Men at his level usually delegate so they can play golf or smoke cigars in a stuffy club while being tended to by men in starched tuxedos.
For weeks I’ve been watching, and I have no idea what drives him.
I hear voices in the hallway, getting closer.
If they’re coming to see Romeo, I won’t have time to get away.
“Romeo?” I say a little too quietly as I push the door open.
He looks up, and for the briefest moment, his concentration gives way to a look of pure male appreciation. But even as he smiles and motions for me to come in, distraction colors his expression.
“How did it go?” he asks.
I give him a summary of the events, making sure to add plenty of personal observations. He nods as he listens, but his mind is elsewhere.
Slade walks in, followed by flashing blue eyes in a dark suit—Hawthorne, who looks a little more tanned than when I saw him in the morning. His face is slightly flushed, too, and I suppose he just returned from the courts.
Thinking of Slade’s suggestion that Hawthorne and I make nice—and also thinking I want to keep my job—I say, “We should play tennis sometime.”
The sound he makes is just short of a snort. It’s a mix of derision and disbelief, topped in I don’t think so.
I plant my hands on my hips, but before I can tell Hawthorne-fucking-Tarraget where to go, Slade hands me a bottle of water, the cap already loosened.
“Drink,” he says. “You look thirsty.” Despite his ease, there’s warning in his voice.
I get it. Romeo is tense about the deal, and the last thing he needs is to mediate between me and Hawthorne. It’s for my own good, too. I’m the newcomer, the outsider. Also, the liar and the thief.
So instead of offering to introduce Tamara’s cactus to Hawthorne’s ass, I follow Slade’s unspoken suggestion: chug water. That isn’t enough, so I also look at the ceiling and think happy thoughts.
“Lindsay told me something interesting on the way to the meeting,” Slade says.
I didn’t think it was that interesting, so I continue drinking the water even though I really want to empty the bottle over Hawthorne’s head.
Romeo and Hawthorne are looking at me expectantly, and I realize they’re expecting some business insight.
Thanks, Slade.
“A couple of years ago, some woman in Brazil attempted to poison her husband because he wouldn’t grant her a divorce.” I say it dismissively, like that’s the entire story.
“Sounds believable, but I’m sure it’s a lie,” Hawthorne says, his blue eyes fixed on mine.
“Prick,” I mumble.
Romeo frowns.
Slade’s grin turns forced. “I guess she’s feeling shy,” he says. “What the woman did was spread poison all over her pussy. Lindsay and I had a fascinating discussion about how exactly that might have worked.”
While Slade speaks, Hawthorne looks at me like he’s trying to reach a decision.
Romeo asks, “What happened?”
That’s the difference between Slade and Romeo. When Slade heard the story, he wanted to talk about if she’d shaved first, and where, exactly, the woman had applied the poison, and what she’d used to daub it on. A discussion that left me inappropriately wet, which was doubtless Slade’s intention.
Romeo wants to know how she got caught.
And Hawthorne, apparently, wants to glare at me. It would be easier to ignore him if I weren’t so distracted by his looks. Even now, I feel drawn to him. The harder he glares, the wetter I get, and I have to breathe deeply to stop from panting with lust.
Slade clears his throat. “The husband realized something was wrong with her, so he took her to the hospital. They did tests, found poison, and the woman confessed.”
“And how exactly does the topic of oral sex come up en route to a business meeting?” Hawthorne asks, turning his glower toward Slade.
Slade waves his hand vaguely. “You know how it is.”
Hawthorne crosses his arms, but Slade isn’t done talking. “All that was pretty innocent. However, on the way back, I kissed her.”
“You what?” Hawthorne practically hisses.
“Kissed her. Like this.” He captures my face between his hands and kisses me. It’s more possessive than the one in the limo. It’s just long enough to make his point.
My knees almost give out; apparently my horny body doesn’t care if Slade is being manipulative.
“Look at this woman,” Slade murmurs, his lips brushing seductively against mine as he speaks, and suddenly I want to run away with him. He has enough money. I would be safe, forever. I could start over.
It’s a stupid fucking fantasy, and I jerk back.
Slade’s frown passes like a fleeting shadow across his face. “She’s sex in a pair of high heels,” he continues like nothing happened. “Frankly, it’s a wonder anyone could concentrate at the meeting. The four of us need to get together.” Just like that, he puts it out there. “I kissed her, and if I didn’t end up fucking her in the back of the limo, it’s because the ride wasn’t long enough. I’m only human.” He winks as he says it.
“Seduction is Lindsay’s M.O.,” Hawthorne says tersely. “There’s no problem she can’t fix by cutting a few buttons off her shirt or with higher heels.”
“Is there a reason you’re always such a Kong-sized snot rag?” I demand.
Sighing, Romeo steps between us. “You can go home, Lindsay,” he says. He’s close enough that I can feel the heat of his muscular body.
I don’t want him to send me away. I want him to bend me over his desk and slide his enormous cock into my pussy. Lust crashes over me.
Stepping back, I manage to formulate one coherent sentence. “I hope I was helpful today.”
“You did very good work,” Slade says, and Romeo nods.
Hawthorne growls something, but I don’t hear it because I’m already walking away. It’s late, and I’ve got better things to do than listen to his insults.
Chapter 6
The next day, I double down. I write meticulous reports. I’m early to meetings. I try to be helpful, to be insightful.
And I avoid the front of the office as much as possible; seeing Hawthorne would ruin my mood.
As the day wears on, I become more and more convinced that my job is safe.
Just as I’m about to go home, my phone rings. It’s Slade, summoning me for an office meeting.
I carefully carry my mug of coffee into the conference room. Instantly, I’ve got a problem.
The way people are spread out, with one or two empty seats between them, I won’t be able to sit without being next to someone.
There’s a cluster of chairs off to one side, and I decide I’ll sit there. I don’t need to be at the table.
“Who ordered coffee? I’d like some,” a white-haired man says. He has ruddy cheeks, and I can see the faint blue outline of his veins through the skin on his bulbous nose. It’s like crazing on glass. Take away his suit and he could be a thick-necked peasant in a Bruegel painting.
“She’s not a waitress,” Romeo says shortly.
Slade motions for me to sit next to him. I don’t mind except he’s all the way at the front, and I already feel exposed enough as it is. But he’s insistent, so I go.
Two more employees duck through the door and take their seats.
“We’re amending our offer,” Romeo announces to the room. “After reflection, we’ve decided to reduce the offer a second time.”
A tall woman with dark skin and curly salt-and-pepper hair says, “Again? I hope you’re prepared to call their lawyers and explain why you’ve lost your mind.” Her voice is refined, controlled, but she’s clearly upset. I imagine that when she scolds her kids, it sounds like a formal request.
“I’m not finished, Sharon,” Romeo says. “We decided that we don’t need Ace, but every single staff member currently employed by Food4Life will be retained. There will be no layoffs.”
Smart move.
I wonder if he got the idea from me, from my bathroom conversation with Meghan.
“It always happens on a Friday,” Sharon says. She stands, her long arms briskly gathering up files. “Let me see what I can do.”
The man with the bulbous nose is staring at me. Pervert.
“Tell them the press knows that there will be no layoffs,” Slade says. “We’ll retrain anyone whose job becomes unnecessary.”
“How does the press know?” Sharon asks.
“Because I told them,” Hawthorne says easily, and I’m shocked. He changed his mind?
He lifts an eyebrow and smiles a little as if to say, I’m a reasonable man. But of course he isn’t.
“The next few days will certainly be interesting,” the bulbous-nosed man says to Romeo. His gaze turns my way, and his brow furrows in concentration. “Where do I know you from?”
No, I think. Not here. Not now.
The background noise turns to an irritating dull roar. My blouse is damp, and I’m overheated and freezing at the same time. My clothes are slowly constricting around me.
“Who are you talking to?” asks the woman sitting beside me.
“Her!” the man says, rudely snapping his fingers. “The not-waitress. What’s your name, doll?”
Fighting a nervous swallow, I say, “Well, gramps, I work here. You must have seen me around.” Several people snicker.
“Oh, I would have remembered you,” he says. From his tone, it’s difficult to determine if he’s being slimy, but the look in his eyes is unambiguous.
“That’s enough, Winston,” Romeo says.
“Forgot to add cream,” I say quietly as I stand, coffee mug gripped in my fingers. I hope I don’t sound rattled. “Anyone need anything?”
Even Winston is wise enough to shake his head, but as I reach the door, Hawthorne says, “Bring me back a cup. Two creams, no sugar.”
Romeo’s face stiffens. Hawthorne is grinning. I tighten my lips in the barest of smiles as I open the door.
The air in the hallway feels fresher, sweeter, cleaner. Leaning against the wall, my fist tight on the mug’s handle, I indulge in a few deep, fortifying breaths.
I don’t find patronizing old men particularly offensive, not after all the crap I put up with in sales, and I’m certain I’ve never seen this man before, but I don’t want to start answering questions about where I grew up and so on.
It’s been a rotten few days, and it seems like every hour brings a fresh headache.
I’m not used to feeling insecure. I’m not used to rejection. I’m not used to men ramming their cocks down my throat, then deciding to send me away rather than finish.
And I’m really not used to feeling exposed.
To regain my composure, I take a walk through the deserted office while I sip my coffee. The corridors are peaceful, the lights dimmed and throwing pools of black shadow regularly, every four-and-a-half steps.
I slow my walking, try to make it five steps.
When I reach the water cooler, I turn and go back several offices. My high heels are now hitting the floor at the exact regular intervals I want.
It’s soothing.
When I finally slide my empty mug under the water cooler spigot and press the lever, I’m feeling in control. That man—Winston—unsettled me.
It shouldn’t have happened.
I’m getting sloppy, and I can’t afford that. Yes, I’m safer here, but I’m still not safe.
No more mistakes.
As I tip back the cup and drink the joltingly cool liquid, I catch my reflection in the office window. The blinds are partially lowered, cutting off the top of my head.
I’m like a mannequin, a woman without a mind. And just beyond is darkness, nothingness.
Shaking off the negative thoughts, I force myself to smile for two minutes. The way things have been going, I’m probably scraping the bottom of the endorphin barrel at this point.
Then I drink another small cup of water. It’s been long enough, I think, that I can return to the conference room. With any luck, the meeting is over.
But when I arrive there, the door is still closed. Repressing a sigh, I turn the handle and enter.
Everyone is standing, though, and some people have broken off into small groups to talk.
Winston is talking to Tamara. I wish I weren’t so unsettled by what he said, but I can’t help it. It’s like the guy staring through the bank window all over again. My head isn’t where it’s supposed to be; I used to handle this kind of crap better. Now, though… I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.
Hawthorne comes to stand close beside me. Very close. I feel the heat of his thigh on my hip. Dipping one broad shoulder toward me, he says, “You forgot my coffee, doll.”
His voice is seductive, his manner playful. I could be a bitch to him, snap the tiny olive branch he offers and jam it into his eye. But I’m unsettled. Frankly, I’m relieved to have a distraction.
“Fetching coffee isn’t in my job description,” I say. I crook my finger, and he leans in close, his blue eyes sparkling. Damn, I want him to kiss me. “If you want a maid, hire one.”
His gaze drops to my lips and lingers there before lifting to my eyes. “I have maids, thanks. Ordering you around is more fun.” His voice has taken on an intimate tone.
“You can demand whatever you want, but if it’s not in my job description, I’m not doing it.”
He’s standing so close that his arm brushes mine. “That’s not how I remember it.”
Oh, yeah, he’s definitely talking about sex. My pulse flutters. “Well, I hope you have a good memory because it’s never happening again.”
“We both know that’s not true,” he says lightly as he surveys the room. “You and I are like oil and water, but let’s not deny the chemistry.”
“What’s to deny? Chemistry says oil and water don’t mix.”
He laughs, and I feel the movement rhythmically shaking his large frame. It puts me in mind of other rhythmic shuddering. My panties are soaked, and my entire body buzzes with anticipation. Maybe tonight…
Winston suddenly looks over at me. “I’m certain I know you,” he says loudly, and all the pleasurable feelings are replaced by cold dread.
“Winston—” says Romeo.
“From court,” Winston persists. “You’re too young to be a lawyer.”
“I’m not a lawyer,” I say. “And I’ve never served jury duty, never been sued.”
It’s the wrong thing to say. I realize it the moment the words leave my mouth, even before recognition dawns in Winston’s eyes. “You’re the girl who passed out and hit her head at the amusement park!”
He’s so proud of himself, so goddamn triumphant, his voice so loud that everyone in the room is looking over.
My face is surely beet red. I think I’m going to topple over.
“What do you mean?” Hawthorne asks. “Amusement park?”
Winston suddenly blinks in confusion. “No, not the right girl,” he says slowly. “That was five or six years ago, but you look just like her. Same blonde hair and everything.”
When he says this, my stomach twists in knots. He’s right. I’m not the person he’s thinking of. That would be my sister, the one I left behind.
The one I abandoned.
And suddenly I feel all that coffee and water churning in my stomach, but it might as well be acid because everything inside me burns. If I don’t sit down in the next few seconds, I’m going to pass out.
“Definitely the wrong girl. That’s not even her natural hair color. Imagine her as a mousey brunette,” Hawthorne says, and Winston is shaking his head, his hands up in surrender.
But Hawthorne’s quip takes me back to the day he humiliated me in the Sunrise Imports office. The sense of loss and panic is replaced with anger.
“My natural hair color is none of your fucking business,” I growl to Hawthorne. “Maybe you should spend less time obsessing over my hair color and where I bought my lingerie and more time wor
king on a way to remove that stick up your ass.”
Slade throws back his head and laughs.
The other people are quickly leaving the room, and I get it. What I just said is way past inappropriate.
“Talking like that, it sounds to me like you need to be reminded of your place,” Hawthorne says, his voice low and threatening.
“My place?” Now I’m beyond anger. I’m furious, the kind that makes me feel like one spark and I could explode.
“Yes. Your place. You’re an employee. I’m the boss.”
“Hawthorne. Lindsay. I need you both to take a deep breath,” Romeo says. “Lindsay, sit down.”
I hear his words but they don’t quite connect until Slade maneuvers me into a chair. Romeo easily covers the distance to the door and slams it shut.
Hawthorne leans back against the table, his right hand curled over the top edge. Despite his casual pose, I see the tension in his twitching fingers.
Nervously, I glance around the room. It’s just the four of us now.
“Who are you?” Romeo asks from behind me. “The truth.”
All sorts of lies well up in my throat. A million previous identities. I could choose one, toss it down on the table, spin a story to match. I could walk out of here, get in my car, step on the accelerator and not stop until I run out of gas, miles and miles away.
Romeo grabs the arms of my chair and whips it around. As I take stock of his furious expression, I realize that getting away isn’t going to be so easy.
“Does it matter?” Slade asks. “We all have our secrets.”
But Romeo doesn’t seem to hear him. His attention is laser-focused on me, his brown eyes hard.
Romeo was the one who took a chance on me, and my betrayal of him shames me. I sit there, pinned by his furious gaze and unable to give voice to the lie in my throat.
He waits. I struggle.
And then something like the truth comes out. “Winston is partially right. He’s thinking of my sister.”
Romeo waits. They all do. I lick my painfully dry lips, and I stare at the light switch just beyond Romeo’s hulking shoulder.
“My grandfather made his fortune because he never met a lawsuit he didn’t like,” I say.
Professional Sin Page 4