Taken

by Jennifer Dawson

  Christ. I must be off my game. I straighten and let all traces of intimacy between us evaporate into thin air. I give her my most polite smile and chuck her under the chin. “Sorry, but that’s not an option.”

  She frowns. “All I want is a chance to interview. Give me the chance to convince you.”

  Not in a million fucking years. I lie. “Sorry, sweetheart, the position was filled last week.”

  I give her my best charming grin. “Good luck finding employment.”

  And before she can say anything, I turn and walk away, without a backward glance in her direction. There is no way in hell I am ever interviewing Veronica Westwood. She’s dangerous. In one conversation she’d managed to slip past my guard and she’d done it almost effortlessly.

  Women do not slip past my guard. Ever.

  I make my way through the hallways and step over the red velvet rope, returning to the main ballroom. I check the time on my watch.

  Two more hours to go before I can escape.

  After I’ve fulfilled my obligation, I’ll meet my friends and forget about what transpired on the balcony. Or maybe I’ll call Stephanie, a submissive, redheaded interior designer I fuck on a semi-regular basis, to meet me. I’ll take her home and work off all this strange energy.

  I spot Veronica slipping back into the crowd. She cranes her neck, searching the crowd until she finds me. Our gazes lock.

  A waiter passes, carrying a tray full of flutes. She picks up a glass of Champagne and raises it to me in a toast. Even from across the room her challenge is clear.

  I find myself tightening in anticipation. I smirk before turning away.

  Yes, Stephanie is definitely in order this evening. I hope she’s prepared for quite a ride.

  3

  Veronica ~ Sunday

  I won’t lie the conversation on the balcony with Brandon had given me pause. It had gone nothing like I’d expected.

  He’d been nothing like I expected.

  There’d been an intensity in our discussion, a recognition or type of knowing I can’t quite explain. Everything about him called to me from the flare of heat in his ice-blue eyes, to the way his voice vibrated in my sternum, to our conversation, which had been oddly intimate and revealing.

  I’d left shaken.

  I’d left excited.

  I’d left more certain than ever I needed to pursue this job.

  I’d also left with the startling revelation that I wanted him.

  Sure, I’d been prepared to deal with some sort of attraction, because I’m human. He’s stunning and compelling. And, yes, he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.

  I’d anticipated something akin to a crush. Like a girl might have on her teacher. That’s what I prepared for. What I’d gotten was a desire that reached inside me and squeezed.

  I wanted to spread my legs for him and bare my soul.

  I wanted to tell him my deepest, darkest secrets.

  I wanted to do with him all the things I’d always been too scared to think about.

  It was disconcerting. After being with Winston so long, I’d determined chemistry a mythical, fictional fantasy. I’m not sure what to do with being wrong.

  So, yes, my reaction gave me pause.

  I look down at the piece of paper that contains his private email, cell phone number, and address. Information I’d paid a hacker friend of mine who works in cyber intelligence for the CIA a ridiculous sum of money to obtain.

  It might have given me pause, but it won’t stop me.

  I put my hands on the keyboard and begin to type.

  * * *

  Brandon ~ Sunday

  In the end, I didn’t call Stephanie. Nor did I meet up with my friends as I’d planned.

  I’d meant to, but I hadn’t.

  Instead, I’d come home to my historic Chicago mansion left to me by my grandparents. Long ago I’d promised my grandmother I’d never sell it, or her favorite pieces, and I’d kept my word. It’s old, rambling and decorated like a Victorian boudoir crossed with a modern day bachelor pad. Parts of the house are dark, forgotten and cold, while others are well lived in. It’s a house from another time, another world that hasn’t quite found its place in this one. I equally love and hate it. I could live somewhere else, but choose this place instead.

  It fits me.

  Last night, instead of the sex I’d promised myself, I’d come home, holed up in my study and watched the first series on Netflix I’d happened upon. But I hadn’t paid attention. Instead my mind had been occupied with Veronica and our strange encounter.

  An encounter I intend never to repeat.

  It’s early afternoon and I’m home from playing basketball, showered and sitting down in my office to go through work emails for a couple of hours as is my practice on Sundays. I glance through a contract for a building I’m acquiring, as my computer powers up before opening my email.

  Gatorade in hand, I look at my screen and pause, the bottle raised halfway to my lips.

  It’s an email from Veronica.

  How in the hell did she get my private account? An address less than ten people have?

  My mouse hovers over the subject line that simply reads, Resume — Veronica Westwood.

  I don’t appreciate the swell of excitement I experience at the sight of her name. Women emailing me, especially one emailing me for a job, does not excite me. Or at least, it shouldn’t.

  I open the correspondence.

  Dear Mr. Townsend,

  * * *

  I appreciate your reluctance to interview me for the position of General Manager, but I’d ask you to reconsider. If you review my resume, you will find I have impeccable education, skills and experience that will benefit your company.

  * * *

  All I ask is you read it and don’t judge my qualifications by my lineage. I would also like to point out that you would not have to pay a headhunter fee by hiring me; therefore, I’m already saving you money and increasing your bottom line.

  * * *

  Yes, I understand you will hit reply and say no, but I would like to be clear that I do not intend to take no for an answer.

  * * *

  Sincerely,

  Veronica Westwood

  * * *

  That I read it twice was bad enough, but that I read it with a huge smile on my face was entirely unacceptable. While I admire her initiative, I have no intention of responding. I will do what I do with all unsolicited email, trash it, and move on with my day.

  My mouse hovers over the trash icon. My finger twitches on the button. I veer the cursor at the last second, and hit reply. One response can’t hurt.

  Dear Ms. Westwood,

  * * *

  No.

  * * *

  Sincerely,

  Brandon Townsend III

  * * *

  After I sent, I looked at her resume.

  It’s…impressive.

  Truth be told, it’s better than my own.

  My email dings.

  It’s her. There’s only one word. Why?

  I’m not going to answer her.

  I’m not. I highlight the message determined to delete and end this.

  I hit reply instead.

  * * *

  Veronica ~ Sunday

  My heart hammers in my chest when my email dings a minute later.

  The position is filled.

  * * *

  Good day, Ms. Westwood.

  * * *

  I bite my lip and contemplate my next move. I know what my business books would say. Just like I know what my teacher at Harvard would say, and what my mentors would advise.

  But my instinct says something else. It’s a risk. I’m supposed to be professional. Yet, everything urges me not to play that game. So with a held breath, I follow my gut.

  Dear Mr. Townsend,

  * * *

  Lying is unbecoming of a gentleman.

  * * *

  Sincerely,

  Ms. Westwood

 
; * * *

  My email chimes.

  I have never claimed to be a gentleman.

  * * *

  Yes, this statement sends an inappropriate shiver down my spine, but I’m choosing to ignore my chemical response to him, to focus on what I want. An interview. The job. His tutelage in this strange new world. That’s my goal. Even though my reply is anything but businesslike.

  You’re still lying.

  * * *

  Conventional wisdom says men like Brandon don’t like to be challenged. But maybe, just maybe, it’s exactly what he needs and doesn’t know it. That my email continues to notify me of his messages makes me even more certain I’m right.

  And, what makes you so sure I’m lying, Ms. Westwood?

  * * *

  I blow out a breath. No balls, no babies. My level of Intel will either impress him or deem me a certifiable stalker. I’m banking on the former.

  I have it on good authority that, after a series of bad hiring decisions that led to the termination of two previous managers, you have been searching for the perfect candidate for nine months. In that time, you’ve interviewed a total of twenty-five people and been unsuccessful in finding a good fit for your company. It seems to me, at some point, an intelligent man comes to the conclusion what he’s doing isn’t working and it’s time to try something different.

  * * *

  I am your something different.

  * * *

  Brandon ~ Sunday

  I stare at the email for approximately five minutes, debating if I should be horrified or impressed. Right now, I’ll admit I’m leaning more toward impressed. Veronica Westwood is managing to surprise me, and that’s unusual. I keep telling myself I should stop engaging with her, that I should put a firm end to whatever game we’re playing.

  But I don’t. Engaging her is giving me far too much enjoyment.

  Well, well, well, someone’s been a busy girl. I suppose this explains how you obtained my email address. How much did your invasion of privacy cost you?

  * * *

  I send the message and lean back in the large, leather executive chair, swiveling ever so slightly, my eyes on the screen.

  I’m hard. Which is completely ridiculous, but true. I’m getting more of a rush exchanging mildly charged emails with Veronica than the last time I had sex with Stephanie. This alone is reason to cease, but I’m caught up in it now. The anticipation of matching wits with Veronica is intoxicating, the thrill racing through my blood.

  Her name pops up in bold black on the screen.

  You’re evading.

  * * *

  I have a carnal image of stripping her of everything but a skirt, and doing all sorts of depraved things to her on this chair.

  You’re pushing your luck.

  * * *

  I’m not interviewing her, regardless of her credentials.

  I open her latest email and blink in horror. Across my screen runs a screeching, balking chicken.

  I can’t help it. I laugh.

  * * *

  Veronica ~ Monday

  * * *

  I’d made progress, but he still hadn’t caved. After the chicken gif I’d sent he hadn’t responded. Maybe it was too much. But somehow I didn’t think so.

  Instinct told me I was getting to him. He’s getting to me too, but that’s beside the point.

  Bright this morning, I email him again.

  Dear Mr. Townsend,

  * * *

  Did you think I’d give up? Before you continue to refuse me, please consider my tenaciousness and how that trait will benefit you and your company. All this energy I’m putting into obtaining an interview can be used to your advantage. I never take no for an answer.

  * * *

  Maybe you deem me frivolous and didn’t think to read my resume. Let me outline a few of my qualifications that will benefit your organization:

  * * *

  I graduated from the Harvard MBA program #9 in my class.

  I recently turned down a mid-six-figure salary from the top venture capital firm in Chicago.

  I have letters of recommendations from three professors and four CEOs of fortune 100 companies. All of which were obtained through working directly for them, and not through my family connections. (Although, I’m sure they didn’t hurt. And yes, I should get points for honesty.)

  I literally have nothing better to do than stalk you.

  * * *

  I will call you at eleven thirty to discuss why you need to interview me.

  * * *

  Sincerely,

  * * *

  Veronica Westwood

  * * *

  I contemplate the folly of the last line I want to write, but decide to go for it. Polite is not going to wear him down.

  P.S. Don’t pretend you didn’t laugh at my gif. You totally did.

  * * *

  I send it off and hold my breath, for ten seconds before blowing it out in a whoosh. I stare intently at my email inbox, willing it to ding.

  Waiting.

  Watching.

  Praying.

  He doesn’t reply.

  * * *

  Brandon ~ Monday

  The amount of willpower I’ve expended on not replying to Veronica is troublesome. Since the day I decided to stop being an entitled, privileged brat I have always prided myself on my discipline and self-control.

  Discipline and self-control are the cornerstones of my life and permeates all facets of my existence. My relationship with women, included. I believed them engrained because they’ve been easy for me for a very long time.

  That Veronica is testing my resolve is one more reason in a long list of reasons not to interview her.

  That I’m more attracted to her than any other woman I’ve encountered, is another.

  For the sake of argument, even if I wanted to hire her, I couldn’t. I have a strict, no fraternizing with direct reports policy. A policy I’ve fired people for violating. A policy I’m not arrogant enough to believe I won’t breach if I see her every day. I cannot continue to engage her and allow her to wear me down.

  I read her email again before closing it and returning to the spreadsheet I’d been working on. But I can’t concentrate. She’s already distracted me. I narrow my eyes at the calendar app on my computer. Slowly, almost as if I can’t help myself, I open it.

  I glance through my schedule. I’m in a meeting from eleven to twelve. I haven’t responded to her last two emails, so I’m assuming she’ll take that as a firm no and not call.

  I stare at my blue bar, indicating the meeting I’m in, swirling the mouse in a mindless motion so the cursor makes random, erratic circles on my screen.

  I grit my teeth and move my meeting.

  * * *

  Veronica ~ Monday

  His lack of response doesn’t deter me. It’s a test. And I always ace my tests.

  At eleven twenty-nine I call his private cell phone number, not willing to take any chances he’ll rebuff me through an administrative assistant. He already knows I have all his information, so I don’t see the point of going through proper channels.

  My heart is in my throat, my pulse throbbing as I wait. On the third ring, he answers, and my heart immediately doubles in speed at the sound of his low, smooth voice. “I want the name of your hacker. They do impressive work.”

  My stomach jumps and I smile. “How did you know it was me?”

  There’s a beat over the line. “Twelve people have this number and they are all in my contact list. Considering this call is coming in at eleven thirty sharp, I used my powers of deductive reasoning.”

  I weigh the folly of my response and plunge headfirst into the deep end. “You answered.”

  “Only to inform you my decision is final,” he says, his tone so casual I’m positive he’s faking.

  I ignore the statement. “Have you read my resume?”

  “I have, and I don’t intend on changing my mind, Veronica.”

  Brain spinning, I quickl
y compile my options. He’s talking a good game, but he answered my call. He’d been prepared for me. If he weren’t thinking about it, about me, he wouldn’t have taken my call. So I go with my instincts. “Since I don’t intend to stop until I’m sitting in front of you, we can do this the hard way, or we can do this the easy way.”

  He laughs. It sounds rich and genuine, and I find myself wondering when the last time he laughed like that. “Oh, little Veronica, you have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

  “On the contrary, Mr. Townsend, I think I know exactly who I’m dealing with.” I smile and add. “Which is why it’s working.”

  * * *

  Brandon ~ Monday

  She’s right. It is working.

  But I’m still not interviewing her. Now that I’ve heard her voice, the same smooth cadence that glided over my skin the night of the gala, the smart move is to end this phone call, but I find I’m not ready to do that. I swivel in my chair. “And why do you think that?”

  There’s a pause over the line and I can practically hear her thinking. Using that cunning mind of hers to compose her argument. “I think a man like you is perfectly capable of avoiding me if that was your wish. The fact that you don’t, leads me to believe you’re interested in your mind being changed.”