BUSINESS CASUAL: AN INK & BRAZEN WOMEN NOVELLA

by Leigh, Cassie

  “Your name isn’t proper.” Ciaran opened his mouth to speak but the old man was on a roll now. “That Irish woman your father insisted on marrying had to be different. Had to show you belonged to her.”

  “My mother’s name was Maureen.”

  “Irrelevant—she was too proud to let you be Jamison Rand III. Son, promise you’ll leave those Irish ones alone. If this Fitch girl doesn’t work out, get yourself a stalwart English girl or German. The German girls are good stock.”

  “Who I date is not your prerogative, Grandfather.” Ciaran balled his fists up. It was all he could do not to say how he really felt—he’d avoid marriage or anything more than casual until he was free to marry the way he wanted—until he earned the keys to the kingdom.

  To be clear, Ciaran agreed with the actions his father took. Ciaran may not be able to make the same choice and walk away himself, but he respected his father all the more for having done it, for having made his own way in the world without the money and influence from the Rand family fortune. Jamison Rand Junior started a company from nothing with a young wife and child. He succeeded alone. As far as Ciaran was concerned, it was his father who proved his rightful place as CFO and future CEO—not Ciaran. He lived in that shadow every day and kept his silence.

  “Yes—well. I can’t wait forever.” The hall clock struck the hour. “That’s enough for one day. I’ve had your assistant put the dinner meeting on your schedule. He’ll brief you of the details.”

  Yes—and his assistant already cancelled those plans at Ciaran’s standing orders. A fact he was sure to hear about later.

  The chair feet dragged across the floor, a deeper version of nails on a chalkboard. Just like that, the matter closed. Jamison stood tossing his napkin on his plate while Ciaran himself stood fixed in the same position staring at the now empty seat. He blinked and rolled his shoulders back as he straightened. This was not the old man’s first casual reminder that he expected Ciaran to marry advantageously—something Ciaran’s father failed to do when he married Ciaran’s mother heavily pregnant with another man’s child—his brother Hamish.

  For all his grandfather’s fine family ideals, he didn’t have an ounce of familial feeling. This was not poison teaching from his mother, as Jamison would have people believe. His mother—God rest her—had never uttered a cross word regarding her father-in-law, no matter what he might be persuaded. Ciaran didn’t need her to tell him what he could see for himself. It made him glad that his father insisted Ciaran keep the possible purchase of the vacant factory and their plans for renovation to themselves. The senior member of their splintered clan would have been in no mood to hear it, just as Ciaran’s mood to deal with it had soured.

  Another lonely weekend wasted and ruined by work. All he could do was hope for a better Monday.

  Parking in a new city is not a valid excuse for being late. After widening her circle for the fifth time, Briar finally found a parking ramp with an opening, but so far away from her destination, she might as well have walked to work. She focused on the metronome click of her heels on pavement, matching it to her breathing as she hurried down the sidewalk. Heels—another thing slowing her down. In another life, she had comfortable track shoes and allowed her feet to do the rest. If she could do that now, she didn’t need tennis shoes. She’d make it.

  “Fuck it. They’ll never know.”

  Briar stopped moving. Reaching out, she braced the tips of her fingers on the brick exterior of the random building she’d been hurrying past and kicked off the black slingback torture devices. She scooped them up, cradling them between her leather portfolio case, the blazer slung over her arm and her sleeveless black silk blouse. Sighing in relief, she wiggled her stocking clad toes against the warm pavement. At least in September it was still safe to do this…no one was looking down anyway. She spared a glance at the oversized men’s watch strapped to her petite wrist and winced.

  Definitely go time.

  Even at this early hour, the sun beating down on the pavement made each step feel like running on hot coals. The stretches of shade created by the towering buildings lining the street felt like heaven in comparison as she weaved through others making their own Monday morning trek. It became a game of darting from one shaded oasis to another. In patchier areas, it reminded her of skipping stones across a creek bed—a distraction to make the blocks fly by.

  This job dropped in her lap. One lucky break in the shit storm that had carried away the house of cards that had been her life. Briar failed at being perfect in so many ways and lost everyone because of it, until Ann and Gigi opened this door for her. That’s why she’d do much more than race down the sidewalk in her stalking feet—like she was now—to keep this job and earn the reset button her friends had given her. Allowing the rhythm of her pounding footsteps to take over like the second skin it had been back in her college days was a relief—pencil skirt be damned.

  Racing the clock or another athlete was all the same to Briar. It fed her soul. Just what she needed on the first day if she was going to survive this and the struggles coming. For today, her finish line would be the shining glass building up ahead, like a towering beacon glowing for her in the morning light.

  Briar skidded to a halt just a handful of steps from the gold lettered doors with a quarter hour to spare. Dropping the shoes on the sidewalk in front of her, she righted them with a pointed toe, slipped into their leather prison, and continued moving, albeit at a more appropriate pace. Pushing the door open, she remembered the blazer she’d carried due to the heat—crap. She brought the damn thing to cover her ink and combat the air-conditioned nightmare plaguing most office buildings. Was it so hard to pick a temperature below furnace and above refrigerator?

  She started with her inked arm, sliding it in the sleeve while still clutching her leather portfolio case and planner to her chest. Better to hide the elaborate demon half-sleeve tattoo on her left arm and shoulder. She loved the still healing ink that Declan hooked her up with. It represented the evil weighing down the first half of her life. It wasn’t her first ink but it was her best to date. Beautiful but not office appropriate, at least not until she scoped out the natives and checked the dress code policy.

  Sliding her other arm into the blazer proved more of a challenge while still moving. She shifted her belongings to her now covered arm and reached back with the still bare arm to stick her hand in the sleeve. She ended up moving in a circle, like a dog chasing her tale. That’s when she lost her grip and her portfolio slid out of her grasp and scattered across the marble tile floor.

  Briar glanced up at the reception desk. A young blonde woman stood up behind the imposing mahogany desk with its wide granite counter. Her French manicured nails covered her mouth to hide the girly giggle and snort that would have been more at home coming from a 10-year-old girl. The smile in her eyes gave the receptionist away. Briar gave her a weak smile, straightened, and finished putting on her jacket—nothing out of the ordinary here. Just a twenty-something former collegiate star losing her shit.

  Taking a deep steadying breath, she knelt down and began scooping her papers toward her and stacking them to put back in the leather folder. When she reached for one paper that had straggled further than the others, she heard it. The sound of fabric giving under the stress of her antics was not terribly different from the sound of torn paper. The strain of her run through downtown and the added ice cream inches—don’t judge, divorce is hard—meant her skirt couldn’t handle even a little more pressure.

  Closing her eyes, she reached back and felt along the slit in her pencil skirt. Yep—she extended it by another three very indecent inches. Now, she had ten minutes to report in and correct a serious wardrobe malfunction.

  A noise caught somewhere between a surprised gasp and a strangled cough occurred behind her, a distinctly masculine pitch to the sound. Her spine straightened and she resumed the collection of her papers as if she wasn’t aware of all the eyes watching her humiliation—epic failure of a go
od impression.

  There was another cough; this time more like the man behind her was clearing his throat purposely to get her attention. “Do you need help, ma’am? You look a little...out of sorts.”

  Briar glanced up and did a double take. His blue eyes glowed with his amusement but they were damn fine eyes to go with that strong smooth jawline and neatly combed back hair. Metrosexual wasn’t the word for what this man was. No, he was an altogether different kind of animal. Those sharp eyes were predatory, giving her the impression that he’d be just as at home leading a team onto a football field for victory as he would brokering a deal in the boardroom. As if that wasn’t enough to melt the panties on the coldest ice queen, he rocked a crisp white shirt and skinny black tie with a gray suit that likely cost more than her car. He could have been an extra on Mad Men. If she wasn’t still technically married, he could bend her over anywhere he wanted her—not that her soon-to-be ex-husband deserved her fidelity.

  Silence was not her friend in this situation if she planned to save any face. “I dropped my portfolio. Afraid I’m running late.” Her cheeks burned in what had to be a furious shade of red on her otherwise pale complexion.

  He knelt down beside her. The heat of having him so near her, reaching past her to gather the last of her things, burned through the jacket that had caused the whole mess. Handsome and chivalrous. Then he leaned over and ruined it all with a handful of whispered words. “You might want to do something about your skirt too. I believe you’re out of dress code.”

  Instantly she went from fire to ice, although her cheeks were now likely stained purple from her level of embarrassment. She glared at the floor—anywhere really but the gorgeous man who choose now to point out her accident as if she’d already done something wrong. Didn’t he know it wasn’t polite to point it out?

  They both stood, and he held out the last of her papers, neatly aligned. His hand slid over hers in the exchange—and unnecessary. Still, it thawed a little of the ice from his words. He probably thought he was being helpful or flirty. He looked too perfect. The nameless hot executive had to have some kind of flaw. Maybe his was overstating the obvious or an inability to talk to women. She should cut him some slack because that simple touch felt more purposeful than casual. It caressed her somewhere other than her hand and a long forgotten thrill coursing through her—the most action she’d seen in months.

  He rested his hand over hers for a moment and continued in that same overly intimate whisper, “The ladies’ room is just past the elevators.”

  Briar kept her eyes cast down, mumbling out her thanks. How had her life come to this? Turned on by a stranger pointing out where the damn bathrooms are located because of a wardrobe debacle—one that had officially made her late to work for the first time in her adult life.

  She backed away a few steps, letting her eyes casually slide up, figuring she’d at least get a retreating view of him. Instead, he stood there watching her rather than move on with his day. That look in his eyes—crap, just how much of her had he gotten to see when her skirt tore? She tossed him a weak smile and turned racing the direction he’d indicated with as much dignity as she could muster into a confident strut as if nothing had happened and prayed she was only showing a little leg. She couldn’t bring herself to slink away as though she were ashamed of her own body. Her honed athletic machine had taken her all the way to the Olympic tryouts before her knee had given out. Although she didn’t look again, she’d swear on a stack of whatever holy books you handed her that his eyes had watched her the whole way.

  * * *

  Ciaran Rand was one lucky bastard.

  Reason number one: executive privilege—he had walls that he was now safely behind and a solid wood door with no viewing window. After the scene in the lobby, he needed them to hide the raging hard-on the leggy vixen had just given him. Every other office in this building had glass walls or was a cubical. As the CFO second only to his grandfather, who hadn’t been to the office in over a year, he had privacy. Not enough that he’d beat off in his office. Oh no—she would be his new favorite fantasy tonight—but enough privacy that he could get himself under control before his assistant dropped in to brief him on his day. Jack would be here any minute. That should have been enough to put the beast back in the cage. It wasn’t.

  Reason number two: the Death Before Decaf coffee shop. Ciaran reclined in the leather chair and sipped from the steaming cup he brought back with him, hoping the burn of scalding liquid might get him under control. That was why he’d been down in the lobby. He’d run out to the coffee shop across the street. As usual, he’d been in the office hours before anyone else and needed the extra shot of expresso to jump-start the second half of his morning. The swill he made if forced to use the machine here would kill somebody. No thanks—he’d pay for the good stuff. A man had to have priorities. Which led him back to her.

  Reason number three: the spectacle of the skirt incident had been no less than a gift from god. An opportunity. Had he not been running across the street for his java fix, he might have missed the whole fiasco. He might have missed his chance to hear the sultry honey of her voice when she answered him. He could have said anything to her. He should have asked her name. But what did he do? Self-possessed chump that he was, called her out on dress code like a sanctimonious asshole.

  What he needed to do was find her and get a second chance. Not knowing who she was made that an issue. If she came for a meeting, he could have Jack find out. They had security footage. Ciaran drummed his fingers against his thigh. No—he wasn’t going to do any of those things. He wasn’t a stalker. He was the future of this company. Plans were in motion that were far bigger than him. He would not abuse his power to have a woman in his bed even if the very idea of her tight legs wrapped around his head still had him hard as a rock under the desk.

  Ciaran moved the mouse on his desktop to wake it up and the instant message box from Jack popped up immediately.

  Jack: Ready for your morning briefing? Or are you still waiting on your crack-juice to return your soul.

  Fingers flying across the keys, he typed up the response but hesitated. He still needed to get himself under control before spending time with another human being. He gave up and let the message go.

  Ciaran: You’re just as addicted. Let’s get this over with. Your cup is getting cold.

  Just having someone in his office would probably be enough to take care of the control issue. If it didn’t, he was behind a damn desk.

  Two sharp knocks cracked against the door before it swung open. Jack marched in, eyes glued to his tablet. Man couldn’t carry a notebook like a normal person. He saw it as an inefficient waste of effort. The tablet allowed him to update the calendar or anything else in real-time for both of them. These morning briefings were also inefficient for the same reasons. Ciaran tried pointing out that it was redundant since he was more than capable of reading his own calendar of appointments. This quirk was particular to Jack, but whatever. Ciaran’s day ran smoothly and a man couldn’t ask for much more in his position. Jack was a godsend.

  Of course a new HR director would be too if she ever got here. Ciaran hadn’t met her yet. Jack hired her while Ciaran had been out of state speaking to stockholders in the Chicago office. This was one of many duties that he had taken over for his grandfather without actually being handed the reigns of CEO.

  “What do I need to know for today, Jack?”

  His assistant leaned across the desk to snatch up his coffee and marched across the office to drop onto the ridiculous chesterfield that lined one wall of his office. Jack casually rested his ankle on his left knee and sipped from his coffee as he continued to focus on the hand held device that seemed to be his life. “You have the morning blocked off for the new HR director. When Briar Goodall makes it, I’ll have IT get her set up and I’ll bring her back. Then lunch followed by a teleconference. Last but not least, your grandfather’s secretary sent over a dinner meeting with Monica Fitch.”


  “Christ really? Cancel that one and send the usually apology note and flowers. Clearly, I’ll need to have another one of those conversations with the old man. This is not a fucking episode of The Bachelor—and if you find out he signed me up for that show again, I swear to Christ…”

  A strangled feminine laugh cut through Ciaran’s rant. Ciaran looked up and blinked slowly at an illusion of epic nightmare proportions. Was he so starved for a woman in his bed that his mind turned on him? Because not ten feet from his desk, standing in his own goddamned door stood reason number four that he was a lucky bastard. The woman he wanted didn’t need to be found. She found him.

  Her eyes were round and luminous, a crystalline gray, and they bored into him unblinking as though she felt the same shock—an echo of what rolled through him. On her, it looked more like a rabbit caught in a snare. She shifted on her feet as if fighting the urge to flee. An irrational part of him wanted to see her run again. It had been so unexpectedly beautiful the first time.

  “Ah—Ms. Goodall. So glad you found us.” Jack waved her in with the hand holding his tablet.

  Oh holy fuck. He was wrong. So wrong. He was not a lucky bastard at all.

  “I’m sorry I’m late.” That same sexy melody.

  Ciaran stared blankly too tongue-tied to say anything. He was never coming out from behind this desk if he had this reaction just to her voice. Jack gave him a sidelong glance with one raised questioning brow before he finally responded. “Yes, well you called ahead and you found us. No harm.” Jack looked to Ciaran. “Briar Goodall, your new HR director. Brair, this is Ciaran Rand. You’ll be reporting to him.”

  She shook her head slightly and stepped forward hand extended. Ciaran took it, her slim warm fingers sliding into his hand, her grip firm as their eyes met. What kind of a man did it make him that he immediately pictured her grip on another part of his anatomy. He needed to pull it together before the situation spun any further out of his control.