by Lara Hunter
Generally.
“Thanks,” she snapped out, adding with a sideways glance at the grandfather clock that formed a far corner of the office. “But would you still classify this hour of the day as morning?”
I chuckled.
“Now I realize, that I am bit late for this morning’s meeting,” I admitted, adding as I stepped forward to take my hands in hers, “But thanks to the reminder e-mail that you sent me yesterday evening, I haven’t missed it entirely. As always, Lily, thank you.”
Holding her gaze, I brought Lily’s hand to my lips for a light kiss.
“You know I never could make it without you around here,” I reminded her, nodding in my own affirmation of my own sincere words. “You’re one of the brightest, most talented ladies I’ve ever met and you run this office so smoothly, without a hitch, not so easy to do, I realize, with me as your boss. And I also must say it.” With this I leaned across the desk, narrowing my eyes as I said in a softer, more intimate tone, “I never mind the sight of you first thing in the morning, especially when you’re telling me what to do. You know bloody well that, as always, I’m at your command.”
I grinned as Lily broke our gaze, her cheeks flushing with a becoming blush as she took her hands from mine; raising to run them in a soothing motion through her smart brunette bob.
“Just get on in there,” she ordered me, her tone softening as she turned for her desk.
“Yes, Ma’am,” I saluted her with a smile, wondering as I turned away just what kind of a man could face up to the challenge of courting Ms. Lily; although, I figured, the attempt itself would be well worth the effort.
***
Lily
Blast Oliver Clark! Blast him! He is the most arrogant, annoying, and out and out gorgeous man I’ve ever met!
Ooops. Did I just sat that out loud? Well, there’s really no use in denying the obvious. All dressed up in a grey silk suit, one that accented his tall, muscular frame to absolute perfection, Oliver shone in his masculine beauty. And with his bronzed skin, wide dark eyes and sculpted face, the dude probably would shine in a brown paper bag. He really should have just abandoned the whole executive career plan and become a friggin’ super model instead; walking the runways with rhythmic hips and pouting profusely for the likes of Abercrombie and Calvin or whatever those high fashion types call themselves… I’m too darned busy keeping this office afloat to catch up on my fashion and pop culture references!
And I must admit that, in addition to his almost ridiculous degree of sleek masculine beauty, Oliver was quite the charmer as well; a full fifteen minutes after watching him disappear into his office, I still felt the heat of his stare, the feel of his full, warm lips on my hands, the lingering effect of his citrus-tinged scent… I still heard that smooth, deep voice echoing in my ear, singing my praises endlessly as he flattered and fawned over me. Sometimes I wondered if he was simply trying to flirt his way out of a full day’s work, or to quell my frequent and persistent irritation with a hefty dose of good ol’ fashioned charm. Furthermore, the feelings that he sometimes ignited within me were anything but old fashioned; often, Oliver stole into my dreams and daytime fantasies—filling my mind with provocative, deliciously forbidden images of him kissing me, holding me, whispering in my ear; saying and doing things that thrilled and excited me.
Oh, I can control my daytime fantasies well enough, I suppose. Discipline and self-control is my middle name, or would that be two middle names? Three, counting the hyphenated term? Oh never mind, the point, and I do have one, is that during my waking hours I can redirect my wandering, somewhat fevered thoughts to my current work projects, duties and responsibilities, along with occasional, very warm and sentimental notions of my mom and dad back home, my poodle Riley, and just how darned well the Yankees are doing right now.
Yet when I lay ensconced in my nice warm bed and my eyes drifted shut, I could do nothing to control the romantic, sometimes downright sensual dreams of Oliver Clark that flooded my psyche and, I hated to admit it, aroused my body to no end.
OK Ashton, time for a cold shower and a big, harsh dose of reality, I told myself, sitting down hard in my chair and resting my forehead in my hands. I cannot even think of getting involved with that man in any way, shape, form, or—um—position.
I’d always vowed never to get involved with anyone I worked with, especially not an employer that I (ahem!) worked directly under; of course, that promise was a lot easier to keep back in college, when I interned as a page for a 75-year-old senator with false teeth, chronic halitosis (possibly related to his previously stated lack of natural born teeth) and eight kids, 14 great grandkids, and five great grands at home. A gorgeous, single gent like Oliver was just a bit tougher to resist; especially when he insisted on flirting with me and flattering me on a daily basis. That is, when he bothered to come into work at all.
So it was time for me to make my daily list of reasons as to why I really, truly should not consider a serious, or even casual, involvement with my employer. And it generally ran, as follows:
1. He’s my employer. It would be professional suicide for me to mix business and pleasure. 2. I’m not his type. Not that I could rightly be compared to the Creature from The Black Lagoon, mind you—it’s just that I’ve never rightly seen him with a woman whose bra size exceeds her IQ. Plus I choose to maintain my natural hair color, which doesn’t happen to be platinum blonde, and a somewhat natural make up aesthetic that doesn’t involve the use of false eyelashes, siren red lipstick or glitter eye shadow. If I was a stranger he passed on the street, I doubt that he’d even look my way. 3. I’m sure the man charms every mortal female who crosses his radar on a daily basis; from his accountant to his father’s maid to the gal who carries out his groceries at Costco. I should not take his attentions to heart.
There, then; I had reasoned and stated, in no uncertain terms, three solid reasons as to why I should never even think about sparking a romance with Oliver Clark. Then why, I wonder, did I find myself making this same list almost every single day?
Chapter Two
~
Oliver
“And that, Ladies and Gentlemen, is why we need to close this deal and make the merger as soon as possible.”
Taking my seat at the front of the conference room, I folded my hands before me and offered a genial smile to the associates that now applauded me; a smile that dissolved as I noticed that my father, seated tall and erect at the opposite end of our polished cherry wood meeting table, did not join his employees in their apparent enthusiasm for the ideas and concepts I’d just offered. Quite the contrary, I was now being pinned with a cool, hard stare I’d come to know all too well; one first directed at me sometime during my high school years, and that seemed to appear just like clockwork every few weeks or so.
Soon our co-workers and clients approached me one by one, both to engage me in light, friendly conversation and to ask questions about the ideas I’d presented during the course of the meeting, some of which I was proud to say I could actually answer. Well, in part, anyway… the rest I pretty much bluffed my way through before making plans for dinner, tennis dates, evenings at the opera and theater, and (or so was the case with one junior executive who boasted an inordinate amount of cleavage and blonde hair, in that order) a late night rendezvous to be enjoyed at a later date, but not much later, or so we both fervently hoped.
All the while, though, my father continued to pin me with a cold, hard stare that chilled me to the bone; causing me to turn away from him and try to lose myself in my conversations with our colleagues.
I tried my best to prolong these interactions, talking about everything from the weather to the previous night’s Tampa Bay Rays game before resorting to really lame Dancing with the Stars and American Idol episode recaps; lame, not because of the overall quality of these shows, but because I never had caught more than 5 or so random minutes of either program.
Finally as our colleagues said their goodbyes and cleared the meeting r
oom, my father approached me with a small, forced smile as he said, “Good job, Son.”
I nodded.
“Thanks, Dad,” I grinned. “For being fashionably late this morning, I still managed to seal the deal.”
“Actually, Son, you were a half hour late,” Harry told me, folding his arms before him. “And this isn’t the first time… not even the first time this week. And while you did deliver a polished, very slick presentation, you brought fluff to the table, not facts. Apart from the market research that Lily has done on your behalf, you did not bring a single solid statistic, original idea, or cohesive game plan to this project meeting.”
I laughed.
“Well what can I say?” I smirked, adding with a careless shrug, “They ate it up. The crowd seemed to love me.”
Dad sighed.
“They loved you, sure enough,” he confirmed, folding his arms before him. “And who wouldn’t? You’re handsome, you’re well spoken, and you could sell a Vogue subscription to a nudist. I, meanwhile, am the grisled old man that stands behind the scenes and does all the real work. What’s going to happen when I retire, son? Your sly smiles and perfect hair alone aren’t going to carry our company into the future, especially not in this economy.”
That famous smile went down a few watts as I considered these dark words.
But only briefly.
“With all due respect, Dad,” I squared my shoulders, staring my old man straight in the eye. “Most of the ideas I presented today did not come from you.”
Dad nodded.
“Oh believe me, I’m well aware of that,” he snorted, adding as he rolled his eyes, “I do believe it was Lily who came up with those facts and figures.”
I shrugged.
“Well, for the most part you’re probably right,” I conceded in a low voice, adding with a second shrug, “Isn’t that pretty much her job, though? She is, after all, my personal assistant, and we pay her very well to support me.”
Dad had heard enough.
“We pay you a lot more, Son, and for a job that you don’t do, not very well or thoroughly anyway,” he scoffed, adding as he pointed an authoritative finger in my direction, “And I’m sure that Lily shares my viewpoints. Sometimes I wonder why she doesn’t just get up and leave.”
I said nothing in response, I just swallowed hard as I considered this unsettling possibility; as I actually tried to consider life without Lily. The very prospect, I realized, struck fear in my heart.
But wait a minute. I was Oliver Clark. I didn’t need anyone else to survive; though the absence of Lily would make it mighty difficult.
“I’ll be just fine, Dad,” I said aloud, adding as I forced a smile and clapped him on the back, “Listen, why don’t we just forget we had this conversation and go out for a pizza this weekend—or maybe dinner and a show?”
Dad shook his head.
“I would like for you to dine with me, son, but tonight,” he told me, adding as he pinned me with a sideways glance, “I only hope that you’ll break character by being on time for dinner this evening.”
I froze.
“Were we supposed to have dinner together tonight?” I asked, straining to remember which young female I’d have to call to cancel this evening’s planned rendezvous. “Oh, yes, now I remember, 6 o’clock at Le Jardin, right?”
Harry shook his head.
“Five o’clock at my house,” he corrected me, adding with a hard look, “Be there.”
Returning in silence to my office, I closed the door tight behind me; the harshness of his tone ringing in my head as I considered my father’s dinner invitation. At least once or twice a month my father and I got together at one of our favorite restaurants to talk both business and personal matters.
He almost never asks me out to the house. The way he was out and out glaring at me during the meeting, maybe I should insist that we meet in a public place.
***
Despite my reluctance (read: out and out terror) I headed out that evening to the Clark family manor; a three-story ivory stone mansion that boasted stained glass windows, broad balconies and a sprawling front porch, vines of entwining ivy adorning the smooth, sandstone walls, and a luminous roof of domed crystalline.
Not a bad place to grow up, I thought as I unlocked and opened a side entrance to access the family dining room.
I smiled as I immediately recognized the lush gold brocade wallpaper and the French Impressionist watercolors that lined our family dining room; my grin broadening as I paused to think about the wonderful woman who had raised me between these elegant walls. I still could picture my mom seated on the edge of her favorite floral print couch, watching me with a smile as I played with blocks and super hero figures in the middle of the floor; or as we shared a special movie or TV show that we’d watched umpteen times—memorizing every line and singing every song.
I thought tenderly about the close relationship I had shared with my mother as I stared out the panes of some elegant French doors to the back yard area where she and I once played and had long conversations about everything from school to our family life to my future. A future that I always thought would include her.
I also paused to remember all of the delicious meals that we shared in our family dining room; I turned now to step into this room, adorned as it was with plush mauve carpeting, as well as a long table lined with a lace cloth, ivory linens and hand embroidered placemats.
How I wished I was sitting down to enjoy one of Mom’s famous chicken dinners, with her by my side as we clinked our glasses together and shared one of our many private jokes.
Instead I approached our table alone; drawing a deep sigh as I prepared for what I feared would be a far less pleasant meal. Taking my usual seat at the side of the table, I greeted Ellie, the adorable grey haired woman that had served as my family’s maid for the past 30 years, and thanked her profusely as she presented me with a silver platter topped with a steaming serving of turkey and dressing; along with some generous sides of seasoned vegetables and cranberry sauce.
“My favorite!” I praised her, patting her shoulder with tender affection.
Ellie nodded.
“I thought that in anticipation of your chat with your father, you’d need all the energy you could muster,” she told me, shooting me what seemed to be a sympathetic glance.
As if on cue, we were joined in the dining room by a stone faced Harry Clark; issuing a quick “Thank you” to Ellie as she set his dinner plate at the head of the table and made a hasty retreat for the kitchen.
“Hey, Dad!” I greeted him cheerily, taking up my silver utensils between fingers that seemed to be trembling, just slightly. “This food looks absolutely delicious!”
I froze as my father sat down in his seat with a hard, forceful flourish; leaning across the table to sear me with a gaze that nearly killed my appetite.
“And you won’t eat a bite of it before listening good and close to everything your father has to say,” he barked, adding as he pointed an accusing finger in my direction, “You, Son, are a highly intelligent, very personable and inordinately striking young man.”
I shook my head.
“Is this your own special way of telling me off?” I blinked, adding with a defined smirk, “If so, then by all means, heap on the abuse. I do believe I can take it!”
“You do indeed have a great many natural gifts,” Harry continued, searing me with a hard look. “And you are constantly abusing them, using them to cut corners, take shortcuts and make excuses. Measures you need to take quite often, as you’re constantly running late for meetings, that is, when you’re not missing them altogether. Your work reports are thin on substance and brim with filler; and your team members, including myself, are constantly having to cover for you as you continuously shirk your job duties and underperform on projects, that is, when you’re not bailing on projects altogether.” He paused here, stroking his chin in thought as he added, “And after a great deal of thought and consideration, I do believ
e I’ve discovered the reason for your behavior.”