by J. A. Dennam
SEXUAL
INTEGRITY
SEXUAL
INTEGRITY
A NOVEL
J.A. DENNAM
Copyright © 2017 by J.A. Dennam.
All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or online reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published in the United States by Cleis Press, an imprint of Start Midnight, LLC, 101 Hudson Street, Thirty-Seventh Floor, Suite 3705, Jersey City, NJ 07302.
Printed in the United States.
Cover design: Scott Idleman/Blink
Cover photograph: iStock
Text design: Frank Wiedemann
First Edition.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Trade paper ISBN: 978-1-62778-204-3
E-book ISBN: 978-1-62778-205-0
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
I would like to thank all of those who helped make this dream of mine come true. You know who you are…
1
A FAT RAINDROP HIT THE WINDSHIELD WITH THE force of a gunshot. Her world grinding in slow motion, Brooke Monroe looked past it and watched as the seafood restaurant’s front entrance dimmed in the approaching storm. Just fifteen yards to the door…
Could she make it?
With narrowed eyes, Brooke grabbed her purse from the passenger seat of her Audi, curled her fingers around the handle, and yanked it open. Battling gale-force winds, the sole of her left shoe hit the pavement with the first lightning flash. Her door slammed shut in time with a thunderclap. Clutching her purse with the fierce determination of a soldier on the front lines, she plowed through resisting forces and weaved through a line of parked vehicles. The raindrops doubled and then tripled. Then, with just five yards to go, the encroaching wall of rain arrived with gusto, tackling her to the ground in a hail of lukewarm bullets.
With a cry of defeat, Brooke got back on her feet and dove for the door handle. Once she was safely inside, the torrent was muted to a low hum as she stood there dripping on the entryway mat.
Her skirt and blouse clung to her like a transparent skin. The leather purse she’d purchased in Galveston was now a heavy, wet blob at her side. Her auburn hair was plastered across her face in dark, stringy hanks. Two women who waited on a padded bench shot to their feet and came toward her with wide-eyed concern.
Amy and Miranda, of course, had showed up on time, managing to outrun a typical Naples, Florida storm.
“Oh no, look at you!” Amy fussed as she tried to make sense of Brooke’s hair. As usual, every petite and perky feature was cover-girl ready from her styled blonde bob to her platform pumps.
“Wear this. It’ll hide your bra.” Miranda shrugged out of her suit jacket and wrapped it around Brooke’s shoulders. Of course, now everyone would be ogling the Latina’s voluptuous curves, but perhaps it would work in their favor during this unscheduled meeting. For the first time, Brooke secretly hoped her new boss was a letch as well as a heartless bastard.
Okay, it wasn’t really a meeting, but more of an ambush—a desperate attempt to reclaim the jobs of nearly thirty employees who’d been let go during the surprise takeover of her father’s graphic-design business by Ken Stevens of Master Ink Innovations. Amy and Miranda were there to symbolize the casualties: living, breathing examples of professional people who deserved to work under the Master Ink banner.
And then there was Brooke: a sopping-wet windblown wreck who couldn’t appreciate the opportunity she’d been given to do that very thing. How unfair was that? As the two unemployed women fussed over her appearance, Brooke blinked at them through wet eyelashes. “Some representative I am, huh?”
Amy’s pout came with a sympathetic laugh. “oh, sweetie, look on the bright side, at least you weren’t wearing mascara.”
When they finally entered the restaurant, a blast of air conditioning accompanied the smell of steamed shellfish. Her arms covered in goose bumps, Brooke made one last attempt to finger-comb her hair. “Here, wipe off your glasses.”
A cloth napkin appeared over her shoulder. Brooke accepted the offering that Miranda had just pilfered from a stash by the hostess stand.
“Hello,” greeted the hostess behind the stand. “Will it be just the three of you today?”
“We’re meeting Ken Stevens,” Brooke informed her. “He has a three o’clock reservation.”
“Oh. He didn’t say anything about a party of five.…I’ll go ask.”
Amy and Miranda pushed her forward after the hostess, cutting through a nearly empty dining room. Brooke stumbled as the adrenaline-based percussion of “Wipeout” pulsed from the speakers overhead. While her sensible shoes made a path of wet footsteps in her wake, Brooke couldn’t help but think that the song’s maniacal laugh had been recorded just for her.
Go ahead. Mock me. I’ll leave here with your balls in my clutches too.
When they passed the lighted bar, she held her wire-rimmed glasses upward for inspection. Now sufficiently dry, she put them back on her face just before she collided with a thirty-something man waiting for his drink. His amused glance darted over her sodden appearance. Brook instantly bristled against the judgment she saw in it.
“Ladies.” His voice was suave and smooth, just like the half smile that accompanied it. He had deep-set eyes, an aristocratic nose, and a strong jaw. His thick hair was light brown with gold highlights and just long enough to graze the collar of his casual sports jacket. Yes, definitely the GQ type who took pride in his appearance.
She could practically feel Amy marking her territory.
“Local or tourist?” Amy asked him with a megawatt smile.
The man’s gaze, still smug with ridicule, flashed briefly in Brooke’s direction. “Depends on who’s asking.”
It was an obvious brush-off that left Brooke out of the running— as if she were even interested! Rolling her eyes, she tugged at Amy’s wrist. “We aren’t here to pick up strays, remember?”
Her haughty dismissal only made him laugh. “Ouch!”
“Definitely tourist,” Miranda guessed as they continued their journey through the restaurant. “That sunburn is fresh.”
As they approached the booths, the storm clouds outside moved on. Light sliced through the picture windows, showing the modest restaurant’s marine-themed décor and leaving the streets beyond the windows to steam-dry in the sun. Still soggy, Brooke seemed to be the only reminder of what had just come and gone in typical southwest Florida fashion.
The hostess finally noticed she’d been followed. “Oh!…here they are. Should I get menus?”
The man in the booth didn’t exactly look like a shark. His round face had a jovial appearance that went with the mustache and balding head, but Brooke didn’t let it fool her. There was a heart of stone beneath that extra-extra-large T-shirt. And probably a hairy back too.
“We won’t be eating, thank you,” Brooke said with a tight smile, hoping to project her unwillingness to share a meal with the man who’d just purchased her hard-earned future like a six-pack of beer.
The hostess hesitated for a moment and then slowly retreated to her station as Ken Stevens watched them. He seemed to know exactly who she was and didn’t bother to ask before shoving a forkful of salad into his mouth.
Brooke adjusted her glasses and introduced herself. “Mr. Stevens, my name is Brooke Monroe. We haven’t met because I was on vacation when my father sold his business to you. While I can assume that the unfortunate timing was not an accident, I refuse to believe he was aware of your intention to fir
e his entire staff.”
Stevens shoved in another bite and spoke through the mouthful. “I take it you’re here to change my mind.”
“ I am.”
“While I admire your loyalty, Ms. Monroe, no one in my position would keep an overpaid staff.”
Noting his blatant lack of compassion, she glared at the top of his shiny head, glad that she’d practiced her speech in the car. “These women are very good at what they do. Miranda offers amazing technical support, and Amy is a phenomenal account specialist. They represent everyone you just left jobless. All I ask is that you consider their performance and compare it to any of your employees’ work. In other words, why fix what isn’t broken?”
“I wouldn’t have been able to acquire your father’s business if it wasn’t broken,” he answered.
This was something Brooke still could not understand. She knew Monroe Graphics had been struggling, but she never got that it was hovering on the verge of bankruptcy. She had grown up with the thriving graphic design business and vowed to run it as well as her parents did when it became time for them to retire—which was apparently now. How could Stanley Monroe sell her birthright without so much as a heads-up to his only child?
The pain of that particular betrayal was still very raw, but being forced to work for a heartless man like Ken Stevens was even worse.
“If you don’t consider rehiring at least half of our employees, I refuse to work for you,” Brooke threatened.
Now the middle-aged man put down his fork and pushed the salad aside. His T-shirt bore a Stanford University alumni logo, along with a few pieces of lettuce that rested atop his protruding belly. He leaned back and regarded her with a hint of amusement behind hazel eyes that, she was positive, hid many secrets. “You are aware of the employee agreement you signed?”
“I am.” Now, she added silently. It would be much too embarrassing to admit that she’d signed something without reading it, or that her father had taken advantage of her trust in order to trap her into such an agreement. Then again, it wasn’t the first time he’d resorted to such tactics, acting as a “protective parent looking out for his only child.” Chewing on that bitter truth, Brooke’s composure slipped a notch.
“You’re also aware of the non-compete clause in that agreement?” Ken asked next. “If you quit or are terminated with cause, you cannot use your connections or expertise against my company for a year.”
Her shoulders stiffened at the reminder. “I don’t believe you’ll give me the opportunities you and my father agreed upon.”
“Excuse me.” A waiter cut through and deposited loaded dishes of crab legs, garlic toast, and rice pilaf onto the table.
A look of delight crossed Stevens’ features as he scoped out each plate. “Regardless, it’s your only shot at ever managing Monroe Graphics the way you planned.” He picked up the crab fork. “Now, since this meeting was supposed to take place tomorrow morning, you can either sit down and join me for a meal or leave me to mine. Ladies, have a good day.”
Even though Brooke never ate at three in the afternoon, she took a seat and stubbornly crossed her arms, daring him to try and scare her off. “Mr. Stevens…”
The waiter reappeared with another tray of food and unloaded it before her. Stevens broke a crab leg in half, spritzing crab juice in her direction. Once again, Brooke was seeing through spotted lenses.
“I was already managing Monroe Graphics,” she continued tightly. “It’s the vice president position you’re taking away from me. Once my father retired, I was supposed to step into that role, and I am more qualified for it than anyone else.”
“Takeovers are never pretty,” he explained while dipping strips of crabmeat into melted butter. “When I go back to Sioux Falls, this new branch of mine will be thriving and in the very capable hands of someone I trust. Ethan was my first choice to run things here and, by continuing as senior manager, you will assist him with the transition.” Ken put a napkin to his greasy lips and gave her a sarcastic smile. “Who knows, with your loyalty and cooperation, maybe one day you’ll make VP too.”
Amy and Miranda fidgeted on the sidelines. Caught up in her own dismay, Brooke had nearly forgotten they were there. “Mr. Stevens, I’ve been chasing that dangling carrot far too long. I see now I’ve only been amusing my father, and I’ll be damned if I’ll perform for your amusement too. Don’t expect to see me in the conference room tomorrow morning.”
On the verge of tears, Brooke slid out from the booth, having effectively given up her career. Quitting meant that she’d have to honor the non-compete clause and stay out of the graphic design business altogether.
“Ethan will be sad to hear that, Ms. Monroe,” Ken said with tactful reserve. “He was even prepared to let you keep your corner office despite the fact that it should go to him. Then again, he does love the view from there.”
Momentary shock halted her footsteps. Stevens must have known just how much she coveted her eighth-story view of the bay marina and its bustling activity. “I thought you would be taking my office,” she said. “It’s the biggest one.”
“I’m too busy for scenery. I’ll be taking the one adjoining the conference room.”
That was why her father had chosen that office as well. Eyes narrowing with impudent fury, Brooke set her teeth. “Who exactly is this Ethan person? Besides my replacement—”
“That would be me,” said a familiar voice behind her. Brooke whirled around to find her worst nightmare in the form of Mr. GQ himself, standing there with two drinks and a cocky smile. He set the tumblers down and extended a hand. “Ethan Wolf.”
When she refused to shake it, he simply shrugged and sat down in front of his food. While she watched, he dove into his own plate of crab legs, clearly unaffected by her looming presence.
Amy finally found her voice. “Come on Miranda, let’s get our own table.”
Brooke barely noticed her friends walking away. Sure, she was disappointed that they hadn’t fought for their jobs more, but the thought of this arrogant playboy, Ethan Wolf, taking her corner office view brought her fight up to a whole other level. She clutched the strap of her damp purse in a deathlike grip.
Look at them: sharing a meal on a Sunday afternoon, two men who obviously “bond” outside the office.
It begged the question of what qualifications Mr. Wolf actually had: Love of the same alcoholic beverage? A past with the boss that included a few laughs? Ethan was dressed in expensive clothes and looked like the kind of guy who enjoyed flirting with women, then rudely shunning the ones who didn’t appeal to him. His manner alone suggested someone who was overly confident and used to getting what he wanted. He probably drove a sports car and carried his little black book in a fancy European shoulder bag.
Her experience with men like Ethan was short but sad. She had almost married one until her father had interfered in that relationship too. When faced with the right kind of ultimatum, Brandon had up and moved to the Midwest to exchange vows with the first curvaceous tart who spread her legs.
Brooke took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and let it out slowly. Brandon said he had left because she was too career-focused and uninterested in having children right away. But she was only twenty-nine, for Christ’s sake, and she’d worked too hard to get where she was.
And if there was any motivation for keeping her office, it was to keep this weasel-faced player out of it. She squared her shoulders in preparation for an even bigger battle than she had first imagined. “Mr. Stevens, I’d like to make a proposition.” Both men looked up at her as if they were surprised that she was still there. “Assuming you know my past track record with client relations, you can see that I would be quite an asset to your company.”
“Of course,” Stevens added easily enough. “That’s why it would be a shame to lose you.”
“I was wondering how much experience Mr. Wolf has had in the trenches.”
Ethan’s fork hovered pre-bite. “What does that have to do with anything?�
�
“Character,” she stated with articulate care. “While I’m sure you have a nice degree on your wall, I have first-hand experience in every facet of the business, something you couldn’t possibly gain in the classroom.”
“I’ve done my time as an account specialist.”
Stevens interrupted their verbal battle with the wave of a hand. “You mentioned something about a proposition, Ms. Monroe?”
“Yes.” She took a steadying breath. “Since you so blatantly pointed out that I should prove myself first, I’d like a legitimate opportunity to do so.”
“He already has a VP.” Ethan cracked a crab leg and managed to spritz her eyeglasses as well.
Nostrils flared, Brooke removed her glasses and cleaned them with a napkin. “I have connections that go much further than your empty handshake ever could, Mr. Wolf. You say you have experience? I’d really like to see it.”
A brow cocked upward as amusement deepened the lines around his intense blue-gray eyes. They silently mocked her choice of words, promising a whole world of “experience” if she wanted to see it that badly.
“I do believe she’s challenging you, Ethan,” Stevens said, voicing her thoughts outright. “Something tells me that the next few months will be quite interesting for both of us.”
When Brooke placed her glasses back on her nose, it was with a determination to grind Ethan Wolf’s confidence into a fine dust that could be blown out of town by the next gale. “You seem like a shrewd businessman, Mr. Stevens. Certainly, you’d want the best person for the job.”
“I won’t give you Ethan’s job.”
“I’m not asking you to give it to me.” She jerked her chin in Ethan’s direction. “I want to earn it, as he should.”
The light in Ethan’s eyes changed from amusement to anger. “I don’t have to prove myself to Ken,” he stated. “I earned my title a long time ago.”
“So did I,” she hissed back through clenched teeth.