The CEO's Valentine

by Stella Marie Alden

  Me: What did you find out about Ms. Harte?

  Praveel: Not much. Check your email.

  I do and the air goes out of my chest. She has a live-in boyfriend. What a lying, cheating bitch. Now, it’s clear to me that she’s got some agenda. I don’t know what she’s up to but I’m putting an end to it. My dad worked long and hard for this company and I promised him I would take it public before he dies.

  “Thanks. Keep me updated.”

  I figure it’s time to let Xavier in on why I’m here in New York. Obviously, he’s not the bad guy I first thought. I walk into his office where he’s sitting with his feet up on the desk, listening on speaker phone.

  He sits up and presses mute. “Hey, Grayson. Come on in. How was your trip?”

  “Good. Went well. I sent the contract to legal. There’s so many billable hours we’ll need to talk about getting a few more new-hires.”

  “Was Ms. Harte adequate?”

  “She did a good job, why?”

  He unmutes, says a quick bye, and hangs up the phone. “Nothing. I’ve just never thought of her as competent with customer interactions.”

  “In what way?”

  “She just doesn’t click the way the men, do. You know. And, I think she may have a problem. Maybe she drinks. And she’s too butch, not feminine enough. She needs to wear heels, a bit of makeup, soften her looks. That would go a long way in making her more successful.”

  I sit and scratch my stubble. “Why didn’t you talk to Jeanine if you were worried about her drinking?”

  “I would but you know how women stick together. Besides you can’t fire alcoholics. It’s a disease. You need to get them help and that raises insurance rates. It’s better to fire them for incompetence and I’m working on that.”

  Damn. The guy sounds so much like my dad, I squirm. That isn’t the way I run my companies. However, I am trusting Isabella with a multimillion dollar account.

  I need to find out more but when I call the former HR director, Jeanine Kaplin, it goes to voicemail.

  Chapter 8

  Izzy

  Back in Brooklyn, I wander to the bar where our group has a table reserved in the back, say hi, and sit. When the waitress comes, we all order non-alcoholic, in deference to the few who are in recovery.

  I figure it’s my turn to talk first, so clear my throat. When I have everyone’s attention, my face heats to the tops of my ears.

  I have to force my upper teeth from biting into my lower lip to explain what went on in the plane. “I actually had an orgasm when he squeezed my knee. It wasn’t until later that I realized that was exactly how my cousin started his abuse. This is so many shades of fucked up. Why didn’t I see it as it was happening?”

  Mel nods, squeezes my shoulder, and hands me my glass of ginger ale. “Don’t feel bad. We all fall into that trap. It kind of reminds me of how my dad messed with me as a kid. It was secret and forbidden. He got away with touching me in the living room while my mother made dinner in the kitchen.

  I moan and put my hands in my face. “Oh fuck, and here I thought I was getting better. It’s just when I found Jared cheating, I felt so damn vulnerable.”

  Jenny jumped in, “Just be conscious, hun. If you liked what happened make sure it’s because it’s good, not because it’s coming from someplace bad in your past.”

  “How can I even tell?”

  A couple women give some hints about thinking before acting and how I should take a deep breath and analyze situations with a clear head.

  Dammit. If I hadn’t taken that Ativan, I probably would’ve been fine.

  Will I ever be done with this? It seems so unfair that I have so much psychological bullshit and my cousin gets off scot-free. I’d say this out loud but we all agreed when we started this group there’d be no self-pity, only insightful comments.

  Mel pipes in, “Tell them how he lied about his identity.”

  “Oh my God. He’s the owner of Patten Securities, a fucking billionaire but he told me he was the human resource guy, replacing my friend, Jeanine. Fuck. Everything he said was a lie.”

  Mel hands me a card. “This is CJ’s brother, Andy. He’s a lawyer. You talk to him. Maybe there’s something you can do.”

  “Shit, but I like my job.”

  I don’t say how I still really like James, or Grayson, or whatever the hell his name is. I’m just pissed he lied to me.

  We finish up the meeting and I still feel like shit and yet, in another way, a whole lot better. These women, like me, are learning how to cope with being abused as kids. We’re all doing okay. This was just a small setback.

  Outside, it’s too cold to walk, and a little dark, but I stop and try to text Jeanine. Still, no answer.

  Mel’s driver, Jack, rolls down the limo window and gives me a warm smile. “You want a ride, Izzy?”

  “No, no. I need some air, time to think. I can walk from here.”

  Suddenly, Statten, I mean Patten, gets out of another dark car behind Jack’s. “We need to talk. Get in.”

  “Hell no.” I back away.

  “You think you can threaten to bring down my company?”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Get in.”

  “I already said no. Are you nuts?” I curse the icy sidewalk. I may not get far but I scream and run like hell.

  “For chrissake, I’m not going to hurt you. It’s cold and I just want to talk.”

  Suddenly, Mel’s limo comes around the block, and her driver jumps out of the car with a baseball bat in his hand. “Is there a problem here? Get in the car, Isabella.”

  Grayson curses and he gets back in his limo. I notice the same driver that picked us up in the airport. So, that was a lie, too?

  Chapter 9

  Grayson

  The next day she doesn’t show up for work and after I hear what she’s done, I buy an untraceable burner phone and send her a text.

  Me: It’s me. Gray. We need to talk.

  Izzy: You lied to me.

  Me: Meet me at the Starbucks near work. I can explain.

  Izzy: K

  Slate drops me off, I order an espresso, and sit at a small table and wait with eyes on the door. My heart leaps when she enters, blond hair all windblown against a shapeless dark coat. Except for dark circles under her eyes and a chip on her shoulder, she looks great as she orders at the bar, then sits.

  I’m not used to wanting a woman so bad that it aches and it stirs up my temper. “So, I heard you consulted with a lawyer? You’re taking me to court?”

  Obviously, I should be drinking decaf because this is not how I meant to start off.

  She eyes me as she blows across the coffee, lips pursed. “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “You liked it.” Damn, even as angry as I am, I want to reach across the table, pull her to my lips and kiss that look away.

  “What’re you talking about?” Her blue eyes narrow, surrounded by thick blond lashes.

  “On the plane. You liked it.”

  “My God. You think that’s what this is about?” She shakes her head and eyes me all superior-like.

  “I apologize.”

  “Good. I’ll hand in my resignation. You give me compensation until I find a new job and oh yeah, I want a good recommendation.”

  “And why would I do that?”

  “Because it’s the right thing to do? Besides. If not, my lawyer says I have enough to take you to court but not because of the airplane. It’s how Patten Securities treats women. All women.”

  “You do that and it will come out that you’re an alcoholic. No one will ever hire you again.”

  “Whaaaat?” She stands, the table wobbles, and the last of my coffee splats over my boots. “Why the hell would you make up shit like that? I only had two drinks with you and that’s because I’m afraid of flying. Never would’ve happened if you hadn’t put me in first class.”

  “No one forced those drinks down your throat.” I dab at my jeans with a napkin, glarin
g bullets into her.

  “What the fuck? I don’t have a problem! You do. Where’s this coming from?” Her voice goes up a notch and a few people catch it on their phones but frankly, I don’t give a flying fuck.

  I can’t believe I’m standing and shouting at her in public. “Tell me that meeting last night was not an al-anon meeting.”

  “Just a second.” She rummages through her purse, pulls out a card, and slaps it down on the table.

  Dr. Simone Darby

  Specializing in adult survivors of sexual abuse

  “That’s our group.”

  Oh fuck.

  Isabella has tears welling in the corners of her eyes. Her eyebrows are raised, fists clenched, and she swipes a sleeve across her face. “Are you happy, now? Huh? It’s not a twelve step. At least not in the way you mean it.”

  I don’t think I’ve ever felt more like a heel. “I’m sorry. Sit please. I really, truly am sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Write me a nice letter of recommendation, get out of my life, and that will be payment enough, okay? And I’m sorry I let you touch me and that I kissed you on the plane. I’m working on that.” Her ears are that bright shade of red and she uses a napkin to blow her nose.

  Blaming herself for what happened is unacceptable so I block her way. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?” Lashes wet with tears raise up and my gut tightens.

  That should be my sign to smarten up and get the hell out of Dodge but I’ve never been that bright and never before had such intense feelings.

  “You shouldn’t apologize for me touching you or for kissing me. Sit down and talk. Let’s work this out as adults.” I pull out her chair and hold my breath, hoping I can find a way to make this right.

  “Just drop it. Okay? It never happened.”

  When I gently push on her shoulders, she sits, looking so miserable, I would do anything to go back in time and fix things. “Listen. I want you to stay at Patten.”

  “No.” Her heart-shaped chin juts out, her lips quiver, and I cover her hands with mine.

  From now on, I’m going to take care of her, whether she likes it or not. “You signed a non-compete clause. I’ll see to it no one else hires you.”

  “After all you did, you would hold me to that?” Her hurt is cutting me in two but I can’t let her go.

  I convince myself it’s about the Houston project but it’s not. I’ve never felt this way about a woman and I know she feels the same. We just need some time to figure this out.

  “I’ll double your salary and you only have to stay until we go public.”

  With lips pursed, she sits and sips on her coffee watching customers come and go before answering. “Okay, I’ll stay if you agree to one more thing.”

  “What’s that.”

  “You need to review the evidence I have on Patten Securities.” She unfolds her laptop, turns it toward me, and plays back a video of two people being interviewed. First a young woman and then a man.

  Shit. They’re asked two completely different types of questions.

  At one point the female interviewee is pulled aside and told, “This is not some cushy job. You may need to stay up all night, long hours. Are you up for that? Do you have a sitter?”

  The man was patted on the back, asked some generic questions about his college background and salary requirements.

  Then, Isabella hands me their resumes and I moan. The woman was way more qualified for the job than the male. So, this is what she brought to her lawyer. This kind of thing, even if I lose in court, could send my dad’s company into the shitter. I can’t believe she’s giving me a way out.

  “Don’t tell me. Xavier hired this one.” I hold up the man’s resume.

  “Well, duh.” Her eyes roll.

  “If I promise to deal with this, you’ll come back and work for me? I really need you in Houston.”

  “You got more problems than just this. The attitude about women is companywide. It comes from the top down.”

  “For example?”

  “I had one project manager tell me that woman are too emotional.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Let me try putting another minority in there. Black people are too emotional.”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  “I had another guy, when I disagreed with him tell me I didn’t understand the problem.”

  “So?”

  “Dammit, Patten. I understood the problem, I just disagreed about the best way to fix it. He made it sound like I was a complete moron and shut me down.”

  “I think you’re just being paranoid.”

  “No, I’m not. Women in this company aren’t given the same opportunities to advance and even when we are, we’re too quiet or too abrasive. Hell, it’s a wonder any females stay but I’m through. I got an interview with Google. I just need your personal recommendation. Make something up or I swear, I’ll put this video onto YouTube.”

  “You wouldn’t.” After reading more about Isabella, I know she’s the reason my dad’s had huge successes, recently. I really do need her and in more ways than one.

  Suddenly, a guy sitting at the next table stands up and introduces himself, holding up his phone. “Hi, I’m Monty from Money Talks Blog. Care to comment?”

  I can’t fucking believe this. “You set me up, Isabella? Damn you’re good.”

  “Wait, no. I didn’t.” She shuts her computer and tries to keep me from leaving by pulling on my wool coat.

  Monty steps in front of her with his phone jutted out like a microphone. “Isabella Harte, right? You work for his father. Did you know this man is Grayson Patten, now CEO of Patten Securities? Are you screwing him?”

  Izzy’s eyes go wide. “Huh, no. I didn’t know...”

  “That’s good, because that might be something his prospective shareholders would want to know.” The asshat holds up his phone and when I try to snatch it out of his hands, he quickly pulls it out of my reach.

  I could get it but not without an assault charge to go along with all his other accusations.

  Ah fuck. I’ve known that this kind of shit happens to billionaires all the time. I just never expected it to happen to me. I’ve been so damn careful for years.

  It’s Isabella. She makes me stupid.

  I turn to her and clap real slow-like three times. “Perfect performance. Don’t bother to come to work tomorrow.”

  “What about your promise?”

  “I’ll hire someone to come in and clean up this mess. You aren’t indispensable Ms. Harte.”

  “But I never-”

  “Goodbye Ms. Harte.”

  “Ohhh. You are so, damn, stupid.” She stamps her foot, digs into her purse, and throws a crumpled twenty onto the table.

  Then she’s gone. Out the door and out of my life. Probably, forever. Not only that, I can kiss the government deal in Houston goodbye.

  Before I can put my coat on, there’s a loud screech and the awful bang of crumpling metal. People start pointing out the front window with eyes wide.

  A woman rushes in and shouts, “Oh my God. Someone call 911. A woman was hit by a car! Is there a doctor?”

  A guy jumps out of his chair and I follow him out the door.

  It can’t be her. No way. Shit.

  Cars honk while bloody blond hair rests against the pavement, a body crumpled under a dark coat.

  Is it her? I can’t be sure.

  “Someone, let me through.” I push a few pedestrians aside and drop to my knees.

  “Step back.” The guy who’d rushed out of the coffee shop checks her neck for a pulse.

  I can’t see her face, dammit. I need to see.

  I reach to turn the bloodied face toward me but at the tap on my shoulder, I turn. My heart nearly explodes with relief as I stand and wrap my arms around Isabella, my face in her hair.

  “I thought she was you.” After a bit, I loosen my grip and she looks up at me, eyes all wide, face pale.

  “The car neve
r stopped. It was if he was aiming right for me. I jumped back but that poor girl got hit.”

  I pick up my phone and text Slate my address while the sirens in the distance get louder. Soon, a couple cruisers park on the curb along with three ambulances.

  A big cop gets out and waves his hands at the gathering crowd. “You people should move along.”

  However, Isabella steps forward and juts out that heart-shaped chin. “Excuse me, officer. I saw the whole thing. I got a partial plate.”

  While she gives him all the details, I write down the number and my fears grow worse. Three near misses in one week is no coincidence.

  The asshat from Money Talks Blog talks in front of his phone, no doubt hoping to make the eleven o’clock news.

  Then, he points the phone at me, “Something you want to say?”

  “You post anything and I’ll shut you down tighter than a clam’s ass.”

  “Can I quote you?” He starts working his thumbs on the keys.

  “Try it.” I walk Isabella away from him with my arm around her shoulder. “You need to come home with me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Something similar happened to me last week. Until I’m sure it’s unrelated, you should stay close, in case they try again.”

  She looks down at the blood that splattered on her wool coat and takes it off despite the wind chill of twenty-degrees. “I’m fine. I just need to drop this off at the cleaners.”

  “We’ll do that. Get in the car, okay?” I don’t like the blank look on her face and by the time I get her home, I’m glad I insisted because she’s sobbing unconsolably.

  I turn on the gas fireplace in the living room and pour her a drink.

  After taking a sip, she makes a face and asks, “Can I have ice? It’s too strong.”

  “Better?” It pains me but I put a couple of cubes in my twenty-five-year-old bourbon.

  She nods, her face still pale. “That poor girl. Do you think she’ll be okay?”

  “She’s getting the best care money can buy.” I made sure of that as we made our way uptown. Whatever the reason, some asshole is after me and an innocent got caught in the crosshairs.