Never Say Never, Part One (Second Chance Romance, Book 1)

by Shaw, Melissa

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  BRAVE, EPISODE ONE - THE COLOR OF RAGE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Red. Favorite color—red. The color of passion. The color of intensity. The color of danger. The color of rage. The color of blood.

  “Chloe. Hey, Chloe. Oh, Chlooooeeee, yoo-hoo…”

  Chloe started, blinked, and came back to the present. A bemused co-worker stood beside her, tapping her manicured fingers on the desk. “Oh—uh—hi. Sorry, Paula. Guess I was daydreaming.”

  “Yeah, it happens…about a million miles away. Some new guy in your life, huh?” Paula, the office’s general assistant and gofer, flashed a conspiratorial smile and leaned her hip against the sleek blue desk’s rounded corner. “You must’ve had a great weekend.”

  “It was okay. Went by too fast, though.” Then again, what weekend didn’t?

  Chloe straightened in her ergonomic chair and brushed back a strand of wavy dark hair. Business-like – that was the ticket. Remaining professional and all that. Whatever got Paula to butt out. “Can I help you with anything?”

  Paula clicked her tongue and nodded. “Dennis is looking for the Group Sales Review on Rental Properties, something about a meeting scheduled for Friday?”

  Easily done. The file stood in its wire holder, next to the computer screen; Chloe had stored it there after finishing her report – efficient as always.

  “Tell him I’ll stop by later this afternoon, okay? I need to check his travel plans for the Marketing Conference in August.”

  Another nod from Paula, who slipped away without protesting the tactful dismissal.

  Then again, Chloe was the epitome of tactful. She had been since she’d started work at the office. With fifty other drones in residence, keeping her head low was pretty easy.

  Alone again in her tidy office, Chloe glanced at the stress ball tucked away near her reference books. It had been passed on to her by her predecessor, with much laughter and joking from the staff. Red. Favorite color—red. The color of…

  She gave it a stray pat and offered silent thanks: she wouldn’t need that today. Everything was on track today – she eyed the clock on the wall and licked her lips.

  Glenn Watkins, the portly, balding Vice President of Merchandising, Marketing, and Sales, stuck his head inside the door. “How are we doing with that Corporate Responsibility Report?”

  “I’ve looked it over,” Chloe pointed to a stack of clear binders on the credenza, “and had my secretary make copies. All set whenever you’re ready.”

  “Thanks, kiddo. I owe you one.” Glenn, ever on the go, scooped up the binders and dashed out, fat rolls jiggling under his sweat stained cotton shirt. How he managed to maintain his weight was another question entirely – he was an energizer bunny. An energizer hippo?

  She shook her head at herself and focused on the work instead.

  Chloe toiled steadily, wading through the papers on her desk, answering correspondence, taking phone calls, putting out whatever small fires flared up – thankfully there weren’t that many. Two hours passed without incident.

  This done and completed and put aside; that considered but temporarily delayed. Sticky notes littered the desk. They were her secret addiction – she loved tearing them off and slapping them on pages with no small deal of machismo.

  It was her small concession: there were only work-related items on the desk. Nothing which hinted at her personality, her truth (other than the hidden stress ball): no framed photos, no meaningful knickknacks, no vase of fresh flowers or holders for scented candles. She considered the desk.

  The office could’ve fallen straight out of an architectural magazine. She let out a long sigh.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t have any passions, simply that she couldn’t afford to show them off. She didn’t want any hints of who she really was, on the inside, in person, all of that, coming out. Chloe had slipped into obscurity like a duck into water.

  She powered down her computer at 5:00, and arranged tomorrow’s work into neat stacks. Then she swiped her handbag off the floor and tucked it over her shoulder.

  “Hi, Chloe.” Jonathan Maynard, the boss of her boss moved into the room, blocking her path to freedom.

  Shit. She saved the lustrous leather tote before it fell. “Uh—hello.”

  She’d had a crush on this guy for ages. Crush. For God’s sake, what was she, seventeen? Puppy love or infatuation, maybe… He was handsome, debonair even and he breathed the rarefied air of Pinnacle’s Upper Stratosphere.

  Out. Of. Her. League.

  He smiled down at her, leveling her with those slightly crooked teeth – they made him even more attractive. When a man was a little flawed, it just made him special – she’d never liked Abercrombie Fitch dudes.

  He straightened his tailored navy suit around the extra pounds at his middle. He was delectable.

  “I’m sorry, Chloe, I didn’t realize you were on your way out,” he apologized. “This can wait till tomorrow.”

  No. There was an air of eagerness bubbling around him like champagne in a glass, and it intrigued her. But then, everything about him intrigued her.

  “That’s all right, Jonathan. What’s up?”

  Two years at Pinnacle Real Estate and she’d risen from lobby receptionist to staff secretary to Assistant for the Director of Day-to-Day Management Stu Martin – he’d given the title to himself, and she preferred jackass, but she’d risen nonetheless.

  Her duties overlapped from department to department, now. On most days, awesome responsibility; on others, awesome anxiety.

  She eyed the binders and envisioned her squishy little stress ball. It worked for the job stuff and the … private worries. She blinked that thought from her mind, keenly aware of Jonathan’s concerned gaze.

  He pushed aside stacks of work and leaned casually against the corner of her desk.

  Need a chair, buddy? She didn’t ask it, but the brain sarcasm helped calm her jangling nerves. God, he was sexy.

  “So, you’re the one who holds things together around here—sort of second-in-command. I thought I’d confer with you about a special project coming up.”

  The one holding things together, eh? She liked the sound of that.

  “Sure, I’ll be happy to put my oar in the water. Would you like to sit down?” She couldn’t resist. She gestured to the chrome and canvas chair backed up against the glass partition separating her office from open space.

  “No,” his mouth quirked at the corner, “I’d rather discuss it over dinner tonight, if you’re free. You are free, aren’t you?”

  Months of hearing his voice in the distance, months of drooling after him like puppy, months of business contact—and now this. Plans? She’d change them in an instant, if it meant she could be with him.

  She clamped down on her rising excitement and tipped her head to the side – mock considering it. She pressed her lips together, then pursed them and said, “Actually, I am free. Mind if I take a few to freshen up?”

  “Sure, take as long as you like. I’ve waited two years, I can wait ten minutes longer.”

  What did that mean? Blood rushed to her face, and she rose quickly to hide the blush. If that wasn’t a promising sentiment, then what was?

  Chloe slipped past him – the heat from his body drew her in but she forced herself to maintain the distance between them. The tip of her peep-toe pump caught on the chair’s caster and she stumbled. He reached out a steadying hand; his clutch on her upper arm sent electric charge along her nerves. She held back a gasp. Were those sparks in the air a figment of her imagination? She could’ve been in a Disney flick right now.

  Jonathan stepped out of the way, eyebrows raised, breath ragged. He’d felt it too.

  Chloe smoothed down the side of her pencil skirt, settled the collar of her white silk shirt, and managed, “Uh—I’ll—uh—be right back.”

  Corporate headquarters took up the tenth floor of the Manhattan-based building, near Central Park, with access to public transit and loads
of shops and restaurants. Its location was its strongest selling point: it was easy to do anything here.

  Even if it that anything was a disappearing act.

  They strolled down the hall, between rows of desks and observers. It was a gauntlet, and she’d have preferred an Indiana Jones movie. Give her gargantuan axes swinging from the walls over gossiping coworkers any day.

  They chatted lightly, and her thoughts went mad in the background.

  Why couldn’t this dinner have taken place after hours, when no one was around? Hell, even a breakfast meeting before work would’ve been better. By tomorrow the office would be a hotbed of gossip, with Chloe Sheldon and Jonathan Maynard the topic of bawdy jokes.

  “I thought we’d go to Piper Lee’s, down the block,” said Jonathan pleasantly, as they approached the elevator. The shining brass doors, smudge-free surfaces, slid silently open and shut again after they moved into it. “It’s quiet and private, just the atmosphere I’m looking for. And it’s nearby enough to walk, since the weather is so pleasant.”

  Would the atmosphere of the restaurant be on a par with the esoteric air of Pinnacle? How often had he breathed that air? She stared at his lips as they walked the streets and were ushered to their seats in Piper Lee’s.

  They were in a softly lit corner booth. Romantic, much? Butterflies battered her stomach – equipped with combat boots, most likely. She was used to anxiety, but excitement? She’d strained to avoid that at any cost. Well, it was too late now.

  Chloe perused her menu under the eye of the snobbish server. He tapped his thin, pale fingers on the side of his watch – was that a Timex? – and eyed her from beneath a refined brow.

  “Drinks first,” decided Jonathan. “Whiskey and soda for me. Chloe?”

  She hesitated. Dinner with the boss, and alcohol besides? Too much, too fast. “Just an iced tea, thanks.”

  “Long Island?”

  “Oh, goodness, no.” Hard spirits after a booze sabbatical: that was a deadly combo. She’d learned that long ago, at her own cost. She smiled, “Better keep my wits about me, if we’re discussing business.” That should lessen the sting of the refusal.

  Jonathan leaned forward, propping one elbow on the table, chin resting in the palm of his hand, he gazed at her across the table with jarring intensity.

  “That smile is the first thing I noticed about you,” he murmured. “Bright red lipstick framing that delectable soft mouth. I’ll bet there are men willing to march across Africa just to see one of your smiles.”

  Say something. Do something! He’d frozen her to the spot. She raised a hand to her lips, absently and dabbed them with her napkin. It didn’t come away red – no smudge lipstick.

  Jonathan nodded slightly and settled back against the rich upholstered seat. A wealthy, powerful man, focused on sharing a delightful dinner with a subordinate. But that heat – that sweltering, humidity – didn’t go away. Was it her?

  Surely telling your subordinate she had a delectable soft mouth wasn’t procedure.

  “Tell me about Chloe Sheldon. How long have you worked at Pinnacle, and what’s going on in your life?” It was a command and she hesitated to obey.

  She set aside her mini-freak out at the lip comment and sidestepped, deftly. “I’m afraid you’d find my story very boring,” Just as it should be. The details that no one knew—that no one could ever know—would curl his straight hair.

  “Not at all. But I’ll wager I can describe your upbringing, right down to a T.” He laughed, glancing through the murk, the haze of attraction and the dim candlelight. That chuckle tingled up her spine.

  “Wager? You want to put money on that?” Chloe teased back, with a toss of her head and a flash of her eyes – he wanted to play, and she wasn’t going to let it go his way for long. “You’re on. Go ahead, tell me about my innocent childhood.”

  “Okay, here goes. Small-town girl, middle-class household, a couple of siblings. How am I doing so far?”

  Wrong on all counts, buster. Thankfully. “Exactly right. What else you got?”

  “Plenty.” Grinning, he toyed with the lowest button of his suit jacket, then continued, “You’re an attractive woman, so you were popular in high school. On to college, probably something local, into cheerleading but no serious hard-core classes…”

  Only partially wrong this time. “You must be gazing into a crystal ball,” she observed, “or reading tea leaves.”

  “Naw. Tarot cards. Not sure about your history from there on, but eventually you moved to the Big Apple and applied for a position at Pinnacle at the ripe old age of 25. Stellar resume, exceptional work ethics, first-rate recommendation by previous employers. And beautiful, besides.”

  “Chuck out the flattery, and I’d agree that’s true.” Enough flirting. She couldn’t afford to let this guy in too far and 1 out of 5 was already too close to the truth for her liking.

  “So now,” Chloe looked up impishly from beneath her lashes, “I can only assume you’ll be selling the company to set up shop as a medium?”

  “Ha!” He was pleased by her response. “Not exactly what I had in mind. Or…not exactly in the cards.” He winked. He was an undercover goof, this one.

  Their server returned, placing their drinks with a flourish. Jonathan took a sip from his and smacked his lips, ostentatiously. “I’ve only been back in town a few weeks, business at the other offices called me away, but I’ve been trying to find time for a chat with everyone at Corporate. How do you like your work?”

  What? This powwow was about employee satisfaction? Bull.

  “Oh, I’m very happy with what I do. Plenty of variety, plenty of public contact, and just enough pressure to keep things interesting. Plus, I feel needed and—and…important…” she confessed, shyly. “And you, Jonathan? What’s your background?”

  Another silent, barely noticeable intrusion by their server, this time to slip a plate of appetizers on the table in front of them. Jonathan reached for a crab-stuffed mushroom and took a bite with those crooked, wicked-looking teeth. His only real detraction, though it didn’t bother her one bit; why’d he never seen an orthodontist?

  “I grew up in San Francisco,” he told her after the pause. “Second son of a pair of hippies. I love my parents, but they’re out of touch with everything in life. Too much sappy sentimentality for me to put up with. They and my older brother are tree-hugging environmentalists, all peace and good will and la-la land; and I’m the odd duck—a staunch conservative who believes in capitalism.”

  “Someone has to do it.” Chloe’s light tone belied her sympathy with people who wanted to make the world a better place.

  “You’ve got that right,” Jonathan agreed, just as lightly. “Might as well be me. You’ve read the advertising brochure detailing the history of Pinnacle. But you probably don’t know that I started this company with a giant loan and one small office.” He swirled the ice in his drink, “I’ve been expanding ever since.”

  The color of Chloe’s eyes deepened with admiration. “And that, when you’re ready to acquire or build another, you spend months on site, getting everything up and running to your satisfaction.”

  “Ah,” he said, gratified. “You have checked the facts.” He brushed back a lock of mouse-brown hair into his neat style with the palm of his hand. With enthusiasm came moderation, and an easing of uncompromising standards. Perhaps even a downgrade from costly suit to golf shirt and chinos.

  “The background is important. I feel I can do a better job if I’m familiar with the company I work for, and the people I work with.”

  “No complaints on that score. Here, the tilapia for the lady,” Jonathan interrupted to direct the server, “and the steak for me. Yes,” he continued, “the growth of Pinnacle has been within range. Ten offices so far, with more to come. But, at the present, we’re only national; I want to go international. Big plans for the future, if I can pull a few strings.”

  There was a gleam of avarice there, and his expression tightened. A pre
dator, ready to hunt. It reminded her of the battles that had raged across medieval Europe. Honor and integrity lost out to power and greed.

  They went silent and tucked into their food, which was excellent and shared casual comments. “Would you pass the salt, please?” “Great flavor; love the sauce.” “I’m sorry—now the pepper?” “I think I’ll order another drink. Are you still working on yours?”

  Classical music played softly through the elaborate sound system, interspersed with the off-and-on murmur of conversation and the muted clink of utensils.

  “Nice, huh?” Jonathan nudged.

  Chloe sent her warm smile across the table. “It’s lovely, Jonathan. Thank you for inviting me here.” She flushed under his teasing glances; once or twice he reached for his water glass at the same time she reached for hers. Their hands brushed in a symphony of suggestive touch.

  Their dinner finished and the dishes cleared, Jonathan insisted they order dessert. “The Key Lime pie here is heaven. You’ll have to try it.”

  Was it possible he didn’t want the evening to end? Or was she reading his intentions wrong? He was her employer. That meant no touchy, but hey, at least she could fantasize. Imagine he did find her attractive; picture them together even.

  The first forkful of pie was bliss. Touch and taste were the senses: sensuality, earthiness, surrender to the flesh.

  “Mmmm, sinfully delicious. I want the recipe for this.”

  He smiled. “You can cook? Do you consider yourself a gourmet?”

  “Most of what I do is with a microwave,” she admitted, twinkling a bit. “I share an apartment with a friend. Camille and I are polar, but we get on great.”

  “Camille, eh? And how are you opposites?”

  Chloe shrugged, the bodice of silk reflecting the glimmers of light. Jonathan’s gaze lingered where it shouldn’t. That stare was a caress, and her cheeks warmed again – no way had she imagined that.