"Like…like what?" I whispered.
"Like a lost puppy. Dammit, I need your help and this project would have been on track if it weren't for you. You broke it, you fix it." All business now, he settled in the solid, wooden chair and pulled out the blue report folder I had assembled for him over two weeks ago.
"Can I get you something to drink?" I asked. I didn't stutter this time, and realizing that increased my confidence. I even flashed him a little smile.
"No. Last time you got me coffee it didn't go so well. I'll go get my own. Reread what you wrote while I'm gone." He left and I hefted the proposal, making myself familiar with the very real publicity problems of BW&B, LLC.
There was a long line of people cutting out for lunch a bit too early, and while Rinaldi waited for his dose of caffeine and warm comfort, I rolled his name on my tongue for a while. Good thing he had been standing in for Shiffer that day, or we’d have never met. Rinaldi and Shiffer...
Rinaldi and Shiffer.
It rang a bell, somehow.
I woke up my Mac and signed in on the coffee shop's Wi-Fi. Several keystrokes later, their names were entered in my Google search window, and I didn’t have to wait too long before the results began to pour in. The sheer number of them was overwhelming. I raised my eyebrows, seeing my new client’s name mentioned in CNN reports and Wall Street Journal articles.
The derivatives scandal? No way – that just can't be...
Suddenly, the corporate name of Black, White, and Blue, Limited Liability Corporation, or LLC, made a lot of sense. No erudite client worth his or her salt would deal with the former partners of the now-defunct Provoid Brothers, whose Mr. Emil Provoid was currently an honored guest of the state penitentiary and whose Kevin Toussey escaped a jail sentence only due to his sudden disability, which included blindness.
I Googled the "Secretary of State" website and looked up Black, White and Blue, LLC. The corporate shell of my newest client was owned by Louis Shiffer, Rick Blanchard and Rafael Rinaldi. All were former high-level employees of the now-defunct Provoid Brothers, a company that had managed to lose billions of dollars and totally annihilate the retirement savings of tens of thousands of their clients, including their own employees.
My back detected a heat source; a head dropped next to mine, looking at the screen.
"Spying on me, are you?"
His voice resonated deep in his chest and I suppressed a shiver, steeling myself to not move and not click my browser window shut.
"You know, I'd like to live in a world where nobody questions the chicken's motive for crossing the road," I sighed.
He moved across the round table from me, setting his black coffee down. I detected the scent of caramel syrup hanging in the air. "So… now you know why we need help with publicity."
"Yep." That was rather obvious. Provoid was screwed, and good riddance, but the others…they'd lost everything.
"So you're starting over?" I asked, tilting my head, flicking the long hair out of my face with a habitual, annoyed toss of my head.
"Yeah." He looked away from me and into his cup, his voice low.
"Does everyone from the old company work for the new one?"
He grimaced. "No. Just the three of us and a few of our former assistants. I don't know how much you remember 'bout that case, but there are some guys we won't have back anyway."
"Blaine Kirby?" I crooked my eyebrow at him, his doorman's name rolling off my tongue.
"Hmmm…not suitable to our current business environment. We're doing this clean. From scratch. It's been going okay, obviously people in the field know who we are, but they appreciate the effort at a fresh start. You don't make profit without planning out your growth, though. I liked your proposal enough to come back."
I sipped my iced coffee, thinking hard.
"I promised Wilson I wouldn't poach his clients."
Rinaldi leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. His eyes edged away slightly, focused on a distant point. Was that a hint of blush on his cheekbones?
"Thanks to you, Pearson, I can't show my face in Wilson's office anymore. You totally screwed me over that day." His statement pushed my defensive button and I could feel my stubborn chin jut out as I snapped back.
"Wilson doesn't care what you do. He fired my butt, not yours."
"What did you tell him, anyway?" He asked, kind of apprehensive to visit the issue but unable to reign in his curiosity.
"But boss…I'm in love."
My ears reddened at the recollection. "I believe you have no need to know that," I answered, all prim and proper. No need to unveil the extent of my infatuation.
HE DRANK some coffee and set the tall cup on the table. "Okay, Pearson. This is the deal. You know we lost everything and had to start from scratch. You know I can't work with Gomez, and approaching your former boss is just a bit too embarrassing. So this is what's gonna happen: you'll do the work for free. That way you won't be poaching Wilson's potential clients."
"Free?" I squeaked.
"Free." He grinned.
"Or else?" I asked. He exuded an aura with a dangerous edge to it; his grin and his unwavering, fathomless gaze suggested that with a guy like him, there often was an "or else".
"You, young lady, have a strange hobby some people might be interested in," he drawled.
“You’re just such an asshole,” I said with a sigh and shook my head with incredulous disbelief. “You know I got fired, you played your little part in it, and now you’re extorting me to work for your company for free?”
“It is customary not to call one’s client bad names.” His voice might have been stern, but the thinly veiled tug at the corner of his mouth didn’t escape my attention, and a song of hope rose in my heart.
“Since you are not paying, you don’t count as a real client,” I said, lowering my eyes in a coy way that expressed all the regret I could muster. “However…”
One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi…
Good ten seconds replied before he broke the silence.
“However, what?”
"What's in it for me?" I asked, meeting his eyes straight on, my confidence rising. "There is free, and then there is free, you know."
He measured me with a calculating look. "What would you suggest, Pearson?"
I suppressed a smile and counted to ten once again, slowly. Let him think I’m thinking hard, undecided.
"I want access to your clients. Many of them will need advertising services, too."
"Your services, or your special skills?" He frowned.
"One of my rules is this. There must be at least three degree of separation between me and my mark. That is, if we know the same people, or know people who know the same people as we do, they're off limits." I straightened and gave him my best straight-up look. "I broke that rule with you."
"And surely you regret it terribly," he snarled, voice dripping with sarcasm.
A smile crept to my face, one I just couldn't hold back. "Actually, no. Had I not broken a slew of my own rules that night, I'd have never met you." Only my catlike reflexes saved my laptop from certain doom as I saw him jerk up in stunned disbelief and spill his hot, caramel-laden coffee all over the table.
THE SPILLED coffee had been cleaned up long ago and we were still totally focused, our third round of coffee barely touched, safely stationed on the window ledge next to us. My butt hurt from the way my hips were constrained by my tight skirt. I was stuck on the hard, wooden chair but I dismissed the physical discomfort and trained my eyes at the screen once more. Rinaldi checked off another edit on the blue-bound hard copy.
"Now about the educational seminars – you wanted to tailor the presentation to your audience, right?" My fingers were flying, inserting sentences, marking changes.
"Yeah. Small businesses investing their profit – that would be those hotel functions. Then, private investors – Blanchard wanted to teach those at a local community college." Rick Blanchard was one of the original colleague
s; his ideas were a bit wild, but I felt potential in that direction.
"How about an investment club?"
He shook his head, the slicked-back chestnut hair slipping down the side of his neck.
"No, too long-term. I need a teaser. Educate them, get to know them, but a shorter lead time."
"Okay." I made my corrections and glanced at the paper next to me; he'd made it bleed red ink.
It occurred to me that he was easy to work with. Doing all this work for free was a penance of sorts; I owed him something, anyway, and if he shared his leads with me, maybe I could do a few seminars on advertising for small businesses –
"Grrraahwrrr!"
My cell phone had an orgasm in my pocket. By now I was so used to the sound, it brought a slight smile to my face instead of the former acute embarrassment. I saved the document and reached for my phone. "Sorry…let's see if I need to answer –"
"Grraahwrrr!"
It was Vicki. "I'll call her back later."
Raf Rinaldi towered over me. He caught my wrist and as I stood up, I noticed the faintest, most adorable flush of embarrassment making its way up his neck.
"Let's take care of that ring tone right now, shall we?" He pried my cell phone out of my hand and started to browse through my settings.
"No wait, wait…Wait! Don't delete anything!" I was alarmed to hear the tinge of panic in my voice, and I stood up to assert myself. He did, after all, take my phone.
"Why not?"
"I like it." The words tumbled out of my mouth unchecked and I turned a brilliant red as though tropical sun was beating down on my face.
Blue eyes the color of clean-swept tropical sky flickered in my direction; he paused, noting my flustered state. "It's embarrassing." His voice was muted by a dry swallow.
"It's from a nature video. You know, big cats." I felt myself flounder in search for a feasible story. "Really big cats. I love 'em… and besides, if you erase it I'll just install it again."
He fought hard not to let a grin shine through.
"You're dragging me through hell, Pearson. Here, done. All gone. You get a traditional ring tone, like an old phone."
"Like in Matrix?"
"Suuure, Matrix. And I added my cell number." He handed me my phone back. "I want you to follow these notes and redo that proposal, and I want you to deliver it to me, in person, as soon as it's finished. I'll be home tonight and I want you to call before you come in. Understood?"
I leaned back a bit, savoring the view: he was tall and handsome with his broad shoulders and narrow hips, and even though he tried to maintain a fierce glowering expression there was an undercurrent of boyish vulnerability, and part of me just lit up at the sight. I had never found his type interesting before but to my surprise, he looked so hot when he was all bossy like that. Something must have shown in my eyes.
"Stop that," he barked, his voice a restrained hiss, the azure eyes sliding away from my face. "I'm serious. This project is…" He met my innocent, light brown eyes again, and sighed. "I just want you to act normal when you come in."
"Oh yes. Yes, of course. Don't worry, I will."
I PICKED UP some take-out Chinese food for dinner on my way home. My back hurt from the hard chairs and I felt jittery from the extra caffeine. Once Rinaldi wasn't distracting me by breathing right next to me and almost down my neck, and once I stripped out of the tight business clothes and slipped into a pair of yoga pants and a camisole, I got most of the project outlined the way he wanted it. I took a break, taking my time to shower and eat and do another edit on the document, making sure the spell check and the editor wasn't flagging any stupid mistakes. I even recalculated the numbers again, just to make sure. A hot shower refreshed my stiff muscles, food nourished both body and soul, and my document was printed out and back in its blue presentation folder.
But damn, did I ever feel sore after sitting for so long. I'd been busting my butt and for what? I was being blackmailed into doing my best work ever for free, by a man who wanted me to "act normal".
Booorrring!
I yawned and stretched my hamstrings.
I frowned.
The thought of being planted in his chair, still once again and waiting for his verdict on my work, well…it didn't sit well with me.
What's normal, anyway?
Normal for me, or normal for his secretary?
I snorted at the thought of his current executive assistant, no doubt a fine young woman of exceeding capability, normalcy and breeding, rappelling down his building, hoping to enter his bedroom window. That sure wouldn't be normal for her, would it?
No.
I shouldn't.
I really, really shouldn't do this.
Yet it was just too funny, hilarious even, and I had always been pretty bad when it came to laughing at my own jokes. I changed into my black cargo pants and a long-sleeve UnderArmor shirt. Once I laced my black, soft-soled climbing shoes on, I slipped the completed report into my backpack and set out on foot. This time, I didn't have to worry about being spotted. This time, I was invited to use the front door, and I didn't even have to cover my lush, honey blonde hair. In fact, a glimpse in the mirror revealed I looked like a stunt double for the Cat Woman, and that thought alone made me grin and wiggle with delight.
"I just want you to act normal when you come in."
Sure, Mr. Rinaldi.
BLAINE KIRBY, former director of Provoid Brother's collection's department, was manning the front desk, his lanky figure slouched in a too-small rotating chair as he read his book. He paid no heed to the security monitors before him.
"Hey, what'cha readin' this time?" I asked him, my voice conversational.
He straightened right up when he saw me, his eyes widening in surprise.
"You again?"
"Yep. Same customer."
He picked up the phone, not sparing me another glance. "It's the front desk…yeah…this chick's here…?" He cocked an eyebrow at me.
"Evelyn Pearson," I said. He scowled into the set, his voice biting and sarcastic.
"Evelyn Pearson, she says her name's this time around. She says she's here to see you." He frowned into the phone, nodded, and hung up.
"Sign in here," he said. "Oh, and I'm reading 'War and Peace'".
"Really?" I asked, shocked. "How is it?"
"The translation sucks," he groaned. "I can tell where the syntax is all wrong. Everybody's depressed because of those long Russian winters, and everybody's bitchin' 'bout it. I may just skip ahead and read the ending first."
"Okay," I said. I've never even picked up a Russian book so I really had no opinion, although if you asked me about the latest issue of the Locksmith Catalogue, I could tell you exactly what new, pick-proof series of locks and bolts Schloss was selling at the time. Admittedly, that's because I probably already bought one and took it apart for practice. From the look on Blaine’s face, it must have been a lot harder to take apart "War and Peace".
I took the elevator all the way up and stepped out on the roof. The air hung thick with moisture after the storm that had swept through earlier and the surface felt a bit slick. The darkness was thin, diluted by the streetlights below as I rubbed my foot against the edge of the parapet, reevaluating my plan. A bit riskier, perhaps, but I recalled the look of thrill on Rinaldi's face as he watched me climb up to the roof last time around, and I knew I wanted to see that dizzying expression again. The rope was damp but not slick, and that did it. Instead of using my harness, I wrapped the thick rope around my waist and through my legs and back, self-harnessing with my own climbing line just because I’ve always thought it was a pretty slick trick, and looked sleek to boot. Once again I leaned my back straight out above the street. A damp rope won't slip through the loops of the harness as fast, so the rate of descent is a lot easier to control than with a dry line.
It started to rain halfway down.
My grippy, rubber soles stuck to the wet stone just fine and I was grateful to be able to hold onto all that ornam
ented masonry, because without it I'd be swinging by the side of the building like a pendulum. A gust of wind forced me to bend my knees and wait for the air currents to settle; my rope was digging into my legs right behind my butt cheeks, almost too close to where it didn't belong.
I felt like an idiot, not wearing a harness because I thought it didn’t look as sexy. Then again, I’ve been acting exactly according to Rinaldi’s instructions: I acted normal.
Normal for me, that is.
‘Normal’, after all, isn't what everybody else does. ‘Normal’ is what you do most of the time, and most of the time I didn't use his front door.
THE PARAPET of his bedroom window couldn't have come fast enough. I dropped down onto it, my body settling into a gentle crouch and the sticky rubber of my shoes gripping the wet stone for all it was worth. I grabbed both ends of the rope with my left while I extricated my phone out of the right cargo pocket. I found his number and pressed the green button.
"Yeah." There was a hint of impatience in his voice.
"Evelyn Pearson here. Would you care to open up for me? My hands are full."
"Took you long enough," he groused. Another light went on somewhere within the dimly lit apartment and I heard him open the door.
"Where the hell are you, Pearson?" He bellowed so loud, I almost dropped my phone to the sidewalk deep below.
"On your window ledge. Where else?" My casual tone was getting harder and harder to pull off with sheets of rain driving right into my back.
"You crazy bitch! You've gotta be kiddin' me!" I peered through the rain-slicked window as a small lamp clicked on, illuminating the pristine surface of his armoire. Its light was soft and yellow.
Intimate.
I shivered, and it wasn't just because of the rain and the wind.
A SHADOW of a figure approached my perch; a long arm thrust the sheer curtains aside. I stood up straight, hip cocked just a bit, pretending for all I was worth to be just leaning against a wall somewhere.
I saw his eyes run over my wet, dark figure and widen. Grinning, I put my phone back inside my sodden pocket.
I Need A Bad Boy: A Collection of Bad Boy Romances Page 14
