by Sage, May
Taking them out of commission had been a matter of one phone call.
After the incident, she could have gone to the hospital or the police; instead, she accepted the private care offered to her by the Grazinskis and consented to keep her mouth shut.
It hadn't been out of generosity, but the side of Victoria's family who lived outside of their polite society had been appreciative all the same.
At the time, she thought she'd never make use of the three favours they pledged to her, yet only a few months in, she'd called for one on behalf of Elaine. Now ten years later, she dialled the number she'd never forgotten and asked to be put through to her friend in low places.
By the following week she was familiar with every contract William Slate had ever signed, every company mentioned in correlation to his, every one of his girlfriends.
That bit had been quite easy to memorise; there had only been one entry. Lucia Fox, a ridiculously drop dead gorgeous model he'd dated over a year ago.
The file she'd put together was twelve pages long. Twelve. Mischa Vetrov, her latest mark, had had a list of known associates about twice as thick. More puzzling yet: there wasn't one person within those twelve pages who stood out as someone who might have had a reason to dislike him. Not one.
The ex-girlfriend had broken up the relationship, the competitors had bought shares in his company, Greenpeace received very large cheques each quarter.
She'd pushed it, convinced she'd managed to find someone, but it was past time for some actual face to face investigation.
Beth brushed and straightened her hair before sliding into a blouse and a teal skirt; the woman looking back at her through her vanity looked exactly like a grown up version of Eliza, but she ran out of the door before convincing herself to change into the pair of jeans laid out on her bed.
There was power in covering up under garbs, but it was nothing compared to what dressing for battle felt like. Instead of hiding, she stared head on at everyone and they looked away. How she hadn't figured that one out before was a complete mystery.
Vick had obviously cracked the code from the very beginning; after the incident, it had astonished her how, instead of becoming an introvert as Beth had, she had seemed to blossom. She’d always been beautiful, but she styled her hair, bought the right clothes , and pretty much became Eliza.
Beth had been stunned. Now, she saw it as yet another proof that the other woman was the smarter of the two.
“Hey,” William greeted her, handing her a vanilla latte with half a sugar.
It had to be conceded: men weren't that bad when they were well-trained.
“Hey back. I'm going to work with you, if that's alright. I'll start by bugging whoever has access to the area where you've kept your prototypes.”
William constantly wore that amiable yet distant expression taught in Politics 101, but they'd frequently interacted this past week; she could now read some things behind his suave persona.
For example, right this second, he wasn't listening to a word she was saying.
“I'm talking to you, William Slate.”
“Dearest, no one gives a damn what's coming out of that mouth when you're half naked.”
That gross exaggeration didn't even warrant an acknowledgement. The high-waisted skirt was shorter than her usual knee-length, but it stopped mid-thigh, and while her top was ever so slightly see-through, she was, for the occasion, wearing a bra.
“I thought I was supposed to be the girlfriend? I can put on a suit, but that would defy the purpose.”
“Right. The purpose,” he mumbled, before getting back on track: “Well, there's myself, Nick, Carla, and Wayne; we are the only one with full access. Nick and Carla are married now and have named me godfather of Diane, who is about six month old,” he said with an amount of pride.
Catching the affection dripping from those words, she bumped them both a peg higher in her list of potential suspects, but told herself to keep any results pointing to the culpability of either to herself until she got solid proofs.
Experience had taught her to always consider the friends.
“Wayne's not very talkative but he's brilliant with his hands.”
“Always good to know.”
Beth regularly found herself under the scrutiny of that look. His eyes grew very dark, intense, bordering on scary. While he hadn't been so helpful as to clarify its meaning, she interpreted it as something along the line of “I'm one sassy remark away from putting you over my knees.”
Intrigued by the current fashion amongst female readers, she'd taken the time to catch up on all the romantic novels starring men of William's sort. She could imagine they'd made use of that very same way of staring down their prey. There was no doubt in her mind that William was one of them: the dark kind who wasn't satisfied with simple, straightforward relationships. He'd want more. He'd want power over her.
The thing was, she wasn't sure she was willing to give the basics, let alone any sort of twisted variation.
Still, she had to admit that she rather like to incite that look.
“Then, if you please, there is Jayne, who is senior in the creative team. She usually takes members of staff of her choosing: anyone, as long as she accompanies them. Occasionally I let Felicity in. She's a PR consultant working for me once a month, unless we approach a launch; I only release three products a year, in September, so I'm not keeping her full time. All of them are under a NDA.”
Watching him fight against his tie despite the restriction his sling imposed was fascinating her; she considered offering her help, but that would have meant standing quite close to him.
Not as close as you were in the shower, when he was butt naked.
It could be different, though. He had been shocked into stillness. Next time, he might not be.
The way to the office was spent in comfortable silence; Jack drove, she read – emails between members of the Slate Inc staff, rather than contemporary novels – and Liam typed away on his word processor. Despite the restraint imposed by the state of his shoulder, the man could have written a book in a week at this speed.
Beth had been at the glass tower half a dozen times, and on each occasion, she'd been given an ostentatious red visitor badge and accompanied to the elevators on the right hand side, leading straight to the upper floors Knight Tech occupied. She hadn't expected that time to be much different.
It was.
The large security guard at the front – who'd previously zeroed in on her, demanding identification before pushing her through a metal detector – looked up from her to William and almost smiled, nodding his welcome and letting them through.
Everything in the lobby was immaculate, from its light bluish-green walls, its chesterfield chairs, to the sophisticated receptionist behind the imposing desk. The welcome she sent their way was professional, a tad flirty, but also very friendly.
The whole scene all but blew her mind. While she'd anticipated the respect, Beth hadn't for one moment thought that William, cold and autocratic as he was, would be liked.
“Fiona,” he acknowledged with a nod.
Beth had guessed that William attached a lot of importance to appearances less than twenty-four hours into their acquaintance, but the office was ridiculous.
None of the seventeen members of staff were overweight; none had a difficult complexion or so much as a crooked tooth. Wayne, the oldest amongst them, in his fifties, bore a certain resemblance to Antonio Banderas. Allure was obviously annotated amongst their required qualifications.
It was also evident that by introducing her as his girlfriend, he'd shattered the hopes and dreams of at least six of the nine women in the room. Studying their expressions as Liam got on with his morning meeting, she found a dose of suspicion, as expected.
“Mike is calling me in half an hour, so Jayne, do you mind taking Beth around?”
Jayne, a voluptuous brunette with come-to-bed amber eyes, did mind, actually, and she made sure Beth knew it as she showed her
each door with a curt introduction, without letting her step in any remotely exciting areas.
“The new designs are kept here. I'm sure you wouldn't find it interesting.”
And they called her a bitch.
•
Men in his position were usually temperamental.
People didn't understand; they only saw the boss shouting at the poor intern, unaware that Mandy's typo had caused the loss of a multi-million dollar contract; that Luke's insert of the wrong figures had resulted in a night stuck at the office, redesigning an entire presentation on Mrs. CEO's birthday.
Liam employed Mandys and Lukes; each and every one amongst his staff had either costed him thousands of dollars or dozen of hours at one time or another.
Yet, he had never so much as raised his voice in their presence.
Today, he was tempted.
There had been the sleepless nights; the pain in his shoulder, only recently starting to fade, was still too acute to find a comfortable position to sleep.
Then, there was Elizabeth. He would have been the very first to admit just how much he loved her teasing, but damn if it wasn't getting to him. That A-line little number today, under the practically transparent white top and that black bra were designed for his tortured.
Guess what, dearest? It works.
While she was in the vicinity, his desire took over, willing him to get closer and closer. He used every excuse in the book to brush her skin, to inhale her bewitching scent, but as soon as he regained his mental capacities, he wanted nothing more than to throw her out of his life.
And now? Now, he had to deal with Mike.
Liam should have known better than to use Dawson and Son to produce his stock, but he had been adamant about dealing with a company based in the country, and building a relationship with another firm able to produce technology like his would have taken years.
Michael Dawson Senior had barely paid attention to his proposal before nodding. Guilt could be a wonderful ally.
Now that the old man had retired, though, each step, each attempt at communication ended in total failure. Junior had a chip the size of Texas on his shoulder.
“The quote doesn't add up at all; the coating is at least three times the price you've come up with.”
Right about now a factory in China sounded delightful. Alternatively, Liam could open his own production subdivision, but he didn't relish in the idea of getting more responsibilities.
As things stood now, he dedicated a quarter of his time to the creative department, doing what he did best: inventing. If the company grew any larger, he'd have to choose the path of least evil between entirely giving up his vocation and hiring another executive.
“Look, Mike,” he said, using the very last shred of patience left in his bones to speak with some appearance of goodwill, “you're the finance guy. Do me a favour and come up with a number, OK? I'll look at it within the hour. I gotta go.”
He knew without a doubt that Mike would rob him blind given half a chance.
But then again, what was family for?
Liam finally cut the line and, in an atypical slip of control, sent the damn phone flying across the room.
It was possible that Mike may not have been the only one with a tiny wee bit of an unresolved problem.
He turned to the window, his one operative hand pushed against the glass, and breathed in and out as slowly as possible, as he did to calm down whenever the chain of his thoughts forced him to think about his childhood.
It had been OK at the time. He hadn't known better.
Coming home to a woman half naked, covered in various body fluids was the norm. The little pills he wasn't allowed to touch, the powder on her nose, the men who lined up to moan and grunt in between her legs were all OK, until the social worker had picked him up from school.
She'd explained quite calmly that Mamma wasn't going to be there anymore – that she’d gone to a place where he couldn’t follow – as she drove to the Dawson's beach house.
Liam had been ten, but after passing the usual tests, they had placed him in the same class as his twelve year old half-brother and the rest was history.
“Nice view.”
Engorged in his internal turmoil, he hadn't heard the click of her heels. As he turned to look down at her, he wondered what the hell he was doing to himself.
He liked her. He desired her. He thought she was different, somehow.
Liam had watched enough movies, played enough games, read enough books to know what would happen next, should they carry on walking this path.
He wouldn't have considered it a possibility if it hadn't been for this – that feeling, the knowledge that now she was here, he could bear it. His messed up past, the shadow of his brother, the target on his back; it would work out, somehow. He was content.
And if he was unlucky, he'd become just as essential to her contentment.
Then someday, they'd argue. He might be upset enough to drive downtown and fuck a whore, who would bring another little William to the screwed up world.
He'd go back to Beth, his tail between his legs, and shamefully apologize before returning to the lovely cloud where they had established residence.
He should end it now. Tell her to stay away from him; hurt her, if it helped.
But just as he opened his mouth, her hand rested on his arm, as she asked what the matter was.
And then, he broke.
He took her mouth gently at first, slowly savouring the lips he hadn't stopped thinking about, barely daring to gently slide the tip of his tongue along hers, but she destroyed every notion of tenderness when she parted her lips and bit down his.
He seized her waistline and instinctively, as if they'd done just that thousands of time before, she jumped up and locked her long legs around his torso, grinding against him, moaning through the dance of their tongues.
His entire body was set alight, burning from the inside. No kiss had ever felt anything like this: sex had often been less... exiting, erotic, memorable. Just less.
Why had no one thought necessary to informed him that his world would end if he ever touched that woman?
Just as he thought of taking this to a more appropriate venue – something softer, less chaotic than his desk – she gasped and pushed against his chest, making her meaning quite clear.
He let go immediately, feeling a flash of physical pain as their bodies parted.
She looked just fucked. At some point during the last ninety seconds, he'd made a mess of the mass of hair framing her face.
“Oh god!” she cried out, a desperate edge to the exclamation.
She could say that again.
“Don't look so shocked, dearest. We're compatible. You must know that.”
If she really hadn't been aware of their chemistry before, surely she knew now? Surely she wanted it. Wanted him.
“What?”
“You and me. We're compatible, sexually.”
He could think of little else. Having that body coming undone under his as he repetitively thrust inside was as essential as his next breath.
“You must be joking,” she spat. “Granted, you're a good kisser. Kissing is one thing women enjoy. The rest? The rest is all for you. There is no such thing as sexual compatibility.”
He stared at her lips, trying to understand what the hell they were spilling out. It didn't make sense; not coming from an intelligent woman in her twenties. They were the words of a little girl. I don't like boys, they have cooties! Women enjoyed sex just as much as any guy and she knew it.
She must know it.
A short knock at his door suspended the conversation and he wasn't sorry for it.
This, whatever game she was playing, was the last thing he needed.
“Come in.”
•
In the past, she'd been proud of the way she'd turned out – relatively normal. She'd even been a bit condescending toward Victoria and her PTSD, but from the new turn of event it was evident that Beth ha
d nothing to beam about.
Yes, her life was good. She was financially secure, had perfected many accomplishments, and had a job some dreamt about, but was she satisfied with it?
She'd thought she was, as her definition of contentment had been avoiding any of the issues directly linked to the incident. If she hadn't been suspended after breaking her handsy supervisor's arm, she wouldn't even be seeing her shrink.
Hell, she called it the incident.
“It wasn't an incident,” she told Annabel. “That sounds like a traffic jam on the way to work. What it had been was a kidnapping followed by a gang rape.”
There, she'd said it. Strangely, she didn't feel any of the emotions she'd feared; panic, terror. There was some humiliation, a certain dose of anger, but also relief.
It was out now. No need to tread carefully around the edges.
“They used Victoria's hair, and her hands... but it's me they violated. Victoria was the rich kid whose family they wanted to get to. I was collateral damage.”
“Yet, Victoria and you are very close now. Have you ever blamed her for it?”
“Of course not. I blame the driver they corrupted, the mob they belonged to, and the four monsters who made me.”
“Made you?”
“As I am now. Beth. It sounds like I have a split personality, but I really don't; Eliza, who had wanted to become a translator for romance novels or a teacher, live in a big house with a dog, a cat, a husband, and two kids, who'd designed her cream and gold wedding dress as a project in tenth grade, is completely gone.”
“Is she, though? Do pardon me for breaking the rules, but Vick had mentioned that you were in a teacher preparation program?”
“I enrolled two months before the incident; afterwards, it felt like something to do. When I was given an alternative career path, I jumped at the opportunity.”
“Fine, then. But you still translate novels in your spare time.”
Before taking on William's case, it had been her only occupation in the city, and while she had enjoyed it at sixteen, she now found it utterly boring. She told her just that.
