Instead, he slid an envelope across the desk to me. DEVON was written across the white paper in masculine lettering that was surprisingly tidy.
“A gentleman left this for you while you were out for your walk.” I saw his eyes flick down to the sand that caked my calves, the sandals that I carried in my left hand, but instead of feeling embarrassed, as I normally would, I grabbed for the envelope.
I only knew one person in Cambria, unless you counted Suzanne from the diner.
“Thank you.” I refrained from opening the envelope until I was back in my room, where I sank down on the bed. With shaking fingers, I ripped into the paper and drew out a thick rectangle of paper.
A business card.
The card was simple, the lettering black, printed on paper of lemony cream. The words Phyrefly Aviation were worked into a logo with a small, sleek airplane. Below the logo were a phone number and a San Francisco address.
I turned it over, searching for Zach’s name. The reverse had a handwritten message, but was otherwise blank.
IF YOU NEED A JOB, YOU WILL FIND ONE HERE.
That was it. No signature, no nice to meet you. No thanks for letting me grope you last night. Still, I knew without a doubt that it was from Zach, and even as I huffed with exasperation at the short, blunt words, I knew what I would do next.
I was going to San Francisco.
CHAPTER THREE
Phyrefly Aviation quite literally took my breath away.
In the first moment to myself that I’d had all day, I inhaled rapidly, over and over again, trying to catch my breath—I felt as if I had been sprinting since six o’clock that morning.
It had been two days since I’d received that business card in Cambria. One day since I’d arrived in San Francisco. Still reeling from the prices of hotel rooms in the city, I had decided that a job was my first priority.
Well, truthfully, pursuing anything that might connect me with the man who had taken possession of my mind, incessantly haunting my every waking thought and my sleeping ones, too, was more important still.
I didn’t see why the two couldn’t go hand in hand.
“Miss Reid.” The man who entered the office where I had been placed had to be at least six and a half feet tall, and couldn’t have weighed more than one-fifty if he’d been drenched with a garden hose. Hair that was a forgettable shade of brown flopped messily around his head, and he had a mustache, more, I think, from forgetting to shave than by design. “I’m Glen Stevens.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Standing, I held out a hand for him to shake. It was my third interview at Phyrefly that day, and I was exhausted. When I had torn open that envelope and found the business card, I had expected that the company was something along the line of a car dealership. Or maybe a repair shop for small planes. Instead, at seven thirty this morning my cab had dropped me off here, in front of a massive skyscraper constructed seemingly of glass and nothing else. It dazzled my eyes, as well as my mind, and was the first hint that maybe I didn’t know what I was about to get myself into.
I had taken note of the fact that I hadn’t had a single panic attack since the day I’d met Zach, though, and that was something to cheer for. I hadn’t needed any of the antianxiety pills that I carried in my purse, either. I’d been far too busy, my mind too full.
“I imagine it’s been a long day for you already.” Glen gestured for me to sit in one of the plush armchairs that sat against the far wall of his office. He was smooth, but I didn’t miss the quick once-over that he gave me. I knew that I had just been assessed.
Since I had worn one of my best I-used-to-work-at-a-law-office outfits, a black blouse with a small ruffle around the deep collar, a black pencil skirt, and black hose, I was satisfied that I would pass the inspection.
“Well, Miss Reid, how would you like to work at Phyrefly Aviation?” Glen offered me a bottle of water from a minifridge neatly disguised as an end table. Not sure that I’d heard him correctly, I accepted the bottle, unscrewed the lid, and drank deep.
The condensation felt great on my palms, which were hot and sweaty with nerves.
“I—I mean—wow. That was fast.” I blinked and laughed a bit, but I wasn’t really amused. No, I was surprised, and knew somehow that Zach was behind this.
But who was he to a massive corporation—like I had discovered that Phyrefly Aviation was—to be able to land me a job like this? I knew he’d done something. The entire day had seemed like a ruse, like everyone had already known that I would be coming.
Like the job had been created just for me.
He had said he was a successful man, but what, precisely, did that mean?
Glen chuckled, and there was amusement in his tone, at least. Sitting back in his chair, he tossed his water bottle from one hand to another, studying me intently.
“Once Mr. St. Brenton decides that something is going to happen, it’s best to just get out of the way of the steamroller that he’s set in motion.” The water bottle juggling was starting to annoy me—I wanted to lean over and catch the bottle in midair so that I could focus on what he had just said. I must have telegraphed my intent, because Glen caught the bottle, opened it, and chugged until it was empty.
“Aah.” He sighed contentedly as I worried at his last sentence. Something about it was niggling at me.
“Now, your last employer was a law firm, yes?” Glen screwed the lid onto his empty bottle and leaned forward slightly. “I imagine that involved a lot of precise detail work. Perhaps some accounting.”
“Yes.” It wasn’t a question, but I nodded anyway, pasting a wide smile on my face. I wanted this job badly, though I couldn’t have explained why. “I’m proficient in Windows, Dictaphone, spreadsheet software, Excel, and PowerPoint. I’m a good proofreader, and handled basic bookkeeping tasks. I also developed a computer program to create reports from electronic files, inventories, mailing lists, and databases, so that it didn’t have to be done by hand.” That last bit stung—I’d done a great job, and still, the firm had barely blinked when I’d left. No stuffy watch as a good-bye gift, which was customary—no, not even a thank-you.
This time it was Glen who blinked, his expression changing from polite to incredibly engaged. “Interesting.” He spoke as if almost to himself, tapping the water bottle against the inside of his thigh. “That Zach, always knows what he’s doing.”
“Zach?” I felt as though a bolt of lightning had shot through my body as I heard the name. “Um . . . I mean . . . who is Zach?”
Glen cast me a look that implied that I should already know. I bit my lip and tried to look abashed, though I was really just eager for him to keep talking.
“Zachariah—Zach—St. Brenton is the founder and CEO of Phyrefly Aviation.” Glen looked as though he might be reconsidering my brainpower, if I had come to an interview without at least finding out the bare minimum about the man who would be my boss. “He is both wonderful and difficult to work for.”
I closed my eyes and pressed my fingers against the instantaneous throbbing in my temples. Zachariah St. Brenton. Zach. He owned this massive corporation? I’d suspected that he pulled some strings to get me an interview here, though I still wasn’t quite sure why, but I found myself taken aback at the idea of how much power he wielded.
I flashed back, and pictured myself in my sloppy cutoffs, my face devoid of makeup, stuffing chicken-fried steak and mashed potatoes into my mouth.
I grimaced before I could stop myself. Glen took the expression for worry about the latter half of his statement, and was quick to reassure me.
“You won’t actually see him very much, if at all. I’m putting you into the accounting department. Your title will be junior administrative assistant for the department, and your supervisor will be Bini Gallagher.” He spoke a bit more, telling me about my salary, the benefits, company policy, and more.
I didn’t hear a w
ord of it once he’d stopped talking about Zach. I had begun to think of that last night in Cambria, of the man who had fed me strawberries, who had kissed me to within an inch of my life, had made me crave wicked things and then left with a warning. The mere mention of the man made me soft and warm everywhere, and I was supposed to not worry because I probably wouldn’t actually see him very much, “if at all”?
Just knowing that he was somewhere in the same building made my mouth water and my thighs clench. I wanted him, and I was certain that he wanted me . . . or at least, that he had.
What game was he playing, bringing me into his employ? He’d warned me to stay away from him.
“Do we have a deal?” Glen had stood, which is what finally caught my attention. Leaving the water bottle, I stood, too, wiping my palms on my skirt to get rid of the dampness.
I shook his hand, but wasn’t entirely sure of the question. Shit. I settled for smiling at him, and though his return smile was a bit confused, he did repeat the question.
“Well, you can start right away, if you’d like. That is, if you say yes. You accept the position here at Phyrefly?”
“Yes.” Did I ever.
• • •
The Santa Rosa was a small bar much like thousands of other bars across the country. California paraphernalia decorated the walls—vintage postcards, autographed surfboards, old ads for orange juice and citrus fruits. Though I hadn’t been given much say in the matter, I felt myself relax just the tiniest bit for the first time in days as I was handed a beer and ushered to the table where many of my new coworkers were seated.
That relaxation fled quickly as I put down my bottle after a sip to find all eyes on me.
I felt the familiar sensation of panic rising, thickening my throat until I couldn’t breathe. I needed one of my pills, but could hardly grope for it in my purse without rumors flying about the new girl’s drug habit.
“Who wants to order some appies? On me?” Glen, the man who gave me my final interview, gave me a very subtle pat on the back, a reassuring touch, as he slid some of the laminated menus from our end of the table down toward the others. “You guys figure out what we should all share.”
This, of course, meant that everyone broke into loud discussion, bickering back and forth about liking black olives but not green ones, and whether artichokes were disgusting or not. I smiled gratefully at Glen and again lifted my beer.
“Thank you.” I murmured just loudly enough for the man to hear. The panic receded as the attention on me faded.
I didn’t like being the center of attention. I wasn’t used to it, having always spent my time in the shadow of my parents and then Tom.
Glen nodded, his expression somewhat paternal, even though he couldn’t have been more than ten years older than I was. He leaned in close, casually, and I followed his lead.
“I’m afraid you’re going to be in for it for a while, Devon.” My brow furrowed as I pondered his meaning, and as I looked down the table, I saw that even with Glen’s distraction, a few of my new coworkers—Anna, the girl from the front desk behind security, Tony, the senior admin assistant in my department, and a few that I didn’t know, were all sneaking curious glances my way.
I met Glen’s eyes, which were somber. “I don’t understand.”
“Listen up. I approved of your hire because you have a solid résumé, and you are more than adequately qualified for the job. Truth is, I would have hired you if you’d walked in off the street.” I cocked my head, a stone sinking into the depths of my stomach.
“But I did walk in off the street,” I whispered, and knew that my feelings from earlier had just been validated. It had been a little too easy, from start to finish, a little too simple to become a fully employed member at what I now understood was one of the biggest corporations in the country.
Glen shook his head. “The day Mr. St. Brenton came back from his home in Cambria this week, he told me that if a Miss Devon Reid were to stop by the building, call, or make contact in any way, I was to find her a decent position. I objected at first.” It felt like a blow to hear that from my only supporter, but he continued before I could say anything. “He said that I would find you more than qualified for many of the positions here. Regardless, it was not negotiable. I did some research before you showed up, so I was satisfied about the kind of person you are.”
My cheeks flushed with mortification. Glen thought that I had slept with Zach—with Mr. St. Brenton—and that this was my payment.
“I shouldn’t take the job. I’ll quit. Oh God.” Rising to go, hoping to leave without too much attention, Glen tugged on my sleeve until I forced to again sit.
“I meant it when I said I would have hired you anyway.” His eyebrow rose, and made his long face look even longer. I searched it for signs of deception and found none.
“Why did you research me? How did you know I’d come?”
Glen smiled then, a smile that was a little bit amused and a little bit bittersweet. “I’ve yet to meet a woman who can walk away from Zachariah St. Brenton.”
I wasn’t sure what to say to that. Glen moved down the table, joined in the discussion about the appetizers. No one else had spoken to me, and my beer was nearly gone, so I made my way to the bar to order another, just to have something to do. Not to mention that the beer was working nearly as well as a pill at keeping my anxiety at bay.
“Not many women drink plain beer.” Feeling the warmth of another body to my left, I turned to find Tony, the senior admin assistant in accounting. He was holding an empty martini glass, which he held up for me to see. “Not many men do, either. They make a killer martini here.”
“I’ll keep that in mind for next time.” My smile was a genuine one, because someone from work was actually talking to me, instead of looking at me like I was an exotic bug.
“Can I buy you one now?”
I hesitated, my emotions battling it out in my gut. I should probably play nice with my new coworkers, if I wanted them to stop seeing me as a freak. But hard liquor had an odd, often not very desirable effect on my behavior. Plus, Tony, while good-looking in a Latin lover kind of way, was standing a bit too close to me for my liking, and while I didn’t want to assume, I got the impression that he was flirting with me.
I compromised. “Maybe not a martini, but another beer would be nice.”
The look in Tony’s eyes was appraising and admiring. “A girl with conviction. I think I’m in love.”
“I sincerely hope not.” I felt the heat slam into me at the same time that Tony’s expression changed. It was him. It was Zach. Standing next to us.
Tony forgotten, I whirled, my eyes narrowing, questions on the tip of my tongue.
But Zach wasn’t done with Tony. “Relationships between coworkers in the same department are against company policy. But you’re aware of that, right, Mr. Figuero?”
I didn’t even turn to see what Tony’s expression was. It might have been rude, but I didn’t care. At any rate, he stammered something and left, and I was alone with the man who had been haunting my every thought for days.
“Hello, Miss Reid.” His face was very nearly expressionless as he looked me over, but I thought I could discern a hint of . . . was that lust? Need?
He had to be feeling it, had to, because having him so near to me had made me molten inside. Lord, but he looked good. Gone were the jeans and button-down from the restaurant, replaced by a black suit, charcoal shirt, and slick purple tie.
“Hello.” My voice was breathy. He looked good enough to eat, and I very nearly told him so, but bit my tongue just in time.
“May I buy you that beer?” His words were phrased as a question, but the tone I heard told me that he would, in fact, be ordering me a drink. It was bossy, but somehow I liked it better than Tony’s tactic.
“Yes.” I knew that I would say yes to quite a lot of things if he sugges
ted them to me right then. I could smell the heat emanating from his skin, those same scents from Cambria, overlaid with a hint of the sexiest cologne that I’d ever smelled.
“Two bottles of the Stone Imperial please, Angie.” Though Zach looked at the bartender briefly to make sure that she heard him, he seemed not to notice—truly not to—when she uncapped the bottles and handed them over, accidentally on purpose grazing his hand.
“Anytime, Mr. St. Brenton.” She cast him the patented come fuck me look that some girls seem to master in middle school, then sent a little bonus smirk my way.
Zach didn’t appear to even hear her, instead handing me my beer and placing his hand at the small of my back, guiding me to a small table with two chairs, set against a back wall.
“How come you didn’t have to pay for those? And aren’t we going to sit with everyone else?” He chuckled a bit as he pulled out my chair for me. The action caused my heart to skip with delicious anticipation.
“I’m not interested in spending time with everyone else.”
Oh man. Which meant . . . that meant that he was interested in spending time with me?
I could feel my legs begin to tremble under the table, and I smoothed my palms down the length of my thighs in an attempt to steady them.
As if trying to put me at ease, Zach changed the subject.
“Did you know that Cambria was originally called Santa Rosa?” I was so mesmerized by the way his full lips looked that it took a moment for his words to sink in. The Santa Rosa Bar. Cambria. Not paying for his drinks. The bartender knowing his name.
When things lined up, I reared back in my chair, an accusatory stare on my face.
“You own this place!” My reaction seemed to puzzle him, but I carefully set my beer bottle back onto the table and looked at him with alarm.
“What’s the matter?” He leaned in again, concern on his face, but I slid back, keeping some distance between us.
Surrender to Temptation Page 3