by Nikki Logan
Poppy arched a single, elegant brow. ‘I think the more pertinent question is how long have you been in here? It’s just gone eight.’
‘Oh.’
The boxroom was too crowded for a clock and Izzy never wore a watch. ‘Time to come out, then.’
Why on earth had she thought being unemployed was worth celebrating?
Because that decision had been made two days ago. Today she’d changed her mind. Two days from now she’d probably feel differently again. Par for the course with her wildly swinging thoughts lately.
Wildly swinging, dissatisfied thoughts.
So dissatisfied that she’d even considered ringing her mum to talk things through. Until she remembered that she didn’t do that anymore.
‘Come on, Iz,’ Poppy urged, reading her expression and holding the door wide. ‘You’ll enjoy it once you get out there.’
She certainly wouldn’t without a champers in hand. One look at the thronging mass in their flat reinforced that. All friends, but somehow still overwhelming. Would it be rude to go to a movie instead? To reward the kindness of all their friends who’d rallied for her with her absence?
She paused in the doorway. They wouldn’t be the first kind people she’d abandoned.
But tonight was not the night to be thinking about her parents or her dysfunctional childhood. Tonight was a night for stoic smiles and fellowship.
She followed Poppy into the kitchen, keeping her eyes down until she had the familiar comfort of a glass in her hand. ‘Please tell me there’s Lanson.’
‘Dunno. Brother dearest ordered the booze.’
There was—thank God—and Izzy polished off her first glass while rinsing the used party glasses already accumulating in the kitchen. She took care of a second while chopping up a platter of out-of-season veg.
Their extended circle of friends fell like Brighton seagulls onto her choppings.
‘God, I love this stuff,’ a tall brunette cooed, scooping a big dollop of dip onto some capsicum and then shoving the lot into her mouth and speaking past the crunching mess. ‘Yours?’
‘Speciality of the man of the house,’ Izzy said. And, no, dip wasn’t an odd thing for a military man to be good at. No more odd than Alex’s weirdly nocturnal habits, anyway.
‘Tash, Sally.’ She nodded, extending the platter for their grazing pleasure. ‘Thanks for coming. Hi, Richard.’
‘Love the pauper’s catering, Izzy,’ he gushed, drowning a sprig of broccolini in dip. ‘Very on-theme.’
Huh. If being poor was so entertaining why hadn’t she smiled more as a kid?
She shuffled forwards through the crammed-in guests, keeping herself and the veg creeping steadily towards the far side of the bright, eclectically decorated industrial conversion. Guests greeted and commiserated and dipped the whole way.
‘So what’s next?’ one of her downstairs neighbours shouted over the music and chatter.
‘Not sure,’ Izzy hedged. ‘Consolidation period?’
The pretty face folded. ‘Oh, I assumed you had something already lined up.’
Nope. Not a thing lined up. Though reasonable that her friends would expect that, because that was absolutely what normal Izzy would do. The Izzy they all knew.
Corporate, clever Izzy.
Top of the class and best in her department Izzy.
But new Izzy, it seemed, was channelling her mother, all of a sudden. Choosing principle over plenty. New Izzy was all about the moment and dramatic, flourishing statements. And nothing about reality.
She paused against one of the apartment’s large windows and caught her breath ready for another pass with the half-decimated tray. The sea of people momentarily parted and she caught a glimpse of Tori’s distinctive tricoloured hair. She was perched happily in a man’s lap, her ‘take me’ heels kicked back, his strong hands the only thing stopping her from toppling backwards onto the floor in front of all their friends. Not her boyfriend’s slim, pale, slightly creepy hands. These were strong, tanned, non-Mark hands.
Uh-oh…trouble in paradise? Already?
The throng closed in once more, ending her worrying Tori sighting, and Izzy pressed on with her vegetables back towards the kitchen. Appeasing the masses.
Ooh…perhaps waitressing could be her new job. Apparently she had a knack for it and maybe the café down on street level would hire her, then she’d have no commute costs. Of course there was the whole issue of zero appreciable waiting skills.
The only after-school job she’d managed never to have in her long, exhausting childhood.
The final stick of courgette disappeared just before Izzy hit the kitchen doors. Of course it did. Because she’d cut just enough for the size of the crowd she’d unconsciously counted, and she’d shuffled forward in subliminal accordance with the diminishing supply.
Quantities. Numbers. They were her thing. Estimates and value assessment and principles of return. Whether it was Broadmore Natále’s investments or a pile of crunchy veg, the theory was much the same. Leverage all available resources and minimise waste.
Yawn.
No wonder she’d left. Her job gave her a fantastic income and that gave her a fantastic, inner-city lifestyle, but there wasn’t much else to recommend it. Not the fiddly commute, not the irritating, God’s gift boss, not the groundhogday workload.
Job security just wasn’t enough anymore. Who had she been kidding convincing herself that achieving budget was the kind of professional achievement she’d been craving her whole life?
Sigh.
She dumped the empty tray into the sink and reached for the chopping knife.
* * *
When he’d set out tonight to get his way with a woman it wasn’t this woman he’d had in mind. And not this kind of way, either.
Still, Harry considered as he flattened his palm against the firm ass presently resident in his lap, things could definitely be worse. Maybe he could indulge Matahari, here, just ten more minutes. Spend a bit of time with a flesh-and-blood woman.
One who was happy to see him.
Plus, he didn’t know anyone here and he was grateful for the smokescreen while he carried out essential reconnaissance on Izzy Dean.
Isadora.
He’d almost pity her that if he weren’t so angry at being here.
A diva didn’t get any less diva-ish just because she was good at her job. Or good to look at. And she was, in a lanky, Keira Knightley kind of way. The glass walls of his office had given him plenty of opportunity to conduct an assessment when she was otherwise engaged. Or when she wasn’t. And he’d used them to the fullest.
He’d been grooming Dean to replace him when he moved on at the end of his stint, but after Wednesday’s spectacular meltdown…
Let her walk.
The firm could well do without high-maintenance attention seekers.
Yet here he was, cap in bloody hand, sent to persuade her to reconsider, because she’d walked on his watch. Which apparently made getting her back his responsibility.
The tense anger of Broadmore’s human resources director, Rifkin, yesterday afternoon echoed back at him. Implying, but never saying outright, that Dean’s hasty departure was somehow his fault. As if her inability to accept constructive criticism and cede to authority weren’t the bulk of the problem. He’d argued that, but Rifkin had challenged him with a list of staff they’d lost since he’d come aboard and asked how they could all develop such terminal flaws after years of working together well.
Implication: his fault.
Harry’s interpretation: dead wood, well rid of.
Just because someone had been around for a while didn’t mean they were still adding value.
Even if she was the most talented person on his team.
Then again Rifkin hadn’t seen the words on the glass of his office wall…
‘Eyes forward, handsome,’ the vixen in his lap purred as if he’d been checking out her rack, not her friend serving celery sticks to the ravenous hordes. He dragge
d his focus reluctantly back to her eyes, which were more than a little liquor-glazed.
He was definitely off his game.
‘Are you sure you’re not uncomfortable?’ he tried, again.
‘No, I’m great.’ She wiggled her butt down further, which only served to make him significantly less comfortable.
A tiny brunette flopped down into the empty half-space next to them. Not quite big enough for her, leaving her pressed closely to him and, for half a moment, he feared his troubles had just doubled.
But then her eyes filled with casual sparkle and she leaned around him and said, ‘All right, Tori?’
Tori. That was what she’d mumbled while he was busy staring at Izzy Dean. And the little brunette was not a flanking assault; she was the extremely welcome cavalry.
‘Fantastic, Poppy.’ Tori waved her friend’s concern away with dramatic sweeps. ‘Having a great time. Have you met Harry?’
The brunette thrust out her hand. ‘Hello, Poppy Spencer. This is my flat.’
Which was pretty much polite social code for ‘who are you and who invited you?’ Just because he’d been out of the scene for a few years didn’t mean he’d forgotten the rules. Shaking Poppy’s hand was the perfect excuse to ease Tori into a slightly more upright and appropriate position without causing offence.
‘Nice to meet you,’ Harry hedged, unwilling to give away too much. ‘So this is your party?’
‘My flatmate’s actually. She’s just out of a dreadful job.’
‘Do you always celebrate employment changes?’
‘This one we do. Izzy’s been miserable for months. Lousy job, lousy new boss. She’s well out of it.’
Lousy?
‘Maybe a job is what you make it,’ Harry defended.
‘She made that one long enough.’ Tori pouted prettily. ‘You can’t polish a turd.’
To have his entire career aspiration and management expertise summarily written off stung. Like a bitch.
‘Would you like a drink, Harry?’ Poppy offered, though he wasn’t sure how she thought he would manage a glass with both hands full of busty, wriggling woman.
‘I’d love one,’ he said. ‘And I wouldn’t mind meeting your flatmate. Congratulate her on her…new-found freedom.’
Drag her back to the firm kicking and screaming, if necessary.
‘Conveniently they’re in the same place. Izzy’s hiding in the kitchen.’
Hiding? That wasn’t the woman he knew. Isadora Dean was always the centre of attention in any space. Laughing and shaking back her dark blond mop and generally being delightful to her adoring audience.
And thoroughly distracting to him.
She should have been in her element at a party that was all about her.
He set Tori to her feet and she happily took him by his loosened tie and led him through the crowd to the kitchen.
‘Izzy,’ she gushed dramatically, entering with him and Poppy in tow. ‘A man without a drink is a tragedy not to be borne.’
The woman in question emerged from behind the fridge door, a warm smile on her face, and turned automatically to the sink full of ice and beer. But the smile died the moment she saw who stood in her kitchen.
‘What the bloody hell are you doing here?’
‘Izzy!’ Poppy’s shock could have been for the language as much as the tone.
‘Dean.’ He nodded, cautiously.
‘What is he doing here?’ she hissed again, as if he weren’t in the room. Kind of desperately.
‘He’s a guest…’ Tory squinted, then twisted to look at him. ‘Isn’t he?’
‘He’s my boss!’ Dean sputtered.
Tori dropped his tie and it fell, flaccid, against his suit. Both women turned on him and there was a surprising amount of unity in the three angry female faces now facing him.
‘Ex-boss,’ he reminded her. Though hopefully not for long. He thrust his hand out to finish the introductions Poppy had started. ‘Harry Mitchell.’
‘You’re really him?’ Poppy squeaked.
‘But you’re gorgeous,’ Tori helpfully contributed. ‘I imagined you hideous and old.’
Dean’s face flamed. ‘Tori! Bad enough you’ve been giving him a lap dance—’
She rolled her eyes. ‘I didn’t know, Iz. Obviously.’
Dean reached for her glass and clutched it, white-knuckled, like a weapon. ‘Why are you here?’
‘To see you.’
‘I hope you’re not planning on begging her to come back.’ Poppy laughed. ‘You could have saved yourself the tube fare.’
Begging. Cajoling. Bribing. Little Miss Potty-Mouth had suddenly become Britain’s most wanted. As galling as that was.
‘There was an email circulating, inviting all staff.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m staff.’
‘You’re not staff, you’re my supervisor,’ Dean pointed out. He took a shred of comfort from her use of the present tense.
‘Management weren’t excluded,’ he thrust. As if staff communiques usually came with small print.
‘So, now even my party invites are sub-standard?’ she parried. ‘Common decency excludes you.’
Yeah, this was more the Isadora Dean he recognised. Uptight and defensive. And all pink and breathless when she was riled. Which he took care to do often. ‘Well, I’m here now.’
‘You’re not welcome,’ she pointed out, as if there was any question at all. And not the rudest thing she’d ever said to him. His memory filled with her offensive departure and then overflowed with the memory of those lips sucking on her finger.
He cleared his throat.
‘Could be worse. At least I’m not moving in.’
Dean blinked at him. ‘What?’
‘There’s a guy out there with two full duffel bags. At least you know I’m only here for a few hours.’
Poppy’s face creased. ‘Out there?’
He cast her a sideways look. Gentler, because he quite liked her and she’d genuinely tried to save him from Matahari earlier. ‘Go see for yourself.’
Poppy threw Dean an apologetic look and then excused herself, the party noise surging until the doors swung shut again as she stomped through.
One down, one to go. He needed Dean alone for this conversation. If he was going to demean himself it wouldn’t be with an audience.
‘He was pretty buff, too,’ he added casually, looking right at Tori.
To her credit she stood firm. For about four seconds. Then…
‘Sorry, Iz,’ she whispered before hastening out after Poppy.
Dean’s eyes darkened even further when his returned to her. ‘This is my home, Mr Mitchell.’
‘Harry.’
The indignation on her face did what it usually did to him and stirred around in places he tried not to disturb. Righteousness leaked out of her like wayward passion.
‘You weren’t invited.’
‘I hardly broke in. The downstairs door was wedged open. I think the law would back me on this one.’
‘Employee harassment laws might not.’
‘You’re not my employee.’ Not currently. The only reason he was letting his hormones off the chain just a little.
She grabbed the champagne bottle and refilled her glass, spilling it over in her haste. Liquid gold ran down her long, expressive fingers where she clutched the glass stem. ‘You truly expect me to believe that you were so bereft of something to do on a Friday night in London that you came along to the farewell party of an employee who’d just told you to—’
‘Careful, Dean. Do you really want to say it twice?’
Her anger subsided like the fizz in her champagne. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Isadora, how can we improve if we get no feedback?’ he asked reasonably.
‘Izzy!’ she gasped. ‘No one calls me Isadora.’
‘It’s on your file.’
‘But that doesn’t mean I like to be called it.’
And, just like that, he had her permission to call her by her familiar name,
and hostilities between them cranked down a notch. Though not so far that he didn’t make a mental note for later to poke around a bit in the sore spot he’d just uncovered.
‘Fair enough. Izzy. If you call me Harry.’
‘I won’t be calling you anything for much longer. You’re not staying.’
‘I’ve not had my drink yet.’
She glared at him. ‘If I get you a drink, you’ll leave?’
‘Probably. I just let my strongest chance of hooking up walk out the door, after all.’
His dig had exactly the right effect. Izzy flashed fire again. ‘She is nobody’s hook-up. Tori is in a relationship, actually.’
‘Could have fooled me,’ he shot back.
She passed him an open beer as though it were a grenade. Icy cold, as a beer should be.
‘Interesting place,’ he finally said, swallowing down his umbrage with the amber nectar. He had a job to do and he wasn’t going to achieve it while she was still angry. That was why she’d quit in the first place.
‘We like it.’
Okay, not giving an inch. ‘Old factory?’
She took a long, deep breath and seemed to finally realise how rude she was being. Even if he wasn’t quite a guest. ‘Fire station. We have the top floor and turret. There are several smaller flats downstairs and the café down on the street.’
Oh, so grudging. And he’d be damned if he’d let her do that to him. So he started poking.
‘You have a turret?’
‘It’s my bedroom.’ Then her pale skin forked between her eyes. ‘Used to be.’
He opened his mouth to reply but she cut him off. ‘That is not an invitation.’
‘I’m very happy with my place overlooking the Thames, actually.’
Her hair swung in silky pieces around her angular jaw. ‘Swanky river view; why does that not surprise me?’
‘Why is it swanky to overlook water?’
‘It’s just such a cliché.’
He let that one through to the keeper. Better than admitting he needed the sounds and smells of the water splashing the sides of the embankment to keep himself sane. Awkward silence fell again.
‘How are you enjoying the sleep-ins?’ he finally ventured.