by Celia Aaron
“Unlikely,” I said.
Mr. Poole raised his eyebrows and gave me a stern look. “No offense, Jack, but you just got here. And I don’t make business decisions based on the opinions of secretaries.”
Ms. Rochester shot me an acid look. “I’m sorry, Gray, he’s new—”
I pulled a spreadsheet from my pile of papers. “This documents the profits you’ve gained for each of the past dozen projects you’ve done with Ms. Rochester. It shows your investment, the time frame your capital was used in the project, the eventual gains, and how close to asking price each of the units sold. As you can see, your profits have risen with each subsequent deal, only dropping slightly in 2007-2008 during the real estate crash. After that, the increase in the amounts you’ve made have been far higher than the gains in the real estate market in general and, obviously, far higher than the gains you would have earned in the open stock market, especially given the too-big-to-fail market of 2008. Also, note that on several deals, she got you more than asking.”
Mr. Poole drew a pair of drugstore reading glasses from his inner coat pocket and perched them on his nose so he could follow along. I pulled another spreadsheet from my stack. “This one shows your return on investment when you’ve put money in projects at Thornfield that were supervised by VPs other than Ms. Rochester. Here, when you chose to give a Mississippi high-end condo project to VP Cheryl Ingram, the project barely broke even. You would have had a better return betting blind on the stock market during that same time period. There are a couple of other examples on there where you did earn a profit, but nothing approaching the same results as Ms. Rochester provided.”
I slid my last spreadsheet over to Mr. Poole. “This final spreadsheet isn’t quite as detailed, mainly because I had to cobble it together from a multitude of sources, but it shows a handful of your investments in companies other than Thornfield. You made some modest gains, especially on the condominiums in Seaside. However, just like with the other VPs, none of these projects even come close to the returns Ms. Rochester’s projects have provided.”
I quieted and stole a glance at Ms. Rochester. Her head cocked to the side as she studied me, ignoring the spreadsheets Mr. Poole pored over. She seemed almost impressed, a slight smile on her lips.
Her green eyes, flecked with hazel, seemed to see every bit of me. Her face wasn’t the sort of pretty that you see on billboards or TV. But she was beautiful. Her beauty seemed more pronounced, her features written in starker lines. Her high cheekbones caught the light, and her small nose was a nice complement to her fuller lips. Her eyebrows were dark and faintly arched. Is this what people meant when they said a woman was “handsome”?
“So you came up with this? All on your own?” she asked.
“Yes. They are mine.” I answered a bit more fiercely than I intended. I was more than capable of doing my own work.
Her smile grew, as if she was pleased with me for showing my anger.
“Well, hell, Rochester.” Mr. Poole stowed his glasses in his pocket. “Looks like your secretary knows my business better than I do.”
“Perhaps so. And he’s my assistant, not my secretary.”
I knew it was a distinction without a difference, but I appreciated her sentiment. I had no qualms about being beneath her on the corporate ladder, but I had some different ideas about who’d be on top in the private sphere.
Mr. Poole turned his fake smile on me. “All right, Jack, you’ve convinced me.”
Ms. Rochester began, “Great, we can get the contract—”
Mr. Poole held up a hand. “Not so fast, Eden. I need more than just numbers and sales talk. The building is on schedule to be completely finished in two months. I’ll give you the listings, all of them, if you can promise me a complete sellout in that time.”
“Two months, Gray? A pre-sellout? Two months simply isn’t enough time—”
“If you can’t do it, I’m sure that little blonde thing, Emily, would be more than happy to shake her tail feathers for me and get it done. Look, I’ll even sweeten the pot a little. If you get it all done in the two months, I’ll give you double commissions. But if you don’t get it done, you’ll get no more business from me. Not so much as some shithole apartment complex in North Birmingham. I intend to hold you to your word on this.” His congenial tone had an edge to it, calculating and cold.
He was playing a game of chicken, but I was too new to the situation to gauge why. There was something going on that I couldn’t put my finger on. I didn’t like it. My hands fisted beneath the table. I wanted to teach Gray some manners, to show him the proper way to speak to Ms. Rochester. I remained still.
Ms. Rochester opened her mouth and closed it again, as if thinking better of her words. After a few more moments of tense silence, she slumped ever so slightly. “Fine, Gray, fine. You have a deal.”
“That’s more like it.” I realized Mr. Poole was the sort of man who enjoyed lording power over others, making them squirm like a sadistic kid burning ants with a magnifying glass. I despised him.
He smiled at me, triumph in his too-even teeth. “Let me talk to the little lady for a minute alone and iron out the details.”
I stood. Mr. Poole did, too, and shook my hand before ushering me out of the room. I glanced back at Ms. Rochester before the door swung shut. She gripped the chair arms, her knuckles white, though she had a smile plastered on her face. She was steeling herself for some reason. The door closed with a click and muffled their voices.
I went back to my desk, feeling strangely exhilarated despite Mr. Poole’s nastiness. I was able to help Ms. Rochester, which made me feel like I was doing something right. It wasn’t long before she hobbled over, her meeting with Mr. Poole ended. She leaned against my desk, giving her ankle a break. I got another whiff of her perfume, an enjoyable scent of citrus and flowers.
She put one hand on the smooth surface of the dark wood desk, her light pink nails round and sensibly short. “You won us the business.”
I shook my head. “You won us the business. I just showed Mr. Poole how good you are at your job. The numbers were already there. I just put them in a language he could understand.”
She raised one eyebrow. “Where does that come from?”
“What?”
“Humility. Does it come naturally to you?” She crossed her arms over her chest.
No. “I have to work at it.”
“How?”
I met her eyes and considered for a moment. “Generally, I take the thing I want to say and say the opposite.”
She laughed. “So that’s the trick of it?”
“For me, it is.”
“Have you always worked at it?”
“No. I used to go with my first instinct every time.”
“What made you stop?”
Helen. I could see her then in my mind, her braids shining black in the sun, her eyes a mischievous brown. But I didn’t talk about her to anyone. Not anymore. Not even to Ms. Temple. Some things were better left undisturbed.
“Experience,” I answered instead. A half-truth.
“If your natural inclination is pride, why would you turn it on its head?”
“Natural inclinations aren’t always correct.”
“Well said.” She gave me a piercing stare. Her eyes tilted down a bit, as if she were looking at my lips. I hoped she was. She glanced away and took a sad step toward her office.
I instinctively stood and moved toward her. Her breath hitched, and I couldn’t stop the smile that curled my lips.
My hands itched to wrap around her waist and carry her to her desk, but I stopped just short of touching her. “Can I help?”
She hesitated. I felt like she wanted to say yes, but stopped herself. Prideful woman. Her cheeks flushed a bit as I watched her. The rush of color brightened her features even more, making her look somehow younger.
“Um, nope. You’ve done enough. But let’s have the rest of my meetings in my office for the day, shall we? This ankle is turnin
g into a real bitch.”
“No problem.”
She half hopped into her office and disappeared from view.
The next morning, I began spending more time in her office, taking notes on who to call, which vendors to choose, and what appointments to set up for the Belle Mar project. She charmed her way into the crammed schedules of various brokers, buyers, and vendors, despite the short time frame and her exacting requirements.
Around 10 a.m., and in the middle of a particularly long sales call, Mr. Fairfax flew into Ms. Rochester’s office, without knocking. His face was red and his hair wisping every which way.
“Frank, I’ll have to call you back and continue this conversation,” Ms. Rochester said smoothly.
“You do that. Looking forward to your call. Or maybe dinner sometime, maybe somewhere—”
Ms. Rochester hit the end call button and the phone went dead.
“What the hell’s gotten into you?” Her seductive sales voice was completely gone, replaced with ire.
“Emily’s been working on leasing commercial down in the Five Points. The new Windwood building.”
Ms. Rochester twirled her fingers in the air. “Okay, so?”
“The developer just called and said she took a tumble on the work site and can’t meet with some particularly big tenants who are flying in within the hour.”
“So you want me to cover her workload?”
“Yes. We need someone with experience, and you’ve worked with Willingston before.”
“Brad Willingston? I enjoy dealing with him about as much as I like my yearly gynecologist visits.” She kicked her heels up on her desk. Her demeanor changed in an instant, from winsome and friendly on the phone to irritated with Mr. Fairfax. “What’s my cut?”
He rolled his eyes. “You wouldn’t do this as a favor? Or for Emily? I noticed you didn’t even ask if she’s okay.”
“If she landed on her ass implants, I’m sure she’s fine.” Ms. Rochester relaxed even further back in her chair. “Besides, you would have already said if she suffered anything permanent.”
Fairfax tried to smooth his hair, a losing battle. “She broke her arm in two places.”
I winced.
“I hate that for her.” She tsked. “Too bad she’s going to lose the leases, too. I’d love to help her out, but I need some incentive.”
She was cutthroat. Or maybe she was only trying to appear that way? Underneath the cold mask she’d effected, I felt something else. It was almost desperate. What was going on inside her?
Mr. Fairfax put his hands on his hips, next to the cell phone he had looped through his belt, somehow surly and comical at the same time. “You’re just as bad as Georgiana!”
Who’s Georgiana? My head was on a swivel, watching the pitched battle between them.
Ms. Rochester swung her feet down, leaned forward, and gave Mr. Fairfax a harsh glare. “What did you say?”
He held his hands up and took a step back. His expression went to apologetic in an instant, as if he’d crossed some invisible—but also painfully tangible—line. “Look, I’m sure Emily will cut you in.”
“Thanks for your assurance, but I’ll need it in writing. Three percent or I won’t do it.” She bit off the words.
Fairfax took another step back. “Fine. Consider it done. I’ll get the paperwork set up. Just, please get out to the site ASAP and get the rundown. Car’s waiting out front.”
“Damn stubborn woman,” he muttered and turned to leave.
Ms. Rochester was smiling big, though I didn’t know if she was happier about besting Emily or getting easy commissions.
Mr. Fairfax paused before pushing through her glass doors. “And mind the grate this time.”
She quirked an eyebrow at his retreating back before yanking a drawer open and pulling out an assortment of cosmetics. She painted her lips a startling crimson and spoke to me all the while.
“Get a notebook, pull the lease data from Emily’s user file on the database, and grab whatever sales literature she has on this. I’ll meet you at the car in five minutes.” She didn’t look at me, just continued making her lips irresistible.
I swallowed hard as an image of her red mouth pressed against my skin passed through my mind. What would that pout look like around my dick? I stood hastily and hurried to my desk to get her documents together. Not to hide the erection growing in my pants. Not at all.
I quickly pulled the sales data from the server and darted to Emily’s office to scoop up various brochures and amenity information. By the time I returned down the hall, Ms. Rochester was already gone. I pulled the few spreadsheets and other documents from the printer and dashed to the elevator. The ride was painfully slow. Ms. Rochester having to wait on me put a ridiculous amount of weight on my shoulders.
Finally, the elevator hit the ground floor, and I hurried out into the warm sun before ducking into the waiting black sedan. Ms. Rochester held her hand out, and I gave her the spreadsheet. The car took off as soon as my door closed.
“How many square feet and floors hasn’t she leased?”
I flipped through my small pile of documents. “Looks like two of the six floors remain empty, plus a small section of the top floor facing the entertainment district. Each floor looks to be about three thousand square feet of usable space. The top floor section that hasn’t leased is five hundred square feet.”
The trip to Five Points didn’t take long, though the whole ride was a series of rapid fire questions from her about the lease rates, other tenants, and several other details of the project. I flipped through the pages, feeling like the faster I answered, the better I would score on her quiz.
Once we were two blocks away, she leaned back into the black leather. “Okay, I think I have it. Do me a favor and look out the window at the scenery.”
I did as she asked, though I could see her in the reflection just fine. She smoothed her hair down and popped the two uppermost buttons on her blouse. Then she shimmied her skirt up higher so she was showing more of her gorgeous legs. She was like a spider spinning a web. How I would love to be the one caught in it. But it wasn’t meant for me.
Even so, I’d get a taste of her eventually. I hadn’t missed her heated looks or flushed skin. But I wasn’t a taker, not anymore. I’d wait for her to come to me, and then I’d pin her down and make her scream as she came on my mouth, my fingers, my cock. I smirked at the thought.
We pulled up to the curb beside the almost finished project. It was a somewhat glum poured concrete structure with too little glass. It needed more windows, more air. Instead, it was solid, thick, and earthbound.
“Look at this behemoth.” Ms. Rochester shook her head. “Emily’s a better salesperson than I thought if she managed to get it almost completely leased. Hideous.”
The driver opened her door and she stepped out. I eased over and followed so that we stood next to each other on the curb. The driver got back into the car. Above, on the topmost level, men worked on the final touches to the exterior—affixing precast panels and various additional decorative touches. The sun was warm, though fall was supposedly in full swing.
I glanced down at Ms. Rochester as she surveyed the building with her hands on her hips. She was a stunner, her features brightening in the golden light. Her gaze moved to mine. I didn’t look away. She turned toward me and reached up. I held my breath.
Her hands landed on my tie, straightening the knot and smoothing down the fabric. Her eyes never left mine, still measuring me, seeing what I would do. She ran her hands along my chest in a proprietary movement. Something sparked to life inside me—desire, hot and insistent. I wanted to grab her wrists and pull her closer, to smear her lipstick and kiss her until she was breathless.
“I like this tie.” She smiled up at me.
I wanted to redden her ass with my palm for teasing me. She was well aware of what she was doing to me. God, the things I’d have already done to her if she weren’t my boss. I swallowed, and she followed the dip of
my Adam’s apple and licked her bright lips. Fuck, this woman.
“Rochester?” A man came from the front door of the building.
Ms. Rochester whirled. “Brad? How wonderful to see you!”
She met him halfway and allowed him to embrace her and place a kiss on her cheek. He looked to be in his late thirties, but maybe younger. He had dark hair and wore a formal black suit. Handsome, obviously moneyed. He paid me no attention.
“It’s been too long. What, almost a year since I saw you in Mobile at that Mardi Gras ball?”
She laughed. I recognized it as her fake laugh, the one she used for sales. “Oh, don’t remind me. That was a sloppy night for me.”
“I know. I just wished I’d been able to get away from Margaret for long enough to take advantage.”
Another fake laugh. Ms. Rochester’s eyes darted from me and back to him.
“And who’s this?” He finally addressed me.
“This is my assistant, Jack. Jack, this is Brad Willingston.”
We shook hands. His grip was firm, confident. So was mine. He cocked his head at Ms. Rochester and winked as if he and I shared some inside joke. We didn’t.
Then he put his hand on the small of her back and led her forward.
I wanted to take his arm off at the elbow. What he was touching belonged to me.
He opened the door for her. “Well, Rochester, let’s get down to it. Talk me into it like you always do.”
After Ms. Rochester leased the entire remaining square footage of the Windwood building to Brad Willingston, she jumped right back on Belle Mar. The next few weeks were busy, full of meetings and discussions. Ms. Rochester had me back burner the rest of her projects and assign them down the line to some of the other agents.
Belle Mar was her main goal, and she went after it with every ounce of energy she had.
The footprint for the massive structure was cemented into the sand along the Florida coast. Mr. Poole’s construction arm had already built most of the complex, but the interiors were still unfinished and in need of direction. This is where Thornfield stepped in, masterminding the room plans, the finishes, and building buzz to buyers.