The Neanderthal Box Set: A Workplace Romance, 2020 Revised and Expanded Edition

by Reid, Penny

  I pressed my lips together to keep from smiling. Steven had the uncanny ability to both compliment and insult while making both sound like a discussion about tax law.

  “Do you want me to defend my decision?” I tried my sandwich—found it delicious, took a substantial bite—then sipped my champagne.

  “No. You don’t need to defend anything to me. I’m one of your biggest fans. I just want to make sure you know why you’re marrying him. Because, to me, you’re special; you deserve the best.”

  We exchanged a silent smile while our server placed a layered tray of delectable petit fours, scones, and related accoutrements on the circular table then scurried off with a promise of tea. Steven poured more champagne into my glass then refilled his.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Now then, why are you marrying him?”

  I glanced over Steven’s shoulder to the garden beyond, searched for the right words, and thought of viruses.

  “You know how a virus works?” I refocused my attention to his and watched as Steven’s chewing slowed, his eyes narrowed and clouded with confusion.

  “Uh…for purposes of this conversation, let’s say no.”

  “Well, in layman terms, the long and short of it is as follows.” I sipped my champagne, placed it on the table, then leaned forward. “A virus attaches to a host cell and sends genetic instructions into the host cell. The instructions recruit the host cell’s enzymes—like propaganda—and convince the enzymes to make parts for new virus particles. The new virus particles assemble and break free from the host cell. Then the whole thing starts all over again. That’s how the virus spreads until it just takes over.”

  “O-o-o-kay.” Steven placed a scone on his plate and cut it open before applying liberal amounts of clotted cream. “Your point is?”

  “My relationship with Quinn is the virus.”

  Steven frowned at his scone then at me. “That sounds unhealthy.”

  “Yes, in some ways it most likely is. And, for some relationships, it most definitely is. But it’s not for us, not really. Every relationship is like a virus—where two people negotiate and change, stretch and grow, recruit and assimilate until you’re two things, but also one thing, one entity, working together.”

  “So, are you the virus or the host cell?”

  “The relationship is the virus, and both Quinn and I, separately, are the host cells. The key is to find a relationship, a virus, that encourages you to be stronger, a better person, but also be able to show weakness without fear of exploitation—a relationship that challenges you, but also makes you happy and lifts you up.”

  Steven’s expression hovered between incredulous and amused. “Don’t some viruses cause cancer?”

  “Yes.” I nodded, ceding the point, and began thinking through the ramifications of the expanded analogy out loud. “And some viruses irrevocably change your DNA. But that’s like a relationship too, isn’t it? Some relationships can change how we see ourselves for better or for worse—as you say, in chronically unhealthy ways, like a cancer. And some do the opposite. They make us realize our potential.”

  “Huh,” came his thoughtful response. He studied me for a protracted moment before saying, “I love you, Janie. Only you can compare a relationship to a disease and make it sound both romantic and terminal.”

  Chapter Six

  For the first time in my life, I was wearing a ball gown.

  It itched.

  However, it had also elicited a prolonged, heated stare from my fiancé—likely because it was strapless and necessitated a likewise strapless bustier with a pushup bra. My breasts were distracting even to me, especially when I drew in a deep breath. They kept popping up in my peripheral vision, and I caught myself staring down at my chest wondering who they belonged to.

  Given Quinn’s preoccupation with them in general, I imagined that to him, my squeezed-in pushed-up breasts were like two pale mounds of hypnotizing flesh.

  I’d spent most of the day shopping for necessary undergarments for the gown since I had nothing even close to appropriate. Quinn, to my total shock and surprise, cleared his schedule so that he could come with me. While we were out, he’d also made a point to have me try on, model, and purchase a good amount of bridal lingerie.

  I was pleased to see he was taking the wedding planning seriously.

  The ball gown was a deep burgundy silk and sequined with dark red and black beadwork. It was fitted through the lower waist then flared dramatically to the floor. It also had a quantity of black feathers—a modest gather at one side of the waist that increased in width and spread down the right side of the skirt like a fan.

  I didn’t choose the gown. It was sent to Quinn by the foundation hosting the ball after we RSVPed for the event. I didn’t discover until later that, along with the RSVP, his secretary—Betty—had sent in a recent picture of me along with my measurements.

  All the women in attendance had been instructed to wear the provided dresses, which would be auctioned for the sake of the charity.

  Under any other circumstances, beautiful as it was, I never would have worn it. Cleavage issues aside, I didn’t know where to put my arms. If they hung down loosely at my sides, the beads of the bodice scratched the sensitive underside of my biceps. If I crossed them over my chest, my boobs went from mountainous to volcanic.

  I tried putting my hands on my hips, which worked for a short time, but it wasn’t a long-term solution because it made me look like a stern peahen teacher.

  I was debating all of this when Dan and Steven arrived. Of course, Steven took one look at me and the awkward no-man’s-land placement of my arms and made an obvious suggestion.

  “Why don’t you wear opera gloves?” He said.

  A call to the concierge, and fifteen minutes (of me holding my arms away from my body) later, and we were on our way—with opera gloves.

  Yet again, Quinn was Sir McCoolpants Von No Touchy in the limo. I surmised that this time it had more to do with the two other people riding with us than preoccupation on his part. In fact, I was quite thankful for Dan and Steven’s presence; limo rides with McHotpants were notorious for throwing carefully applied makeup into a blender of disorder.

  One time I walked into a fancy restaurant and my face was clown-town appropriate.

  We arrived at the venue, and I quickly decided that the charity event, which I hadn’t actually given much thought to until two hours before it was time to leave, was really just an excuse for rich people to get dressed up.

  I came to this conclusion after asking Quinn, Dan, Steven, three random ladies, and two older gentlemen what the name of the charity was—and no one knew. Furthermore, no one knew what the charity supported, even in general terms.

  Once we were inside the event space, I modified my theory. Rich people go to charity events to get dressed up, glare at people they don’t know, and pretend to have a good time.

  The space was magnificent—a gigantic ballroom with a wide, domed stage; a mixture of art deco and neo classical architectural elements; cream colored walls, marble columns, and gold leaf accents. Tables were arranged around a dance floor, and huge, ostentatious centerpieces of flowers, gold and white beaded stars, and ribbon jutted three feet upward in a topiary style.

  Tangentially, I wondered how much the event cost to host and, given the grandeur, how it could possibly break even.

  The stage was occupied by a small orchestra, and I recognized the piece being played as Mozart. I craned my neck to obtain a better look and spotted several brass instruments—trombones, trumpets, and even a tuba—lined off to one side.

  During my neck craning I accidentally bumped into a stout gentleman and watched with mortification as a few drops of his drink spilled to the floor. I withdrew my fingers from Quinn’s and reflexively placed my gloved hand on his back.

  “Oh, I am so sorry. Please accept my apology, sir.”

  The man glanced over his shoulder, and I immediately recognized his jowls. It wa
s Mr. Carter, our primary corporate security liaison with Grinsham Banking and Credit Systems.

  When he saw me, his eyes widened and he turned completely around, offering his hand. “Not at all, not at all—why….” he paused, white bushy eyebrows lowered over his brown eyes as they ping-ponged over my form. They halted on my hair, which I’d worn down around my back and shoulders instead of up in a bun. I was also currently wearing contacts, whereas yesterday during our meeting I’d been wearing my glasses. “Miss Morris, is that you?”

  I took his hand in mine, gave it a firm shake, and released it. “Yes, Mr. Carter. It is I, Janie Morris. I’m terribly sorry about your drink, but I was trying to see the stage. Did you notice that there are several brass instruments not in use?”

  He blinked at me, and I wasn’t entirely certain he’d heard my question.

  Quinn stepped closer to my side. “Mr. Carter,” he said, drawing the older man’s attention.

  “Oh, Mr. Sullivan…of course.” Mr. Carter seemed to give himself a little shake before he continued. “Greatly pleased to see you in attendance. These functions are a tax on one’s time, but they do allow for additional discourse outside of the office, you know. Your Miss Morris is quite lovely.”

  Quinn nodded, but said nothing, because Mr. Carter was once again eying the length of me.

  Yesterday afternoon, during the meeting with Mr. Carter and his team, Quinn had introduced me as Ms. Morris, Director of Corporate Accounts, and my fiancée. At the time, the label had been unexpected and felt a little out of place.

  Now, however, I felt grateful that the nature of our relationship had been established, because Mr. Carter’s gaze hadn’t moved from my bodice for the last four seconds.

  I glanced down at the dress, my distracting cleavage, and my hands went to my hips.

  “You can buy it,” I said.

  Mr. Carter’s gaze jumped to mine. “I…what…pardon?”

  “The dress,” I clarified, meeting his gaze and giving him a warm smile. “The dress is for sale, to benefit…the charity.” I hoped he wouldn’t ask me which charity, because then I would have to admit that I had no idea.

  Quinn cleared his throat. I felt his arm wrap around my waist, and he brought me against his side. “We’re going to find our table.”

  Again, Mr. Carter seemed to shake himself before turning his attention to Quinn and responding. “Oh, yes. I believe we’re all seated together, table seven. Nice spot. Near the bar. Very convenient arrangement as I should like to discuss with you options for private security for some of our board members and their families.”

  Quinn’s body stiffened next to mine, and I only noticed because we were pressed together. Outwardly, his expression was calm and unchanged.

  “I’d be happy to make some recommendations,” he said, his voice tempered, measured. “But my firm is in the process of moving out of the private security business.”

  This statement surprised me. I glanced at Quinn then at Steven, and found the latter issuing me an inscrutable look.

  “Oh, well. That’s too bad. I’ve heard your team is the best.” Mr. Carter appeared to be markedly disappointed. “Very discreet and all that.”

  Quinn shifted on his feet, and I knew he was preparing to make an escape. “We’ve found our considerable talents better suited to corporate security. If you’ll excuse us, we’ll see you during dinner. I promised my fiancée a better look at the orchestra.”

  “Oh, yes. Quite!” Mr. Carter nodded and gave me an exceptionally polite head bow paired with an exceptionally cheeky wink. “You’re fiancé is a very lucky man.”

  I returned his head bow with a small nod, but not a wink.

  Quinn turned us away and his hand moved to my back. He began steering us through the crowd toward the orchestra, and my thoughts were all muddled. Foremost on my mind was why he hadn’t mentioned prior to now that Cipher Systems was moving out of private security.

  I knew he was meeting with private clients while we were here; that’s where he’d been spending much of his time. But I’d assumed the meetings were benign.

  Our party made it maybe ten feet before our path was blocked by a very blonde woman.

  Honestly, when I looked at her, the first thing I thought was that she was very blonde. Likely, if I reflected on it, many people looked at me and their first impression was that I was very red-haired.

  “Well, hello stranger,” she said, her eyes on Quinn.

  I forced myself to look away from her very blonde hair coiffed in a style reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe, and studied her gown: a white halter-top with a fitted bodice and a skirt that bloomed into fullness at mid hip. I had no way of knowing what the fabric content was without touching, asking, or looking at the label.

  I refocused on the conversation just in time to hear Quinn’s huff. I knew that huff. It was a huff of irritation.

  Dan stepped in front of Quinn and placed his hand on the mysterious, very blonde woman’s arm. “Hi, Niki, let’s go for a walk.”

  “Get your hand off me.” She smiled as she said the words, and her voice was light and pleasant. “Or I’ll scream.”

  Dan let his hand drop, but stepped more fully in front of me. “No problem. Wasn’t looking forward to touching you anyway.”

  Quinn leaned close to my ear and whispered, “Will you get me a drink?” Then he lifted his chin toward Steven.

  I glanced at the very blonde woman then at the back of Dan’s neck where his swirled tattoos were just visible above the collar of his shirt and jacket; my eyes then darted to Steven, then to Quinn. I wasn’t the best person at reading social cues and body language, but even I could feel the coiled potential for drama.

  I hated scenes. As much as I was curious about who the very blonde woman was, the thought of being part of a mid-ballroom spectacle made leaving sound like a very good idea.

  Therefore, I acquiesced, thankful for the escape. “Sure. Whiskey?”

  He nodded, gave me a small, grateful smile, and passed me to Steven.

  When I say that he passed me to Steven, I mean Quinn tucked my hand around Steven’s arm, into the crook of his elbow, and issued him a pointed look.

  Then, we were off.

  Steven and I maneuvered to the bar. At one point, we had to walk single file to make it through a cluster of ball gowns. I used the opportunity to glance over my shoulder and saw that Quinn was standing next to Dan, his hands in his pants pockets, his face a mask of boredom. I couldn’t see the very blonde woman’s face as her back was to me.

  “You looked surprised.”

  Steven’s voice drew my attention back to our current task as we stopped at the end of the line for the bar. I studied his features for a moment, looking for a clue regarding which subject he was referencing.

  “I looked surprised?”

  His gray eyes narrowed. “Yes. You looked surprised when the Boss told Carter that Cipher Systems was pulling out of private security.”

  “Oh. Yes.” I frowned. “I was surprised.” I knew that Quinn had been meeting with private clients during the trip, and that his meetings had been running longer than he’d anticipated, but I didn’t realized he’d been meeting with them to terminate the contracts.

  “He didn’t tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “We’ve been outsourcing private clients to new firms.”

  “No. He hasn’t mentioned it yet. How long as this been going on?”

  Steven studied me, his lips pinched, his expression tight. “Janie, how much has Mr. Sullivan told you about the private clients?”

  I tugged the glove higher on my upper arm. “I know the specs, the accounting side of things.”

  “Do you know what we do for them?”

  “Yes. Actually, more accurately, I know what we bill for.”

  “Hmm.” Steven crossed his arms over his chest and regarded me for a long moment. We took a step forward to advance our position in the line. Then, as though he couldn’t hold on to the thought any
longer without bursting, he said, “You need to ask him about the private accounts. Promise me you’ll grill him about the subject —and I mean grill him like a steak until you know absolutely everything. Don’t let him put you off.”

  “Is there something you want to tell me, Steven?”

  He opened his mouth as though to respond, then snapped it shut and shook his head. “No. Nope. This is none of my business. I’m not getting involved. But, as your friend, I’m encouraging you to ask him, and don’t stop asking him until you’re sure you know everything.”

  I suppressed my next question, as it was our turn at the bar. I ordered top shelf whiskey for Quinn and Dan, and a glass of champagne for myself. Steven also ordered a glass of champagne.

  We stood in silence until our drinks arrived, though I tried to hurl questions at him using just my eyes. He, in turn, peered at me, his gaze a like a gray, stony wall.

  We gathered the glasses and moved toward table seven. I waited until we were several feet from the bar and clear of the crowd before resuming my questioning.

  “Are you trying to make me nervous, Steven?”

  “No.”

  “Are they…?” I glanced over my shoulder at Quinn and Dan then leaned into Steven’s ear to whisper my question. “Is it something illegal?”

  I drew away to study his face before he responded. “No. Not illegal.”

  “I don’t like how you said that.”

  “Said what?”

  “Illegal.”

  “How did I say it?”

  “Like it isn’t illegal, but it should be illegal.”

  “Well, it’s neither of those. At least, I don’t think it’s either of those.”

  “Then why are you being so vague?”

  Steven didn’t get a chance to answer because Quinn and Dan arrived just at that moment, Dan’s voice cutting through our exchange.

  “What’s Steven being vague about?”

  “Janie and I were just talking about viruses,” Steven said, deflecting.

  I glared at Steven, which caused him to glower.

  “Viruses?” Dan took the whiskey from Steven, his eyes moving between us. “Do I want to know?”