She and Leah had been friends since kindergarten when feisty Leah had faced down a pack of bullies who had thought they had a new victim in shy, sweet, gap-toothed Beverley. Their bond had held through high school and Bev's college days at Duke.
Leah unbuttoned her suit jacket and folded it onto the seat beside her to reveal her high-necked, blue shell. Now that she wasn't being interviewed she didn't mind if her girls were on display. And a wool jacket was a trifle warm for Atlanta in May, even with air conditioning.
Bev's question made Leah wrinkle her nose. She shook her head gloomily. “I don't know. I didn't feel as though I was talking to a person, if you know what I mean? Markham said she would call the successful candidates next week. Bless her heart.”
Beverley blew out her breath in exasperation. “Typical. When did it get to be acceptable to be so rude to job hunters? She interviewed you—she could at least send an email.”
Her friend laughed cynically. “I couldn't say, Bev. My Grandma told me that it used to be routine to send letters to job applicants—even when the letters were unsolicited. And she meant snail mail done by hand on a typewriter, and done over if you made a single mistake.
“Now we have email, and folks claim to be too busy to make a form to reply, 'Thanks, but no thanks.' I probably will never know if or why I didn't make the grade.” Leah chuckled. “I sound like an old bat complaining about modern manners. But maybe I'll get the job.”
“What are you going to do if you don't?” asked Bev in concern.
“Get a job waiting tables, write some code online. Carry on. If I don't get a job here in Atlanta, I guess I'll have to try elsewhere. It's not as though I have anything much to tie me to Georgia anymore.” Leah's plump face looked dispirited just for a moment before she remembered to smile at her friend.
“I'd miss you, girlfriend,” Bev said. “You keep looking. Have you heard anything from your real estate agent?”
Leah laughed ruefully. “Oh, yeah. He's found me a buyer. The house closes next month. When all is done and dusted, I am only going to owe about fifteen grand. Grammy ran through all her capital and her house belongs to the mortgage company.”
“Fifteen grand!” Bev was appalled. “Does that include the funeral?”
“Nope. Thank goodness for Veteran's Affairs. But Grammy’s urn will still be living on my bookcase for the foreseeable future. I just cannot afford to have Poppy's plot opened up.” Leah swallowed hard and blinked back her tears. “Who knew how expensive it was to die?”
Bev tossed her hair over her shoulders and patted Leah's hand. “Oh, you poor thing. But I'm sure you'll find something soon.”
“Sure I will,” said Leah doing her best imitation of a plucky heroine. She stuffed the thought of her maxed out credit cards and her overdraft down deep. She didn't feel plucky. She felt scared and forsaken, but none of it was Bev's fault. Or Grammy's either. Old age and death weren't anyone's fault.
The two women parted with genuine hugs. Bev went back to her job at the bank, and Leah to the bus stop. She thought about saving the bus fare by walking, but the humidity would make her sticky and that would do her interview clothes no favors.
* * *
“Good morning, ma'am,” Leah said in her sweetest tones to the woman glaring at her from the doorway of this morning's temporary office. “Are you Ms. Randall?”
“Who the hell are you?” asked the tall, whippet thin woman who had entered Gwen Randall's anteroom.
Leah smiled broadly and said in her syrupiest tones, “I'm Leah St. George, ma'am.” She paused a beat. “I'm the temp from Executive Services. I'm filling in for Cecelia Bradley today. She has the flu.” Another big smile. “Ms. Randall doesn't seem to be in yet. Can I help?”
“The boardroom isn't open,” snapped the whippet.
Leah stood up. She was five eleven in her sock feet, but today she had on three inch heels for confidence. Good thing too. The whippet was wearing five inch stilettos but Leah was able to look over the top of her head and smile down into her infuriated face. “Is it Cecelia's job to open the boardroom?” she asked, keeping her voice as sweet as pie.
“It supposed to be ready for the meeting at ten,” the other woman criticized. Which didn't really answer Leah's question.
“I'm afraid I'm not going to be able to do anything that Cecelia does until Ms. Randall gets in,” Leah said quietly. “This desk is locked. Her computer is password protected. I'm not authorized for anything, and IT tells me I have to get Ms. Randall to request authorization.” She looked at her watch. It was eight forty-three. She was not supposed to start work until nine.
“Let me know the minute Randall gets in.” The whippet turned on her tall heels.
“Yes, ma'am,” said Leah meekly. “Hmm. Who do I contact?” she asked the retreating back.
The whippet spun around, her pinched nostrils were white with anger. “Ms. Townshend,” she said and marched out.
Leah looked at Townshend's narrow back as she flounced off. That was trouble on stilts and she was going to get flack whatever happened. The temp was always to blame. Three months of working for Executive Services had taught her that her best was never good enough.
Because everybody asked for a competent person to fill in, but what they actually wanted was The Amazing Kreskin. If only she could show up having downloaded not just the exact skill set, but also the personal knowledge of the administrative assistant she was filling in for. Sadly, she was no mind reader. If no one told her, she didn't know where the photocopier was or how to operate it. And she didn't come with a complete set of passkeys either.
Townshend was already on her case because she hadn't done what she had no way of knowing needed doing. And she hadn't bothered with explanations, just attack. Where the heck was Cecelia's boss if there was supposed to be an important meeting first thing this morning?
Leah reached for the desk phone to call security to see about getting the boardroom open, but it rang first. She answered it. “Sarkan Industries,” she said clearly, as she had been instructed by HR. “Ms. Randall's office. Leah St. George speaking.”
“Where's Cece?” croaked a female voice.
Leah repressed her sigh. “I'm the temp, ma'am. Cecelia is out sick. May I help you?”
“This is Gwen Randall. I'm afraid I have the same thing as Cece. You're filling in for her?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Who called you in? Have you been able to get the agendas ready for the C level meeting this morning?”
At least Gwen sounded pleasant, even if her nose was stuffed up. “I don't know who asked for a temp, Ms. Randall,” Leah said. “My company called me at six this morning, to be here for nine.”
“Huh.”
“Cece's desk is locked. Her computer turns on but won't let me in. Ms. Townshend was here a few minutes ago. She seemed unhappy to find the boardroom locked.” Leah laid it out in hopes that Randall would provide the missing details.
Gwen chuckled wetly and then coughed. “I'll bet. You get on to security right this minute. Tell them to send a tech to get you into Cece's computer. I think she waited to print the agendas until today—there are always last minute changes. You'll need to arrange coffee and pastries too.” She coughed again. “I'll call Ms. Townshend myself.”
“Thank you, ma'am,” said Leah automatically. She dialed the number for security and was soon talking to an unhelpful man.
“'Taint my job,” he said. “André can override a password for a level ten, like Ms. Bradley, but not me. Want I should tell André when he comes in?”
“I do. Apparently there is a meeting of C level executives today and the boardroom can be opened by this computer or Ms. Randall's.” Leah made it a question.
“Oh, I could open the boardroom. If I get authorization.”
By a quarter to ten, Leah had arranged to access Cecelia's computer, had the boardroom open and had altered and emailed updated agendas to the attendees. She was in the boardroom kitchenette arranging donut
s on a couple of large plates when the whippet spoke from behind her.
“Where the hell is Randall?” Ms. Townshend demanded.
Blindsided. But Leah knew better than to protest that Gwen Randall had promised to call Townshend herself. “Ms. Randall is also sick,” she said matter-of-factly. “She won't be in today either.”
“What the hell is that?” asked Townshend without acknowledging Leah's explanation.
“Krispy Kreme donuts,” said Leah holding out the platter.
“You can't serve those to Mr. Sarkany!” sputtered Townshend. “Where are the pastries?”
Leah shook her head. “I looked, but Cecelia didn't leave any notes about catering. So I went out for donuts. And I made coffee,” she indicated the industrial machine that was still dripping.
Tina's face was white and strained under her makeup. Her green eyes flashed angrily. “You can't serve drip coffee to Mr. Sarkany,” she insisted. Her whipcord body seemed to be vibrating in her sleek black suit.
A shadow blocked the doorway and Leah looked up. The man standing there was immensely tall, dark, and weirdly attractive—although she couldn't have said why. The hard, bleak angles of his face were too grim to be called handsome. And his expression was sardonic. But he did have great hair. Thick, lush, and almost black, it gleamed like polished stone.
He also had peculiar golden eyes that were examining her from head to toe as if he didn't care for what he saw. Leah kept her smile pinned to her face, even though her cheeks felt tight enough to split. And she knew she was blushing.
“Sure she can,” drawled the man. “So long as it's strong, hot and black, it will be fine, Tina.” His deep voice caressed the syllables of the other woman's name. “The important thing is that there be some.”
Tina put her red tipped fingers on the sleeve of Sarkany's black pinstriped suit jacket. “I'll send out to Vardi's,” she said.
The man shook his dark head. Not a single hair moved. Leah was impressed. It wasn't stiff looking and it was long enough that shaking his head ought to have ruffled it a little bit. She folded the donut box and put it in the recycling bin and washed her hands. She stood awkwardly in the small space as Sarkany and Townshend talked to each other with their eyes.
Neutral. She could do neutral. She let her lips curve into just the barest hint of a smile and kept her eyes demurely lowered. She jumped when Sarkany spoke.
“What's your name?” he asked. His voice purred at her as if he couldn't help himself.
Leah opened her blue eyes wide and met his golden ones boldly. His black lashes were longer than hers. It was so not fair. But her blue eyes were her own, while his were obviously contacts. Who has gold eyes, for Pete's sake? “Leah St. George, sir,” she said clearly.
“Where's the other girl?” he asked.
“Cecelia Bradley is home sick, sir. So is Ms. Randall.”
“Huh.” His gold eyes wandered over her lush curves as if he could see beneath her buttoned suit jacket and high collared blouse to her opulent body. She felt naked but she didn't lower her eyes. Let the bastard look. She was worth looking at! She kept her face attentive but bland. Let this day end now.
“Is there anything else that needs to be done before your meeting, sir? Ma'am?” she asked deferentially.
“There should be water on the table and glasses and napkins,” said Tina as if she were stupid not to know. Yup, Kreskin wanted, again.
“Yes, ma'am. Do I serve, or do I just put out bottles of water and carafes of coffee?” Leah asked.
“You serve, of course,” Tina bit out.
“Gwen always takes notes,” said Sarkany at the same moment. “So she can send out a summary afterwards.”
Leah nodded. “Do you want me to do that too, sir?”
Sarkany nodded.
“Where do I sit?”
Tina drew in a sharp breath and glared at Leah.
Sarkany laughed. “You'll sit behind me at that little console table.” He pointed to a narrow table behind the chair at the head of the long, polished mahogany table. It had a small chair that looked elegant and hard.
“Yes, sir.”
The door to the boardroom opened and people began to file in, greeting each other jovially while jockeying for position. Leah left the room briskly and retrieved the recorder she had found in Cecelia Bradley's desk. She checked the charge and returned to the boardroom as Tina was looking around impatiently. Leah showed Tina the device before going to the console table to plug it in.
“Mr. Sarkany,” she said quietly, 'I'm recording as of now.” She pressed start and headed for the kitchenette. Let the games begin.
CHAPTER THREE
The executives might have been used to fancy French pastries, but they hadn't turned up their C level noses at Krispy Kreme donuts, Leah thought, as she put the used dishes and cups in the dishwasher. There wasn't one donut left. She was wiping the counters when the doorway filled up again. She turned. It was six foot eight of Hugo Sarkany.
His gold eyes were evaluating her. Again they stripped away her suit and roamed over her body. Jerk, she thought even as her nipples peaked. She smiled placidly and cursed her wayward hormones. “Did you need something else, sir?” she inquired formally.
“Yes. You're a temp?”
“Yes, sir. From Executive Services.”
“Good. I'm going to be here for a couple more weeks. I'll need a P.A. You'll do. I'll expect you after lunch.” Sarkany nodded at her open mouth and left while she was trying to figure out what had just happened.
A call to her supervisor at Executive Services confirmed that the placement had their complete approval. “Listen,” said Abby Markham, “If Sarkany wants you, he gets you. Whatever he wants he gets,” she said meaningfully. “Do you have any idea how rich he is?”
“Of course,” said Leah as the hair on the back of her neck prickled. What in blazes did Abby mean? “Will you set it up with Sarkan’s Human Resources?” she asked giving in to the inevitable.
“I'll take care of it,” Abby assured her. “You just keep Mr. Sarkany sweet.”
* * *
It had been two weeks since Hugo Sarkany had made Leah his Personal Assistant. He hadn't stopped ogling her, but he hadn't actually done or said anything that she could legitimately complain about.
If you didn't count the inappropriate way he looked at her as if he could see her rosy nipples stiffening inside her clothes. Which he couldn't, because she always wore a nice opaque camisole over her full-coverage, boobie-smashing, heavy-duty underwire bra. And a jacket. A buttoned up jacket.
His gold eyes always heated up when he looked her over, but he was always polite. Demanding as all get out. But polite.
“I'll need that before you go, Leah,” he said after he had dictated yet another letter. Mr. Sarkany seemed to think email was for peons. He liked formal. He liked couriers. He could afford both.
Leah was perfectly aware that she found her arrogant boss a turn on. But she had no intention of letting him know. Her unruly reaction to his masculinity was her own private folly. He didn't need his ego stroked by the realization that just his golden gaze could soak her panties. Besides, even if he had had real interest in dowdy Leah St. George, she knew he was bad news for any woman—let alone a neophyte like her.
“Yes, sir,” Leah responded to his request as formally as he had made it. As if it wasn't past seven p.m.. As if she hadn't been at the office since eight. As if he wasn't mentally undressing her. As if she didn't have three hours of coding waiting at home.
“Did you order that bracelet for Ms. Townshend?” Hugo asked as she rose to return to her desk in his anteroom.
“It's in your left hand top drawer, sir.”
“Thank you,” he said and pulled out the drawer.
The emerald and diamond bracelet was sitting in its flat blue Tiffany box all ready for whatever Sarkany planned. Leah was willing to bet that Tina Townshend was going to be very disappointed later tonight. This was the third piece of jewelry S
arkany had had her select and purchase. After he had given the other women theirs, he had asked her to refuse their calls. Ouch.
Tina Townshend probably thought that because she was the CFO she was Sarkany's equal, and he was courting her. As if. Hugo Sarkany was an old fashioned player. He liked to be around women. He liked to take them out to dinner. He almost certainly was bonking them. He favored the svelte, supermodel type—all ropy-muscled, scrawny hipped, bird legged females with D cup implants, and bee-stung lips. But he wasn't a buyer—he was strictly a test-driver.
Tina might think she was a cut above those other clothes-hangers that Hugo Sarkany was escorting to charity dinners, but Leah suspected that he didn't make any distinction between them. Certainly he had ordered Leah to send exactly the same flowers to all three women, and had gotten her to buy Tina's jewelry at Tiffany's, just as he had done for the other two. Same price point for all three.
Tina might have made it to bed with the boss, but if she had been going for a gold ring, she had failed to grasp it. Sarkany had bought her an expensive kiss-off just as he had the others.
Not that Leah was saintly enough to feel sorry for Tina Townshend. The Chief Financial Officer had been making her life unpleasant from the moment she had realized who was guarding Hugo's palatial office. Her cheeks had sucked in, emphasizing her sharp nose, and she had narrowed her eyes and thinned her mouth at Leah.
“Well, well, if it isn't our little temp, Princess Leia,” she had said, just before asking Leah to do something that would pull her away from her desk while there was someone in the outer office.
Sarkany had a few rules. One of them was that no one was to be alone in his outer office. If she had to leave her desk she was to lock his door and her own. If he was out, she was to be in.
“What about fire?” she had asked rather shocked.
Dragon's Treasure (BBW/Dragon Shifter Romance) (Lords of the Dragon Islands Book 1) Page 2
