlie Brown,” Charles snapped, pouring the Perrier into his glass. “He’s our next generation and has no concept of his responsibilities. Does he think he’s still in college and the company is some kind of elective?”
“He wants to do well,” Stephen argued. “He’s told me so many times. You intimidate him. And Rosalie says he desperately wants to impress you.”
“Rosalie thinks he hung the moon.” Not surprising. When you got pregnant and pushed into marriage at seventeen, perhaps it made sense to insist your child was some sort of divine gift. “Did you know he’s had a girlfriend for the last six months?” Charles added.
Stephen’s eyes widened. “Really? He’s never said anything.”
“Precisely.” Charles sipped his water and looked at his watch. Five minutes until five. “Rosalie let it slip that he was out on a date last Saturday. I pressed her on the matter and learned how long it’s been going on. Imagine my surprise.”
“Well, that’s good, isn’t it? You’ve been…ah, encouraging him to settle down.”
“Of course I have. He’s twenty-five. It’s absurd that he’s never been in a serious relationship with anyone suitable.” Hadn’t Charles himself been happily married at that age? When was Bradley going to grow up?
“And is this girl suitable?” Stephen inquired.
“Rosalie seemed unsure.” Charles frowned. “She said she’s from a decent family and is pursuing a respectable career, but expressed doubt that she could fit into our sphere.”
Stephen grimaced. “Meaning…”
“Meaning I want to see for myself. If it looks like he’s wasting his time, I want to nip it in the bud as soon as may be. I told Rosalie to make sure the girl is at the gathering on Friday night.”
Stephen leaned back in his chair and whistled. “Trial by fire, then. Does ‘the girl’ have a name?”
