Ice Cold Boss (A Paradise Shores Standalone Book 2)

by Olivia Hayle

  “You have a few weeks to work on it.”

  “Yes. Take care, son.”

  “You too,” I say, uselessly, because he’s already hung up.

  His way or the highway—nothing else mattered. If it wasn’t done according to his business practices, it was obviously wrong. Him offering me a cut of this project was symbolic; I know it as clearly as he did. He was finally offering me recognition.

  But the Chicago project is wrong. I feel it in my bones, and I suspect going up there to see won’t change my mind at all.

  I’m in a terrible mood when the car finally stops outside a large brick building in Brooklyn, tapping my fingers against the leather seat in irritation. The last thing I want to do is spend the evening with acquaintances and strangers, pretending to enjoy their inane small talk.

  I write a quick text. Car outside.

  I’ve just pressed send when the door opens, and Faye gets in beside me. “I was waiting downstairs,” she explains, smoothing down the wrinkles in her dress. “So we wouldn’t be late.”

  No woman I’ve picked up for a date in New York has ever done that. And not a single one of them looked like her. I tear my eyes away and nod to the driver. “We’re ready.”

  She looks like a mixture of her work-self and her date-self, and more stunning than ever. Her hair is pinned back from her face, most of it falling down her shoulders and back, waves of shimmering, silky-soft blackness.

  Her dress is dark gold. Even sitting down, I can see that it follows her shape, clinging to every curve in a way that’s going to test my already nonexistent patience.

  Part of me misses her office look, with the work mask on, the nondescript knee-length pencil skirts and suit jackets. It was easier to deny my pointless attraction to her then.

  Faye clears her throat softly. “Is everything all right?”

  Damn. I’m so out of sorts—from the phone call, from her—that I haven’t even greeted her yet. I make an effort to soften my voice. “Yes. Thank you for agreeing to this tonight.”

  “Anything for the firm,” she says smoothly. “I’ve run through the guest list and memorized about ten different ice-breakers.”

  Some of the tension drains from my shoulders. “Tell me.”

  She clears her throat dramatically. “Here it goes. ‘Have you ever thought about why there’s a D in fridge, but not in refrigerator?’”

  “That is awful.”

  “Yep,” she says cheerfully. “I found a website listing thirty of these.”

  “Were they all this Shakespearean?”

  “Some were actually good,” she says, voice thoughtful. “I liked this one: ‘Let me just begin by saying that we have something in common. You don’t know what I’m going to say next, and quite frankly, neither do I.’”

  I shake my head and lean forward. “Pete? Pull over here. Miss Alvarez is getting out.”

  “What! No!”

  Pete laughs—confirming my suspicion that he always listens to the conversations I have in the car—and keeps driving. Faye laughs too, and I realize how rarely I’ve heard that sound. “All right, all right. I won’t use those two, then.”

  “Thanks,” I say dryly, but I’m amused. Tonight might not be so bad after all.

  The gala is held in one of New York’s less-famous museums, overlooking Central Park. It’s a beautiful building, usually filled with schoolchildren and tourists. Tonight, there’s a red carpet rolled out and tons of people—organizers, photographers, security. The Founders’ Gala is usually quite small, and always for charity, but things like this attract people like flies, drawn to the appearance of glamour. Pete stops the car in front of the building.

  “Miss Alvarez…” I say, turning to face her fully. Her lashes are long, sweeping up as she meets my gaze. “There is a risk that Elliot Ferris is here tonight.”

  Her eyes blaze with determination. “I know. I saw him on the guest list.”

  The subtext is clear. I can handle it. I nod and reach for the door. “Here we go, then.”

  Faye climbs out after me, straightening in a flow of black hair and golden fabric. I offer her my arm, and she threads hers through mine effortlessly—like we’ve walked this way thousands of times. Like we belong together. Two halves of a couple. I glance down at her, but she’s staring straight ahead, a faint smile on her lips.

  I’ve escorted dozens of women to events in this manner—why would the feeling of her body moving next to mine feel different? And yet, it does.

  We stop for an obligatory photograph before I move us along and into the museum. Posing for the camera is something I have never enjoyed. Leave that to the people who enjoy celebrity.

  The museum is one of New York’s most cherished buildings, and it never fails to impress. The enormous marble foyer and the many gallery rooms make for an excellent gala venue. At the moment, though, it’s silk, taffeta and cravats, as far as the eye can see. The sound of conversation and laughter mingles with the music from a string quartet.

  I glance down at Faye again. She’s uncharacteristically quiet, taking in our surroundings.

  “Something to drink?” I gesture for a waiter. He presents a tray of flutes, the small bubbles dancing inside the golden liquid.

  Faye accepts one, and I take another. “Thank you.”

  On the first sip, I can tell it’s not particularly good champagne. It’s acidic on the tongue and far too carbonated.

  Faye looks amused. “You’re frowning. Not up to your standards?”

  It’s slightly unsettling that she can read me so easily. The honest truth is no. I spent many summers in France with my mother’s family, and that had included a trip or two to the region of Champagne.

  “I’m afraid to answer,” I say, “and have you accuse me of elitism again.”

  She shakes her head, but her eyes are alight with amusement. “It would be unwise of me to do that here, where your connections are needed.”

  “Indeed.”

  “And where I’d prefer it if you didn’t throw me to the wolves.”

  I snort. “Very wise.”

  We make our way into the southern gallery. There are familiar faces here; the regulars at these events rarely change. They live like butterflies, flitting from one function to another, as if putting on evening gloves was a profession in and of itself.

  A man with a bushy mustache stops us with the effortless smile of a seasoned mingler. “Henry? It’s been what, a year? Two?”

  “Jack! How have you been?”

  “Oh, you know. Too much wine and too many divorces,” he jokes, laughing at his own outrageousness. “I’m on my third one now.”

  “So I heard,” I say.

  “I know Henry’s father very well,” Jack says to Faye, eyes glittering conspiratorially. “One of the finest men on the Eastern seaboard.”

  One of the richest, I want to correct, not finest. But in these circles the words are usually synonymous.

  Faye unleashes her winning smile. “How lovely to meet a family friend,” she says kindly. “Did you know Henry growing up?”

  I shoot her a warning glance—what kind of topic is that?—but she ignores me. Jack nods, drawn in by her megawatt smile. I can’t blame the man for his weakness. I share the same one.

  “Oh, yes. I’ve heard lots of stories from Michael. Met you a few times too, growing up, didn’t I?” He nods at me. “Tall, lanky, always fiddling about on the ocean. A fine boy who grew up to be a fine man.”

  I refuse to look at Faye and the amusement undoubtedly on her features. “Sounds like me,” I say instead. “Jack, this is Faye Alvarez.”

  Faye shakes Jack’s hand. His eyes are glittering as he takes her in—the man never met a pretty face he didn’t like.

  “You’ve done well for yourself, Henry. Women like this don’t grow on trees.”

  It’s meant as a compliment, and still, I feel Faye’s arm stiffen where it touches mine. I remember her cover letter—how she hated being judged only for her appearance, be it h
er beauty or her Hispanic features, the dark hair and olive skin.

  Her face is still the picture of pleasantness.

  “You’re right,” I say. “She’s an exceptionally talented architect.”

  Jack’s eyebrows rise. “Is that so? How fascinating—how amazing!”

  I can hear what he’s not saying. How surprising.

  “Indeed.”

  “Mark my words, son, hold on to her. If I’d found women with brains, I wouldn’t have had to go through so many divorces.”

  He laughs at his own joke. I excuse us, moving along through the gallery and into the next. An elaborate ice sculpture rests on the middle of a table filled with hors d’oeuvres. There’s silence between us, and I’m afraid she’s offended. That this was too much.

  “Come to think of it,” I say, “I was never too fond of old Uncle Jack.”

  Faye chuckles, the tension released. “I can’t for the life of me imagine why.”

  The next hour passes by with unbearable dullness. We discuss the weather—unusually warm for the season—and exchange summer plans with people I have no interest in meeting again. I find out that Mr. Damien Glover, who is on the board for the Opera Project, loves tennis and that his favorite opera is L’Elisir d’Amore.

  “Donizetti was a master of the comedic,” I say. “Lucrezia Borgia is a given favorite.”

  His eyes lit up.

  But I learn nothing more of interest, and he’s soon whisked away by equally hungry minglers. And while I wanted to make a good impression, there is no getting around the fact that the jury will be judging projects based on merit—not name. I could be their favorite person in the world and it still wouldn’t matter.

  Somewhere over the past hour, Faye branched out on her own, both of us working opposite areas of the room. I look for her in the crowd.

  It’s not hard to spot her. The gold dress hugs every part of her, the silk clinging to her shape in a way that manages to be both tasteful and alluring. The contrast with her dark hair, waves spilling down her back, makes her easy to pick out.

  She’s talking to a group of people—three or four of them—and all are listening to her. Her back is turned to me, but it’s not hard to imagine what her face looks like. Animated, enthusiastic, her effortless smile in place and dark eyes alight with intelligence, her hands moving. Interacting with people seems to come easily to her in a way it never has for me.

  She’s smart as a whip and too good-looking by half.

  If she wasn’t my assistant, I would ask her out. It’s an unwelcome realization, but I don’t lie, and especially not to myself.

  Doesn’t matter now regardless. Her talent and work ethic are too important to me, and to the firm, not to mention to Faye herself. Whatever attraction I feel is not only unnecessary, but risky as hell. It’s mine to deal with on my own.

  I take a sip of the champagne—still too acidic—and watch as she brushes her hair back. Secluded in this corner of the gallery, it’s all too easy to escape notice for a few minutes, to avoid the well-wishers and sycophants and expectations.

  A familiar voice breaks my peaceful solitude. “Hello, Henry. It’s been a long time.”

  Damn. I should’ve known she’d be here. Avery, who I’d ended things with months ago. Who had been upset with me when I told her I didn’t see a future for us—despite having been upfront about that from the start.

  Her hair is piled up high and she has a martini glass in hand. I don’t know how she managed to get a martini in this place ridden with poor champagne, but she’d always had a knack for getting her way.

  “Hello, Avery. How are you?”

  She sweeps kohl-rimmed eyes over me. “Excellent. I wintered in Aspen and spent most of the spring in Costa Rica.”

  “How thrilling.”

  “Yes,” she says coolly. “My family’s charity. You remember, I’m sure. Your memory was always flawless.”

  “I do, yes.” Just like I remembered how angry she’d been after I’d corrected her—after she told me that I had strung her along—and I could remind her of all the times I’d made the casual nature of our relationship clear.

  “I’m here with Oscar Lang,” she says airily. “I’ve been dating him for nearly five months now.”

  The name rings a faint bell. A Wall Street-type, I think. “Congratulations.”

  “He has a place in the Hamptons. We’ll probably summer there.”

  “You always did enjoy it there.”

  Her eyes flash, like she thinks I’m insulting her when I’m just stating a fact. I try to think back to fun conversations between us, to jokes and teasing, but I can’t remember any. Our entire relationship had been based on politeness.

  “So, Henry,” she drawls, “tell me. Who’s the lucky woman in your life? Or are there several? I know you’re not the type to commit.”

  Not to you. The thought comes unbidden.

  “I am not—” An arm threads through mine and I look down to see Faye smiling up at me.

  “There you are! I lost you, and now I’ve interrupted you. I’m sorry, Henry.” She nods a hello to Avery. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Faye.”

  Avery shakes her hand, animosity clear in her cold, impassive features. “Avery.”

  “A pleasure.”

  “Likewise. So this is your date? Or girlfriend, even?” She turns a patronizing smile on Faye. “Be careful with this one, honey. He’s not the committing type. You might be in for a bit of heartbreak.”

  Faye smiles back sweetly. “I’m not afraid. Henry has been nothing but a gentleman since we first met.” She turns those dark eyes up at me, pressing closer against my side. Playing the part effortlessly. “Should I be?”

  “Afraid? No.”

  She giggles, a sound I’ve never heard from her before, and turns sharp eyes on Avery. “He really is something special, isn’t he?”

  “You could say that,” Avery says smoothly, “if you enjoy a life of schedule and routine. Oh, don’t look sullen, Henry. Surely she already knows you’re not one for spontaneity.”

  Faye’s fingers dig into my arm, but her voice is cool. “We’ll just have to agree to disagree on that one. A man can be as organized as he likes, as long as he’s as good in bed as Henry. But I don’t need to mention that to you, of course.”

  What? I have to bite my lip to keep from grinning. It’s beyond inappropriate, and judging from Avery’s bulging eyes, she has no idea what to respond. Beaten at her own game.

  “Yes. Well. I think I’ll leave you to it, then.” She stops a few feet away, turning back like she wants to add something, but thinks better of it and strides away. Her high heels click against the marble as she disappears into the crowd.

  Faye immediately drops my arm. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes are filled with apprehension. “God. Was that too much? That last part…”

  I can’t help it—I burst out laughing. This woman is insane, and spirited, and a fighter if I’ve ever seen one.

  Her face softens. “She called me honey, and I saw red. I couldn’t let her win.”

  “You certainly didn’t. Faye, can you accompany me to all these events? They’d never be dull again.”

  “So I’m entertainment now, huh? I thought I was here to work.” Her smile still in place, she nods at where Avery ran off. “An old ex?”

  “Yes.”

  “I take it it didn’t end well.”

  “Not particularly, no. She was more invested than I was.”

  Faye nods. “I didn’t mean to upset her. But then she basically called you boring…”

  “She’s not upset, her pride is just wounded. Don’t worry about it.” I certainly wouldn’t. Never had a woman defended me like that before.

  Faye sighs and turns so that we’re side to side, watching the crowd mingle. “So, are you enjoying yourself?”

  “Tremendously,” I say dryly. “Can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be.”

  She snorts. “I don’t think I can talk to another stranger.”<
br />
  “Well, you make it look easy.” No one watching her work that floor would think anything else. Faye looks down, her long lashes sweeping over her cheeks. She’s wearing more makeup tonight than usual, I think. Her lips look luscious—deep red and full. It would be so easy to tip her head back and taste them.

  I tear my gaze away and out over the crowd. I want to make her smile again—to laugh in earnest. “What do you think? These are the type of people you dragged in your cover letter, you know.”

  Faye’s eyes widen. “Thanks for the reminder.”

  “Some of them rightly so, as well.”

  “You think?”

  “Yes,” I say, enjoying her surprise. “I wonder what other stereotypes we can find in here… Hmm. See at that couple, over there?” I nod discreetly at a bickering couple in the opposite corner. The wife is dressed up to the nines, her face partially taut in the way that indicates too much Botox. Her husband is looking at her as she scolds away.

  “Yes?”

  “He’s sleeping with the au-pair, and she with the pool boy.”

  Faye’s lips curve into a wicked smile. “That’s a terrible assumption.”

  “I know. Maybe they’re only arguing whether it’s acceptable to name their new dog Tripp the III, or if it would upset Tripp Junior.”

  She laughs, amusement dancing in her eyes. “That guy over there has a house in the Hamptons, mortgaged to the brim, but considers it an investment in his brand.”

  “The woman in the corner? Brown hair? She devotes her life to philanthropy, but if you’d actually investigate, over half of the donations go to her beauty treatments.”

  “Mmm,” Faye murmurs. “And the people at the main table have all bribed Ivy League colleges to get their children with average grades and crashed cars admission.”

  “Not bribed, Miss. Alvarez. Generously donated.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Of course. Forgive me and my rash, uncivilized tongue.”

  “I’ll take it under consideration.”

  Her smile softens again—something different from the megawatt one she can turn on and off at will. There’s genuine amusement in her eyes.