Saving the CEO

by Jenny Holiday

  Whoever this guy was, his eyes did not match the fake smile he was currently deploying.

  When she heard Jack’s voice from down the hallway she was initially relieved. That is, until she realized he was on the phone, reaming out someone about something to do with the Ontario Municipal Board and zoning variances. This anger, this intensity—she suddenly understood his insistence that he was devoted to his business above everything else.

  “Perhaps you’re on the wrong floor,” Mr. Fake Smile said, making her realize that she’d been standing there like an idiot, transfixed by the sound of Jack’s yelling.

  “I, um—”

  “Carl.” Jack’s voice—thank God, he must have heard them—from around the corner. “Carl, this is Cassidy,” he said as he emerged into the dim reception area.

  Jack was wearing a brown blazer over a cream-colored sweater that was probably some kind of expensive cashmere thing, and a pair of jeans. And hoo-boy, those jeans. Though they weren’t overly tight, they fit him like a glove. Just like in her apartment the other night, there was something about seeing Mr. CEO bazillionaire in jeans that made her face heat up. She hoped he didn’t notice her blush when he leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. A quick peck, the restrained gesture could have meant anything from “Hi, Mom, nice to see you,” to “Hi, hottie, we can get it on as soon as this asshole leaves.”

  Jack set his hand on her lower back. “Cassidy, this is Carl Larsen, my chief financial officer.” Jack was all wound up. She could tell from his touch. It was aggressive—not like he was pushing her toward Carl, more like he didn’t realize how clenched his hand was.

  Disgust bloomed in her gut as Carl looked her over, eyebrows raised slightly. Okay, that was it. Carl officially sucked. Carl was the enemy. He was messing with Jack, and in exchange, she was going to make sure that Jack got this Wexler deal done. Which meant Carl could know nothing about what she was really doing here.

  So she stuck out her boobs and her hand at the same time. “I’ve heard soooo much about you, Carl, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Cassidy.” He extended his hand and she placed hers limply in his, the kind of weak girlie handshake she’d always abhorred. “Cute name,” he said, shooting a look at Jack. “Working on the weekend?”

  Jack’s fingers pressed into Cassie’s back. “Can’t have my CFO being the only one burning the midnight oil. Or the Saturday oil.”

  Cassie wanted to growl at Carl, but she was in character. So she giggled. Simpered. Operation Get Rid of Carl was on, and she was its head cheerleader. “Jack says he’s going to show me the view,” she purred.

  “Yes,” said Jack, picking up her cue. “The Saturday view. The view where it’s quiet. The view where there’s no one around.”

  If she’d been lukewarm before about the morality of this whole charade, any qualms went out the door when she saw the big, beautiful office. Here was this place that Jack had built, and Carl was secretly and systematically chipping away at it. It wasn’t right. She was going to do everything in her power to help Jack get the Wexler deal done so he could get on with firing Carl.

  “Got it,” said Carl. “I’m just about finished here—Britney has a hockey game.”

  “These must be the quarterfinals?” Jack asked. His hand was still at Cassie’s back, and he started tapping his thumb there, too, probably an unconscious gesture.

  Carl flashed a proud smile. “My daughter,” he said to Cassie. Darn it—she didn’t need Carl humanizing himself now that she was so mad at him. “Yeah, quarterfinals,” he said to Jack. “Fingers crossed.”

  “Well, best of luck,” said Jack.

  Cassie aimed a zillion kilowatt fake smile at Carl and trilled, “Break a leg!” Then she turned to Jack. “You probably shouldn’t say that about sports, should you?”

  He smiled and bent down to whisper in her ear, “You are magnificent.” A spike of pleasure transformed her smile into a genuine one as Carl retreated into his office.

  “Let me take your coat,” said Jack.

  She handed it over and tried not to fidget while his eyes slithered down her body. She was never going to be the kind of woman who could wear a suit and not feel like a kid playing dress up, so she had tried to find something that was not a suit but was still conservative enough that she looked like she might actually be the senior executive director of finance at Winter Enterprises. Well, conservative, but not too conservative. So she’d settled on a scarlet sheath dress. The neckline was modest, but the dress hugged her curves. She tempered the outrageous color with a fitted black blazer and matte black tights. Then there were the do-me pumps. Okay, so maybe the getup wasn’t conservative at all, aside from the fact that her boobs were not hanging out. Jack was taking his time getting his eyes back up to, well, eye level, which suggested that perhaps she had miscalculated, hadn’t struck the “I’m a serious corporate lady, but I’m not a drone” note she’d been aiming for.

  The look in his eyes when they finally met hers made her stop caring.

  That look made her brave. She let a slow smile blossom. “I tried to dress the part.”

  “Cassie, if you came to work looking like that, no one would get a fucking thing done all day.”

  A frisson of triumph spiked up her spine. Jack Winter wanted her. He wasn’t even trying to hide it. When he’d made that little speech about avoiding relationships with his employees, she’d been worried she’d done something to turn him off. But she saw now that whatever else they had going on—a joint commitment to the Wexler deal, their shared distaste for Carl—it was all underlain by a river of wild attraction. Lust. However much they tiptoed around it, whatever rules they made, it would always be there, just under the surface. The idea was intoxicating, made her feel a little reckless. “What?” She played dumb. “I am showing exactly zero skin.”

  He cocked his head, as if he were a judge considering an argument in court.

  “If you had a dress code, I’m sure this would adhere to it,” she added. A little tipsy on this new feeling of power, she peeled off the blazer and threw it on one of the chairs in the waiting area. “Shall we go to your office?” She started sashaying in the direction from which he’d come. If she let her hips sway a little more than was strictly natural, well, what was the harm?

  When she reached the main reception desk, he was suddenly very deep into her personal space. He surrounded her from behind, and she felt his erection pressing against her bottom. One hand reached around—almost as if he were hugging her—and he pressed her blazer against her stomach. “You little tart,” he rasped in her ear. “If you don’t put this back on, I’m going to have to bend you over this desk right now.”

  Breathing shallowly, trying not to cross the line into panting, she let the blazer fall to the floor.

  Then he was gone. He’d only stepped back a few feet, but she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out. The disappointment was visceral, and she shivered as his warm presence receded.

  “And that is not happening,” he said.

  She wanted to shake her fist at the sky. It wasn’t like they were going to date each other. He didn’t do relationships—message received. So what did it matter if they fooled around a little while they worked? As she’d told Danny, she got it now. And now that she got it, she wanted to get it. “You and your rules,” she muttered.

  “The Wexler deal is too important, Cassie. I’ve seen deals fall apart—I’ve seen companies fall apart—when people let things get too personal.”

  Well, that stung. But so be it. He wanted her, but apparently not enough to do anything about it. She shoved aside the ding to her pride and summoned another of her fake-bright smiles. “All right, let’s get started. Can I get a tour first? This is a lovely space.”

  “Sure.” Jack led her down one of the two corridors that split off from the reception area, turning on lights as he went. The floors were hardwood, which seemed incongruent for an office, and the walls were painted a pale sky-blue. It was all very elega
nt, but comfortably so.

  “Huh,” she mused as he led her into a kitchen that was tricked out with stainless steel appliances and a cappuccino machine.

  “What?”

  “It’s not very…officey.”

  “Well, that’s the point, I guess. We spend a lot of time here.”

  “We?” she prompted. The place was smaller than she’d imagined. But then, she’d pretty much imagined the Bat Cave—cavernous, masculine, dark. Maybe he saved that aesthetic for his house. She’d seen half a dozen private offices on this side of the suite, and beyond the kitchen looked to be an open area filled with a few dozen large cubicles, but since the space was surrounded by windows on two sides, they lacked that stifling feeling that usually came with cubicles.

  “Yeah, the kitchen especially is the hangout spot. There are two other companies on this floor—a software company and an advertising agency—and everyone always seems to end up here.”

  “I can see why.”

  When they crossed back through reception to the other side, there were fewer, larger offices. He pointed at the first one. “My EA.”

  “You have an executive assistant?” She couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice. But of course he did. He was a scion of industry. What did she think? He booked his own meetings? Made his own lunch reservations? If her surprise was unreasonable, so was the irrational stab of jealousy in her gut at the idea of some hot girl—for she would be hot—knowing the ins and outs of Jack’s life. “What’s her name?” she asked casually.

  He looked like he was trying not to smile. “Seth.”

  “Oh.” She sped on to the next, slightly larger office.

  “Carl,” he said.

  “Okay! Moving on.” She stopped at the last office before the corridor made a turn.

  “This is Amy. Her title is VP, but she’s really my real estate person. She’s in Mexico right now.”

  Oh, so this would be the hot girl. “Christmas getaway—nice,” Cassie said, pointedly asking no further questions about Amy.

  “Nope, work. We’re working on our first project outside Canada and the US. I’m in the early stages of construction of a resort near Tulum. An eco sort of thing. Zip-lining, hiking—and of course the ocean. Hey! Why are you wrinkling your nose?”

  “I’m sure it will be great. I just don’t get the idea of going on vacation in order to like, exert yourself. If I ever went on vacation, I would lie around reading trashy novels and napping all day.”

  He laughed. “It’s for people who don’t work as hard as we do. Personally, I’m with you.”

  It was her turn to giggle. The sight of him stretched out in a beach cabana reading a bodice ripper was too funny—he looked like he should be on the cover of one. “I thought the company would be bigger,” she said, running her fingers over the dark, polished wood of Amy’s door.

  “We’re pretty lean, actually. We work hard. Most of my employees have been with me for a long time, and they feel some ownership, I think. They’re loyal.” She didn’t miss the flash of hurt in his eyes before he recovered. “Or so I thought. Anyway, the point is we get a lot done pretty efficiently.”

  “And, wow, you get it done in style. These are some mighty fine digs,” she said, wanting to take his mind off his troubles, even if only for a moment.

  “Thanks.” He pointed around the corner. “And there’s me.”

  She led the way. And then she stopped in her tracks, letting loose a low whistle as the door opened onto his office.

  Two of the walls were windows, and he had a breathtaking view of the towers of the financial district on one side and the blue expanse of Lake Ontario on the other.

  “It is kind of nice, isn’t it?” He looked like a little kid showing her something he’d made.

  Turning her attention to the office itself, she did a slow rotation, taking in the massive antique mahogany desk, a sitting area furnished with a decadent looking sofa and a pair of armchairs upholstered in a lush, vibrant orange. It looked like a masculine version of her apartment. Except for the fact that… “My whole apartment would fit in here two times over,” she declared.

  “Yep,” he agreed cheerfully, but not unkindly. “And there’s an elevator,” he teased.

  She sighed, walking toward one of the window-walls for a moment to compose herself. It was like being Cinderella at the ball, she felt so out of her element. Except no, she told herself. All Cinderella had going for her was the prospect of hitching her wagon to some dude. Cassie, on the other hand, had been hired to do a job. A fifty thousand dollar job.

  She turned. “Let’s get to work.”

  …

  Jack watched Cassie take in the view. She was a brilliant blot of scarlet against the gray buildings and white sky of the December afternoon. Damn. Was he a complete idiot? Jack had rules, yes, but he was not generally in the habit of rebuffing the advances of scorchingly hot women.

  She was right, technically. There was nothing inappropriate about the dress—she was covered from neck to toe. And yet…

  In fact, he thought, trying to compose himself, it looked not unlike something Amy would wear. The difference was the stylish vice-president of Winter Enterprises would have worn the dress in black or gray. Not this ridiculous blazing scarlet.

  For the first time in a long time, Jack was facing a situation he honestly didn’t know how to play. Part of him—including the part of him currently straining against the fly of his jeans—wanted nothing more than to rewind, go back, and make good on his threat to bend her over the reception desk. But he’d already been intimate with her, and he tried to keep a cap on the number of encounters he had with any single woman. He was serious about not doing relationships. Dead serious. They distracted him from what was important—work. Limiting himself to one-night stands was a defense mechanism he consciously and cheerfully deployed. He had a lot to protect. Not a heart, no—at least not that kind of heart—but a man didn’t build a company from nothing into the powerhouse that was Winter Enterprises without subjecting himself to a little discipline.

  So the fact that he was contemplating another round with Cassie was, frankly, a little concerning. As his eyes slid over those wicked red curves, a thought dawned. In one sense, he hadn’t actually been with Cassie at all. He’d left their first kiss with the worst case of blue balls in the history of the universe, and at their second encounter, he’d spent himself in the snow like an untried boy.

  She turned from the window with a spark in her eyes that seemed to simultaneously ignite in his chest. If he could just be inside her once—bend the rules a little—then maybe he could get this all-consuming lust under control enough to get some damned work done.

  “Let’s get to work,” she said.

  Well, so much for that idea.

  The mischief was gone from her eyes, replaced with a look of pure determination. If she had sleeves, she’d be rolling them up right now. “I want to see your books. And please tell me everything isn’t password protected on Carl’s computer.”

  “I may be an idiot when it comes to numbers, but I’m not that stupid. Crossing to his desk, he powered up his MacBook, silently ordering himself to get it together.

  “You’re not an idiot,” she said.

  Instead of answering, he picked up a remote control and aimed it at the built-in cabinetry. A door retracted to reveal a flat screen TV.

  “Fancy!” exclaimed Cassie.

  “Where do you want to start?” he asked, opening some documents on his computer. “How about the current quarter’s balance sheet?” With a few keystrokes he had the document up on the screen.

  “Still fancy!” Cassie laughed.

  He shrugged. “It’s just Bluetooth.”

  She performed an exaggerated shrug in return. “I guess I’m a cheap date.” But then she crossed her arms, narrowed her eyes, and gazed up at the screen. For a minute the only thing that moved in the room were her eyeballs. He could practically see the gears turning in her head.

 
; “Okay. What will Wexler expect me to know? I guess maybe the best thing is to just keep going back in time, so I can get a sense of the company’s recent history?”

  Silently, he projected another file onto the screen. Another jumble of numbers. He was accustomed to not “getting” numbers. When he was alone like this, or with someone he trusted—and somehow Cassie, whom he’d known for all of four days, fell into that category—they didn’t send him into a panic. He didn’t fully process what he saw, but since no one was expecting him to, it didn’t really matter.

  She turned. “What is it like, seeing all this?”

  Had she read his mind? “You mean with the dyscalculia?”

  “Yeah. Is it like looking at another language?” Then she added, “But only answer if you want to. It’s none of my business.”

  “It’s a little like another language. But it’s not that I can’t identify numbers.” He pointed to a cell on the spreadsheet. “I know a seven when I see it.” He pointed to another number, one in red. “Or a negative one hundred grand—that’s bad, right?” She whipped her eyes to his, adorably gullible. He grinned. “I know that’s bad—I’m just teasing. I know the numbers; I just can’t put them together very well. I can’t do anything with them.” He cocked his head. No one had ever asked him to explain before. His father had tried to beat it out of him, but never once had anyone asked what it felt like. “It’s kind of like this,” he said, an analogy crystallizing itself in his mind. “If I taught you to say something in Japanese, you could learn how to say it. Like, Tamago kudasai.”

  “You do not speak Japanese!” she exclaimed.

  “I do, a little, but that’s not the point. Tamago kudasai. Say it.”

  “Taman…” She crunched up her nose, and he instructed himself not to lean over and lick it.

  He helped her again, and she mastered the foreign phrase.

  “What does it mean?”

  “Eggs, please.”

  She laughed in incredulous delight. “What?”

  “My point is, you could learn how to say it. I could teach you the context in which you should say it. Every time a waiter came to your table at breakfast, you could say it, and the waiter would bring you eggs, the expected outcome. But that doesn’t mean you know what you’re saying. For all you know, you could be asking for watermelon. Or a telephone. You just have to trust, to go through the motions, and assume that what’s happening is what’s supposed to happen.”