by Fiona Murphy
“Hm, you are right, this sounds as if this is an insurmountable issue. I think it best to call it off. If he cannot be bothered to deal with this now, he will not after the wedding. She will believe she has the right to treat you badly. I will be happy to send my jet to you. End it, come stay with me here in Chicago to take some time to get over it.”
Her gasp is loud; it is not easy to swallow my chuckle.
“I already have time planned off for the wedding. I will have the time to show you around the way I have not been able to before.”
“Ivan! How in the fuck can you say something like that? I’m not calling off the bloody wedding, for fuck’s sake. I love Aari and he loves me. His mum can go to hell, we don’t need her approval.
“I’ve gone above and beyond planning two damn weddings to please her because a Western wedding isn’t good enough. A Western wedding means we aren’t married properly. We’re getting married. Fucking hell, Ivan, I can’t believe you.”
Once she hangs up on me, I allow a chuckle. I respond to Aari that the issue has been settled. His own response of many thanks comes quickly. Shaking my head, I shudder at how willing he is to put up with all of Gemma’s drama. I marvel at his patience.
It is exactly because of scenes like today that I have no desire to do more than a few weeks with a woman. The longer things went on the more a woman felt she was owed, felt she could demand more time, more emotion, more than I was ever willing to give.
Those thoughts in mind, I close Christina’s personnel file and toss it into a drawer. Starve the fever, it is for the better, for both of us.
4
Christina
I’m up before my alarm. If I got more than four hours, I would be surprised. Even when I fell asleep my mind wouldn’t shut off, with an anxiety dream of being late to work but not able to find a phone to call in.
I check my cell phone, no missed calls or texts. I sag with relief. Over two hours last night I had received almost twenty texts from Tim on behalf of Ivan with questions and clarifications about the report I had completed.
When Tim came to pick it up yesterday, he sat down and read it, marking it all to hell in front of me. Considering how hard I worked on it, it was hard not to take it personally. Until he made it clear it was to help me, they were things Ivan would do to it.
He wanted to give me time to fix it before Ivan got it. It took a little longer than I would have liked, but once it was done Tim was nodding encouragingly. It was good. After my sixth text last night, despite Tim’s assurance it was good, I had clearly missed something.
My alarm goes off, pulling me out of my depressed thoughts. Dressing quickly in the outfit I laid out last night, I give myself a firm talking-to. I’m going to be calm, cool, and collected. I’ll ignore the crazy things my body’s been doing in reaction to Ivan.
Chemistry, that’s all it was. A chemical reaction to encountering the most stunning man I’ve ever seen in real life. So I discovered I’m not completely dead down there. It didn’t mean I had to go and embarrass the poor man and myself.
Ivan had also confirmed his asshole tendencies. There is no way in hell I’ll be able to put up with him without calling out his dickishness. Before long the chemistry will die. I just have to not make an idiot of myself or get fired before it does.
In front of the mirror, I flinch. My sleepless night is clear on my face. Sighing, I pull out the makeup case I rarely use. It’s not that I don’t know how to apply makeup, it’s that I don’t like to. Once I started going out with Brandon, he hinted that he preferred me to wear makeup.
His little sister was a makeup guru who taught me everything from how to mix my own shade of foundation because no shade was perfect out of the bottle, to how to contour, and even how to use every single color in a twenty-shade eyeshadow palette. At first it was fun but gradually it became a chore until I resented it completely.
Right now, it feels like war paint, to fake that I’ve got myself together. With that thought in mind, I add the makeup case to my suitcase.
Rolling my suitcase behind me, I leave my room wondering if I should lock my door. Not that I don’t trust the nurse; it’s Abuelo I don’t trust. Once, several years ago, he snooped in my room and gave me hell for the romance novels I had hidden in my bedside table.
There is now an unused vibrator beside those romance novels. Even though it’s unused, I’m too embarrassed to throw it away. I also hate the idea of throwing a gift away. Anna gave it to me when she found out I didn’t have one. I had opened it then nearly passed out from blushing so hard, only to bury it in the back of the drawer. Thinking better safe than sorry, I lock the door.
When I go into the kitchen Abuelo is at the table already. After his leg was partially amputated he preferred to use a walker to get around the house, only using a wheelchair when he went out. Since his surgery, he’s stayed in his wheelchair most days, to the point where last month I upgraded him to a motorized wheelchair.
He didn’t talk to me for two days, but he used it. I’m hoping it means he’s having a good day that’s he’s not his wheelchair this morning. I’m not going to bother asking, though, because he hates talking about his health good or bad.
There are scrambled eggs, hot fresh grilled and buttered Cuban bread, and a steaming cup of café Cubano waiting for me. I don’t bother to prepare the half and half I prefer to make it into a cortadito. Every time I did, he said I was ruining it. His attention is on the paper he’s reading.
“Thank you, Abuelo. I appreciate it.” At home we speak Spanish, unless the nurse is here.
He grunts a response. He’s still pissed at the way I yelled at him last night for causing Sharon to quit. Rolling my eyes, I dig into my breakfast. Finished, I stand to reach for his plate.
I find him studying me. “What?”
“Two men? You travel with two men. You’re wearing makeup.” He says makeup like he’s saying herpes.
I roll my eyes so hard they hurt. “Abuelo, it’s work. We all have our own rooms. It’s not like that. This trip is important. As long as I don’t screw up, this could mean a better position. I’ll make so much more money. The house could be paid off in a year.
“Get your mind out of the gutter because you’re the only one thinking it. Do you really think I would do something with two men at once or even one right after another?”
His eyes go wide, and I shake my head. I’ve been with one man my entire life. Like I would really go all in for a threesome.
“Don’t be rude.”
“Then don’t insult me. This a work situation. I’m not attracted to either of them.” Liar, but like it was going to happen. “And they are most definitely not attracted to me.”
Lying again. Whatever, since it wasn’t going to happen, it wasn’t really a lie. I wave a hand at myself. My hair is in its usual bun. I’m wearing a mid-length black pencil skirt and a pale pink blouse that came with the black blazer I’m wearing over it.
Even I think I look frumpy; no one will be overcome with desire when they see me. Or any of the other things I’ve packed, another black pencil skirt, this one going to my ankle, is packed in my suitcase along with my gray skirt ending a few inches past my knee.
My blouses are all loose, a size too large, two button-downs in white and black. For the evening I have two pairs of silky pajama pants I usually wear to lounge around the house and three oversized T-shirts for comfort, one of them I’ll sleep in. I also packed the backup dress. I have no idea why it seemed like a good idea at the time.
“I hate it when you talk about yourself like that. You’re a beautiful young woman. Men hit on you. You just don’t see it. Your Abuela, she was curvy; you’re saying your Abuela wasn’t beautiful?”
Sighing, I shake my head. He means well, but he sees things through the rose-colored glasses of a man who loves his granddaughter. I love him for that, I do. The facts are men don’t see me as beautiful because they’ve been told for forever not to find me beautiful. I don’t even bla
me men. How could they not believe five-nine, stick-thin blondes are better than short, fat brunettes when it’s what they’ve been fed their entire lives? It would be a little odd for them not to.
I’m aware there are some men who think curvy women are appealing—after all, I had managed to find Brandon. The problem was they were few and far between and there was always a catch. They were into something kinky, lived at home with their mom playing Xbox all night, didn’t have a job, but usually the most common was they cared more about themselves than the woman they claimed to care for.
Which in the end was Brandon’s trade-off. He was willing to marry me, but I would have to give up everything I wanted to please him. I hadn’t been able to see it until he was long gone, but little by little he had chipped away at who I was until I was who he wanted me to be. It was only after I had seen him again at Abuela’s funeral I realized I would have been miserable if I married him.
My alarm goes off on my phone, five minutes until the car gets here. A quick rinse and I put the dishes in the dishwasher.
“I’ll call you every night before I go to bed to check on you.”
He grunts.
“I love you.”
“Be careful.”
I go still when he doesn’t say it back but quickly shake it off. Sometimes I wonder if he feels any affection at all for me. Only a few minutes ago it felt like he did, but he can’t even say I love you back? Was it only obligation? Would it even matter if I came back or not? Christ, Christina, enough with the maudlin thoughts. This is just his way. Abuela told you a thousand times, it’s him not you. “I will.”
***
Christina
A half-hour car ride in the back of the Lincoln Town Car ends at a small commuter airport. I’ve only flown once in my entire life; now I’m flying on a private G7 jet that looks almost as large as the plane I flew on. The chauffer takes my suitcase, indicating it goes beneath the plane.
Entering the cabin, I barely contain my gasp. It’s massive. At the front of the plane there are four oversized leather seats that appear to recline. A long leather couch on one side of the plane sits in front of a large flat-screen television. There are six more leather chairs facing each other with a table between them. Tim and Ivan are already at the table. Through an open door there is a bedroom in the rear of the plane. Holy crap, this is on an entirely different level.
“Any refreshment this morning?” a blond, chipper man with thick, horned-rimmed glasses asks.
A wave of fire washes over me, and I turn toward the source. I’m trapped in the darkness of Ivan’s eyes. He’s angry, for the first time his emotions are clearly stamped on his face. Mouth instantly dry, I force a deep breath. Calm, cool, collected, get it together, Christina. “Water, please.”
“Pellegrino okay?”
“Yes.” I nod as I wonder if it’s safe to get close to Ivan.
“Coming up, my name is Julian. Anything else, let me know, we are fully stocked.”
“Ms. Connolly, sit.” Ivan nods to the chair in front of him.
Sit? Asshole. I’m not a fucking dog.
“We push off once you are seated.” He flicks gravel at me.
Great, right in front of him. All the better to make an idiot of myself. There is a thick report waiting on the table for me. I open it. It’s a background file on all the members of the Harris family, the owners of Hungry Harvest, as well as their single investor.
“Your proposal had gaps. The report fills them. Based on inquiries, the family are not interested in further investors. They are working on the ridiculous assumption they can pull out of this without assistance. One thing I have been wondering is how you found them in the first place.”
Thank god my bra is boring, thick cotton because the sound of his voice is turning my nipples into painfully tight points of need.
Refusing to look up from the report, I shrug. “The same way I find most of my companies. I searched for companies that had the most mentions week after week on social media. Hungry Harvest caught my eye almost eight months ago, but they were already catching fire. At the time I didn’t dig deeper. They seemed as slick as any of the top subscription services at the time, I figured we were too late.
“Two weeks ago the mentions changed from glowing to negative, complaints about items being out of stock, of late shipments, the fresh vegetables not up to previous quality. I knew now was the time to dig deeper. They might not want us, but they need us.”
Seriously? My lips are tingling again. I look up; Ivan’s eyes are on my lips. Instantly, my mouth waters. Don’t drool, don’t embarrass yourself. Jagged onyx flicks up, hungry, angry. It isn’t on purpose, I don’t know what drives my tongue to slip out of my mouth and wet my lips.
What would it be like to taste his hunger? To trace his lips with my tongue? Heat builds and twists low inside me until I ache with it. His jaw tightens as he looks away, cutting the connection. A different kind of pain hits me; stunned, lost, I blindly look down. Stupid, stupid, knock it off.
“Seat belts, folks, we are wheels up in two minutes,” the chipper attendant announces.
As I fumble with the seat belt, it takes way longer than it should to secure it. Ivan responds to a question Tim asks, and his voice sends a shiver up my spine. Okay, what the fuck happened to him for his voice to sound the way it does?
I had spent hours in bed last night searching for everything I could find on Ivan, hoping to find the answer, but I never did.
The flight passes quickly, thank god. I’m pretty sure Ivan is annoyed with me, at the very least, but angry is probably more like it. He barely looked at me even when he was talking to me, and there was an edge to his voice when he spoke to me that hadn’t been there before. The few times I asked a question, he acted as if I was a moron, until I had stopped asking altogether. Maybe the report was worse than I thought it was.
God, he’s regretting bringing me. I’m going to get fired, he’s not going to give me Simon’s job. Was it the stupid way I acted around him? Was he worried he would be stuck with some moony-eyed woman he was afraid would be some stalker chick?
Humiliation is a painful emotion I haven’t felt in years; all I want to do is crawl away and hide. This is my own fault. Calm, cool, collected my ass.
We are bypassing the hotel to go straight to the farm. In the quiet of the limousine there are indicators for emails and texts going off every few minutes. Tim and Ivan’s focus is on their cell phones as they respond. I feel superfluous as both men work while I sit twiddling my thumbs.
A ringing phone is abruptly cut off. It’s Ivan’s, he’s frowning at the display as he sends it to voice mail. Only a minute later a text comes through. He sighs. “Gemma is calling, send her to voice mail. I’ll call her back later.”
Tim nods as he continues working. During my search on Ivan last night I found he has two sisters. How rude to ignore family, what a dick.
Checking the time as the limo pulls up to the farm, I see it’s only a few minutes after nine.
Over the next few hours I’m enthralled completely and utterly with every single word Ivan speaks. I understand now how he became a billionaire so young. The man is deviously, ruthlessly manipulative on a level I could never comprehend without seeing it close up.
On our way to the hotel, my head is still spinning, still trying to take it all in. A reprieve was given; of course they would need time to think it over, discuss among themselves. We would be back tomorrow, Ivan silkily promised—or threatened, I’m not sure which.
“How is the hotel? A good restaurant? I am starving,” Ivan asks Tim.
I check my watch; it’s barely noon. I would have sworn it was far later.
Tim shakes his head. “I found a place I think you’ll like.” He reads the description off.
Ivan nods. “Sounds good, direct the driver. We will eat then go back to the hotel. How far are we from the city?”
“Another twenty miles, this is farm country, boss. I’m just glad we have cell serv
ice.”
A text indicator goes off. Sighing, Ivan pulls out his phone; he vents a soft exhalation which almost passes for a laugh. “Tim, add lunch with Dmitri Markhoff Friday at twelve thirty. While you are on the calendar check, is there an upcoming birthday for one of his children?”
“It’s his wife’s birthday on Thursday.”
“Get her something, send it to their home,” Ivan orders without taking his eyes off the phone.
Tim’s eyes are wide as he looks to me then to Ivan. “Um, what should I get her?”
Ivan doesn’t bother to look up. “I do not care, figure it out. Do not forget to tell me what it is once it is sent.”
Another few messages are traded before Ivan tucks his phone away. There is no warning before his eyes meet mine, for the first time since I was an idiot on the plane.
“Excellent job today. Rebecca has been terminated. With her gone and Connor on leave I am in need of a personal assistant. I would like it to be you, until I find someone else. When a replacement is found, you will take over Simon’s office.”
The only thing keeping me from making an idiot of myself is the awareness that Tim is staring at me. I nod. “Okay.”
An honest to god laugh comes out of him. I am so fucked. The change in his beautiful face sends a punch to my solar plexus. All those hard lines and angles soften, sending hot honey running through my veins.
“I was expecting more enthusiasm than that. You are not good for my ego, Ms. Connolly.”
“I’m pretty sure it would take an earthquake with a magnitude of at least a seven to make the slightest dent in your ego,” I respond without thinking.
Annoyed at him, and myself for the way his lingering smile is turning my stomach into a tornado, I can’t forget the way he acted on the plane. He had me terrified I was going to lose my job.
