Protecting the Boss

by Beverly Long

  “I’ll have a glass of chardonnay,” she said.

  “Water with a twist of lime,” he said.

  When the woman left to get the drinks, she turned to him. “You can have a drink,” she said.

  He shook his head.

  “Do you not drink?” she asked.

  “Not when I’m working.”

  There it was again. Work. “Right.” She offered up a smile as Jasmine walked over, her hand on a man’s arm. She didn’t think she knew him.

  “Hello, Megan.”

  She immediately recognized the accent and knew who he was. Weston Marberry. His firm had negotiated the leases on the Sedona, Albuquerque and Colorado Springs properties and the purchase of the Vegas building. She’d spoken to him several times on the phone and had enjoyed his accent. He’s from Australia, Jasmine had confided after the first call. Her manager had known him since they were in college and had, in fact, recommended his firm for the job.

  “We finally can put a face to it,” she said, extending her hand.

  “And a gorgeous one it is.” He ignored her hand and leaned in to hug her. “No need for formality. I feel as if we’re best buds,” he said.

  He’d pulled her close enough that she could smell alcohol on his breath. And he held her a minute too long. “Of course,” she said, taking half a step back. His firm had done excellent work and to date, he’d always been very professional. “Allow me to introduce you to Seth Pike, an associate of mine. Seth, Weston Marberry. Weston’s firm negotiated our lease arrangements.”

  The two men sized each other up. She wondered what they were thinking. They were both handsome, fit, smart. Successful. Then she thought about Seth, in his underwear, umbrella in hand, flinging the snake across the room. And how fast he’d reacted when their cab was being shot at.

  Advantage, Pike. Definitely.

  “An associate,” Weston said, repeating her introduction. “What is it that you do for North and More Designs?”

  “Security.”

  Weston nodded. Looked thoughtful. “Well, that’s certainly a necessary evil these days.”

  “As are lawyers,” Seth said.

  The air seemed to sizzle with a dangerous energy. She put her hand on Seth’s arm. His head jerked up and she realized that it was the first time that she’d initiated contact. “There’s someone I want you to meet,” she lied. “Weston, we’ll catch up later. So glad that you’re here.”

  When they were five feet away, Seth leaned close. “We weren’t going to come to blows.”

  “Testosterone is a dangerous thing,” she said.

  He smiled. “I think he’s had a few pops tonight.”

  “I think you’re right,” she said. “Hopefully, he’ll find the buffet and get some food in him.”

  “Is there really somebody you want me to meet?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Okay. Then I’m going to find a spot where it’s easier for me to watch the room and the door. Please don’t leave this area without letting me know.”

  “Okay.” He was trying to accommodate her request that he not hover and cause a distraction or a need for a thousand explanations. So why, then, did she feel so alone when he walked away?

  Because she was an idiot.

  Who needed to keep her head in the game. She drew in a deep breath and pasted a smile on her face.

  The next ninety minutes flew by. Even so, by the end of the night, her feet hurt. But now, there were fewer than ten people left in the room. She could leave.

  She looked across the room, at Seth, who’d spent his night on a stool at the far end of the bar, sitting at an angle where he could see the room but still rest a forearm on the solid wood. Every time she’d looked throughout the night, there’d been a clear-colored drink with a wedge of lime in front of him. A casual observer would have thought he was enjoying a nice vodka on the rocks.

  Also, every time she’d looked, he’d acknowledged her with an almost imperceptible nod. I’m watching, it seemed to say. All is well.

  And it had been enough that she’d had a really great time.

  When she got close, she said, “Were you bored to death?”

  He shook his head. “Did pick up a bartending trick or two. I think I may invest in cranberries—lots going on with that juice.”

  “Did you try any of the food?”

  He shook his head. “Wasn’t hungry and it’s hard to react fast if you’ve got a plate of shrimp in one hand and a chocolate-dipped strawberry in the other. Both of which, by the way, looked delicious.”

  “They did, didn’t they?” she said, happy that everything had been just perfect. “But my feet are telling me that it’s been a long day.”

  “You don’t have to turn the lights off?” he asked, insinuating that she needed to stay to the bitter end.

  “Nope. Jasmine and I already discussed that she’d close out the event. I do need to make sure she knows that I’m leaving.” She looked around the room and saw her very talented manager. “I’ll go do that and find the ladies’ room and then we’re out of here.”

  “I’ll meet you by the front door,” he said.

  Jasmine and her husband were chatting with another couple, and Megan, not wanting to intrude, decided to visit the ladies’ room first. On her way out, she ran into Weston Marberry, who was exiting the men’s room. They would have collided. Instead, they both awkwardly veered and he wrapped a hand around her bare arm to steady her. “Careful. Or you’re going to need a good attorney. How’d we keep missing each other all night?”

  His accent was a little more pronounced. “I don’t know,” she said, which was a lie, because she’d very carefully avoided him all night, not wanting to have exactly this moment. Throughout the night, she’d seen cocktail servers bringing him lots of fresh drinks.

  She’d enjoyed her working relationship with the man and didn’t want that to change.

  She pulled her arm away and he let go easily. But then he took a step forward, backing her up against the wall. He was tall enough that when he extended his arm from his shoulder and flattened his hand against the wall, he effectively trapped her in.

  He wasn’t touching her but was definitely in her space. “Great party,” he said.

  “Thank you.” She was rapidly clicking through the best ways to delicately extricate herself when Weston’s body suddenly jerked backward.

  “Hey,” Weston puffed.

  “Hey,” she echoed, her eyes on Seth, who had pulled Weston back and still appeared to have a death grip on the back of Weston’s neck.

  “Everything okay here?” Seth asked. In a second, his eyes traveled from her face down to her toes and back up again.

  “Fine,” she said.

  Seth nodded and let go of Weston, who still looked a little stunned.

  “What the hell?” Weston said.

  Seth said nothing.

  Megan had the feeling that if Weston was waiting for an apology, he was going to need a chair because it might be quite a while before hell froze over. She locked eyes with Seth. “We should go,” she said, pushing away from the wall.

  “Megan?” Weston said.

  “We’ll talk soon,” she said. “Good night.”

  She could see Seth’s body stiffen at the words but he didn’t say anything. She saw Jasmine across the room, waved to get her attention and motioned that she was leaving. Jasmine nodded and smiled in return.

  In minutes, she and Seth were outside and the valet had brought their car around. She got in the driver’s seat and had pulled away from the curb before Seth finally said something.

  “I’m sorry if I interrupted a moment.”

  “There was no moment,” she snapped, irritated that she was now going to have to explain something that she hadn’t initiated or even fully participated in. “He’s drunk.”


  “Would have been a shame if he’d puked on that expensive suit. Is that the guy you want representing your legal interests?”

  “He’s been so professional on the phone. I don’t know what happened tonight. It was...well, really just super awkward,” she admitted. “I guess I’m thankful that you barged in.”

  He turned to look at her. “I do not barge. I stealthfully approach.”

  She smiled. “Is that a word? Stealthfully?”

  “In my world.”

  “Then I stand corrected. No barging, only stealth.” She ran her hand through her hair. “Listen, let’s just forget about it. I need some sleep before tomorrow.”

  “I’ve got the directions to the hotel on my phone,” he said.

  It took them just under fifteen minutes. When they pulled in to the parking lot, she thought they might be out of luck because every space seemed full. But then she spied a spot at the end of a row that would work.

  Inside, she started to pull her credit card but stopped when he put a hand on her arm. “I’ve got this,” he said.

  She closed her purse. Five minutes later, they were on their way to the seventh floor. Like before, he checked her room first and made sure the connecting door was unlocked. “What time do we need to be at the store?” he asked.

  “We open at ten. I’d like to be there by nine thirty.”

  “Running in the morning?” he asked.

  “Yes. Same place as this morning?”

  “Probably not. But I’ll find us a spot.”

  “Are we changing it up for a specific reason?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “I just think that we don’t need to be too predictable.”

  Different hotel. Different running path. He’d probably have her change the location of the boutique if it wasn’t impossible. “Okay. I’ll meet you in the hallway at six thirty. That should give us enough time for a run and a shower before we leave here at nine fifteen.”

  “Got to fit breakfast in, too.”

  She wasn’t going to win this one. “Six, then. Good night.”

  * * *

  When Seth got to his room, he sat on the bed and read through the emails that had come in from Wingman Security. The background checks on Gillian O’Day and Evan Chevalier were in process. So far, the basics had been verified.

  Gillian O’Day had graduated from college six years earlier, with a master’s degree in fashion merchandising. He reread that sentence. If she had an advanced degree, why was she working in an administrative capacity to Megan and Abigail? There could be a number of reasons, he supposed. Maybe she liked the administrative side of the business. It wasn’t a red flag, but perhaps a yellow, and worthy of some follow-up. Evan Chevalier had an undergraduate degree in business management and had joined the investment company that his father worked at as a junior adviser. It reeked of nepotism but certainly wasn’t illegal.

  He clicked out of his mail and dialed Royce’s number. “Hey, Seth,” the man answered. “How’s it going?”

  “I spent my afternoon at a fashion show and my evening at a cocktail party where most of the conversation was about fashion.”

  “Are you still sane?”

  “I’m not confident of that. I can talk to you about washable silk fabrics if you’d like.”

  “Don’t threaten me, Seth,” Royce said.

  “Listen, I appreciate the quick work on the O’Day and the Chevalier backgrounds.”

  “No problem. We split the assignment up. Trey was taking on Gillian O’Day and Rico had Evan Chevalier. They’ll get into the weeds tomorrow. More info to come.” He paused. “Did something happen to initiate these checks?”

  Seth told him about the snake and the person in the hallway. “We have no idea if this is some kind of hoax but I’d really like to understand what this guy’s game is. There’s been some other weird things happening in her life that make it seem as if she might have a stalker.”

  “Does all this have anything to do with the shots fired at the Periwinkle?”

  “It might. We don’t know. I do have another name for a background check. Chloé Dawson. I’ll text you her details tomorrow.”

  “I’ll watch for it. I have to say, Seth, that this assignment is going a little differently than I imagined. I was worried that you’d be bored with boutique life,” he said.

  “I’m not bored. Megan is...” He didn’t want to say too much. Wasn’t ready to yet. “Let’s just say that I want to help her with this.”

  “You sound...fond of her.”

  “There’s plenty of appeal,” he admitted. “You should see her underwear.”

  Royce coughed. “You have?”

  “Extensively,” Seth said. Let him stew on that. “Good night.”

  * * *

  The morning went as planned. Good run. Hot shower. Decent hotel breakfast that they were just finishing up.

  The night had been uneventful. Well, that is, if one discounted the importance of sleep. He’d tossed, turned and ended up watching an old Western on television. Finally, he’d slept.

  He’d awakened before his phone alarm sounded, slipped out of bed and opened the connecting door.

  She’d kicked the covers off sometime during the night. No doubt because her room was too warm. She was on her stomach, with one arm under her pillow, the other thrown above her head. Her nightgown had ridden up in the back, giving him an excellent view of one of the panties that he’d pawed through the day before.

  They looked even better on.

  Her legs and butt were firm from the miles she jogged. And silky smooth. And he couldn’t seem to take his eyes away. But then she’d rolled over.

  Like a turtle retreating back into his shell, but significantly faster, he’d ducked back into his room. She’d have felt real safe if she knew that he was ogling her.

  Now she was pretending to eat a cinnamon roll and a few grapes. “Pretty psyched, huh?” he asked.

  She nodded. “This has been two years in the making. Long before we had the locations, we had the idea. So many meetings,” she said, dragging the word out. “Long meetings. Short meetings. Hallway meetings. Meetings before the meeting. Meetings after the meeting. Virtual meetings.”

  “I get it,” he said.

  “I’m a little freaked out,” she said, her voice soft. “I really, really want this to be successful. So much so that I’m feeling a little sick right now. It might have been easier to simply work for somebody else.”

  He nodded. “Leave the office at five and not take any of the headaches home.”

  She shrugged. “I’ve worked for a couple different companies. I never left at five and many nights, I lost some sleep trying to solve a problem.”

  “Is it the money?”

  “Maybe.” She laughed nervously. “Of course that’s part of it. I mean, we’ve sunk a lot of our personal resources into this and borrowed more. So, yeah. I’d hate to lose that.”

  “But it’s something else,” he said, finishing up his coffee.

  “I’ve been designing clothes under other labels for ten years. This is the first time that it will be my own label. Abigail believes in it. I think I do. I don’t want us both to be wrong.”

  “I doubt you’re wrong,” he said.

  She looked at her hands. “Abigail and I have the resources to do this because of our parents. They were big believers in life insurance.”

  “I suspect they’d be very proud,” he said.

  “I hope so,” she said. “At first, I was reluctant to use the money. But Abigail convinced me that it would make them really happy to know that the money was being used to build a future for both of us.”

  “No pressure, right?” he said. “Look, I know less than nothing about fashion. But based on what I saw at the fashion show yesterday, I think people are really excited about your store. I think you
’re going to be a great success.”

  “I’ve been dreaming about the day that we’d open the North and More Designs boutiques. Of course, I always envisioned that it would be me and Abigail. Definitely hadn’t seen you in the picture.”

  “Your dream is coming true,” he said.

  “Oh, I hope not. Most of the time, my dreams have been terrible. Something is always wrong. Everything from the store has no clothes to the cash registers won’t open to the place is flooded with customers but somehow, someway, we’re not able to help any of them.”

  “Just nerves. You know that’s not really going to happen.”

  “Last night I dreamed that every single customer who tried on an outfit was unable to zip or button said outfit—it didn’t matter what size they tried. On the hanger, the clothes looked as if they’d surely fit. However, once the customer pulled the clothing on, it shrank, to a size appropriate for a toddler.”

  He laughed, then quickly sobered when he saw that she was dead serious. “There’s not much in life that I’m absolutely certain of. But I’m going to go out on a limb and guarantee that nothing similar to that will happen. There may be trouble with zippers and buttons but clothes will not miraculously shrink.”

  “I hope you’re right. Nor spontaneously combust, I hope.”

  “You dreamed that, too?” he asked.

  “Just once.” She pushed her half-eaten cinnamon roll away. “Look, we should be going.”

  “You didn’t eat much.”

  She waved a hand. “I’ll eat later. I’ve got some sandwiches getting delivered to the boutique. Wishful thinking that we won’t have time to get out for lunch.”

  “That’s better—half-full thinking.”

  “Don’t say half anything. One of my dreams was that we unpacked boxes and somehow every piece of clothing got sliced in half.”

  He smiled. “You know what I think your problem is?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “You’re creative. And you just can’t shut it down. Even when you sleep.”

  “What’s the opposite of creative?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Noncreative. Dull.”