Billionaire With a Twist 3 (8 page)

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I cast a surreptitious eye over the
rest of the office. Empty. Good. The Douchebros had long since headed
home along with everyone else. No one had batted an eye at me working
late, since every time I had managed to make it in lately I’d
been staying until the wee small hours; I had to, just to keep even
vaguely on top of things.

I left my computer running and took the
route with no security cameras to Chad’s desk.

Of course he got an actual office room,
instead of a cubicle, even though he hadn’t been with the
company much longer than me and, numbers-wise, had a much worse track
record. Still, however much I resented that, it did give me a tiny
bit of privacy once I picked the lock.

During the day, this was Douchebro
Central, and in the dim half-light of evening, you could still see
the signs of their presence, the chip bags and the energy drink cans
they’d left littered across the floor or snagged in the
miniature basketball hoop over the door. Because why pick up after
yourself when Housekeeping will be in later to do it for you?

I cut off my mental censure before I
could really get going; if I let myself, I’d just stand here
judging them all night. I went straight to Chad’s computer and
breathed a sigh of relief. The asshole never shut it down or even
logged it off, but I’d still spent the last few hours worrying
that he’d suddenly become environmentally conscious or
something.

I pulled up his work e-mail; we used
Outlook, so that didn’t require a password either. Quickly
scrolling through the recent exchanges—and doing my best not to
roll my eyes at his terrible attempt at flirting with Andi from
accounting, which was either going to end in a harassment lawsuit or
Andi’s fist in his face (Andi did roller derby and she was
hardcore)—I located a long e-mail string from Chuck, and began
to speed read.

I hadn’t misheard that phone
call; there was nothing Chuck could do without Hunter’s
approval for the buyout. He had attached the relevant clause in the
board articles, as well as quoted it in the body of the e-mail:
because of the family name, Hunter had to agree to a sell-off.

“Yes!” I whispered
fiercely, and gave the air a small victory punch.

And then I heard a noise outside the
office.

Shit. Shit shit shit. Who else would be
here at this time of night? Housekeeping, yes, but they started
vacuuming on the other side of the building, I should have had—I
checked my watch—a good fifteen minutes yet. And Security
stayed down at their desk eating take-out unless they had a good
reason to go elsewhere and I had avoided their cameras, I knew I had—

Well, it didn’t matter. Someone
was out there, and probably getting closer every second I dithered
over what to do.

I closed Outlook and stood. I would
have liked to print the e-mails for proof, but Hunter was just going
to have to trust me. I cast a quick eye over the room to make sure
that everything was still in place as quickly as I could, and ducked
out of the office, scurrying down the hall until I was far enough
that I felt safe slowing down to a casual walk.

…a casual walk right around the
corner, and then almost directly into my boss.

We both jerked back, startled.

“What are you doing here?”
I blurted.

“I—I could ask you the
same, missy,” my boss stammered before pulling himself together
and managing a more affirmative: “What on earth is keeping you
here at this time of night?”

“Just working late,” I said
innocently. My palms sweated as I lied; I forced myself not to wipe
them on my dress and give myself away. “Catching up, you know.
There’s still a lot of stuff I need to get done.”

“Your desk is over there,”
he pointed out, suspicion beginning to creep into his eyes.

“My legs were cramping up; I
needed to stretch them,” I said. “Besides, sometimes you
need a little mental break, you know? To keep from going stir-crazy.”

“Hmmph,” he said. “Well,
I hope you’re not expecting to get paid for these ‘mental
breaks.’”

Asshole.
“Of course not,
sir.”

“Good.” He fussed with his
tie, straightening it. “Where are you at with the hygiene
products, then?”

“Almost finished!” I
assured him. “Just waiting to hear back from Sandra. And I’m
halfway through those forms you left for me. When I’m done, if
there are any projects that need taking on—”

“Everything’s already been
assigned several months out,” he interrupted. “And we
can’t give you anything until your schedule’s more
regular, you understand? Of course, after the way things went last
time, we think it’s best to take it slow, give you a nice soft
ball out of the park.”

Could he be any more patronizing?

“I appreciate the consideration,”
I said through gritted teeth. “But I’m sure that this
family emergency will have cleared up in a month, and if you look at
the numbers—”

“Advertising isn’t solely a
numbers game, my dear,” he said condescendingly. “It’s
an art. You need to have a feel for the client, an instinct for their
point of view. A sort of Hemingway-esque ability to immediately grasp
the situation. And, well, with so many CEOs being men, women just
often aren’t able to bridge that gap. Not a reflection on you
at all, my dear, just the truth.”

“But if you look at the actual
results that that approach is getting, if you look at the way sales
and share prices are tanking on the Dou—on Chad’s
projects, for example—” I started to protest.

“My dear, please,” my boss
said, a frown crossing his brow. He disliked it intensely whenever
anyone didn’t help keep up the façade of his feminist
credo, and here I’d gone on challenging him for a whole fifteen
seconds. It would not stand. “Do you really think you’re
helping your case by crying on my shoulder here? Now, be a good girl
and go back to your office and do your work without complaining, and
if it’s good enough, I’ll think about letting you try
again in a year.”

And then, just like that, all my anger
crystallized into a clear vision of the future. And I knew exactly
what I had to do. I nodded to myself, a grin spreading over my face.

“Actually, sir, you know what I
think would work better?”

“My dear, I assure you—”

“I quit.”

My words hit him like a gunshot, and I
spun on my heel and strode away, savoring the memory of the stunned
look on his face, still hearing his inarticulate spluttering.

I wished him all the best of luck in
finding someone else who would put up with his bullshit.

Not.

The cool night air hit me like a
blessing as I breezed out of the office doors. It had never felt so
refreshing before, like a cool glass of water I could drink with my
skin. I had never felt so alive before, so free.

Things had never been so clear.

They would never respect me. I knew
that now. I had known for a long time, but I had hidden from it,
unwilling to start all over again, constantly convincing myself that
I could change things if I just worked a little bit harder, if I just
took a little bit more shit, just for a little bit longer. But that
game was over. I allowed myself a moment of grief for the opportunity
I had hoped this job would be, but it didn’t hurt as much as I
had thought it would. It felt more like something that had happened
long ago, to an Ally that might as well have been another person.

This Ally had nothing but the future
opening up before her, and it was time to start following my own
advice and stop clinging to the past.

I pulled out my phone and dialed
Hunter’s number. He picked up on the first ring.

“Ally, what’s up? How’s
work?”

“Work’s just starting,”
I said, a smile blooming on my face. “I’m on my way with
some information I think you’ll find very interesting, and a
whole new plan…”

Persona was a restaurant that had seen
other restaurants’ attempts to be fancy, and had turned up its
nose at their pathetic failures.

The floors were pink marble. The
chandeliers were carved from rose quartz and gilded in what I had a
sneaking suspicion was real gold. Tapestries that would have been at
home in a European castle hung from the walls, their lush fabric
absorbing sound until it seemed as if noise itself might be some sort
of nasty plebian habit that had no place here. The waiters were
dressed better than most Oscar winners on the red carpet.

Naturally, I was nervous as hell.

My leg bounced up and down under the
table where Hunter and I sat, and I was grateful for the luxurious
floor-length red tablecloth that hid my nervous tic so well.

I couldn’t hide it from Hunter,
though, who could plainly feel the vibrations from where his leg was
pressed up against mine. He gave my hand a reassuring squeeze.
“Relax. It’s going to work.”

“How do you know?” I
demanded.

He squeezed my hand again, looking deep
into my eyes. “Because you came up with it, and you’re
brilliant.”

The tension eased out of my shoulders
and I smiled up at him, still a bit nervous but now also warmed and
touched. What had I ever done to deserve this man?

“Flatterer.”

“It’s not flattery if it’s
the truth,” he said, his hand sneaking under the table to
steady my knee. Heat spread from his palm, all the way up my thigh,
and I knew there was no way I was misinterpreting that signal.

“Perhaps we should discuss the
matter at hand
in further detail at a later time,” I
said primly, swatting him away from my knee. I was loathe to do so,
but this meeting was important and I couldn’t risk going blind
with unstoppable lust and screwing it all up. I had to be in control.

He grunted in agreement and obediently
kept his hands to himself.

I let my head rest against his shoulder
for a second to collect myself. It could only be for a second,
though—this kind of shared peace and trust wasn’t the
sort of show we were trying to put on for our guest.

Assuming he ever showed and didn’t
just stand us up in a bit of final humiliation.

This was the plan: Once Chuck arrived,
Hunter would offer to sell his shares, pretending to be desperate for
cash and to have no knowledge of the impending buyout. He’d
demand a big price, and hopefully Chuck would be so greedy for the
takeover and the buyout payoff that he’d give Hunter the
money—which we would then turn around and use to help Hunter
start up his own company and hire at least some, and hopefully most
or all, of his old employees.

The plan hinged on two things. One,
Chuck being a greedy grasping pig who wouldn’t think too far
into the future, which was a fairly safe bet. Two, that Hunter could
swallow his pride long enough to eat crow pie for Chuck, which was
somewhat more tenuous of a proposition.

“You have to let him feel like
he’s won,” I reminded him, my fingers beating a staccato
rhythm against the edge of my chair. “He has to feel like he’s
on top of the world looking down on you, like there’s no
possible way you could be considered a threat. You have to seem
pathetic
.”

“A tall order,” Hunter said
with a smile. “But I think I can do it. All those drama
classes, remember? I didn’t hang out just for the favorable gal
to guy ratio. Well, I mostly did, but I still picked up a thing or
two.”

“I know you did,” I said.
“I’m probably just being overly anxious, but—but
Chuck’s a little more obnoxious than your average drama major.
He’s going to push all the buttons of yours he can find. Can
you let him lord it over you and bite your tongue?”

“I think I can,” Hunter
said with a reassuring smile. He squeezed my knee under the table
again. “And I know I’ll do my very best.”

He leaned in towards me, and for a
second I thought we were going to kiss, my lips tingling already as
they parted—

“Well, well, isn’t this
cozy. You didn’t have to put yourself out of pocket, though,
Hunter, I could easily have taken this to a McDonalds to help you
save money.”

Chuck had arrived. Hunter and I jerked
apart. Hunter stood, offered him a perfunctory handshake. “Chuck.”

“Hunter,” Chuck said with a
grin that oozed malice.

Power didn’t suit Chuck. It made
him simultaneously sloppy and over-the-top; his hundred-dollar
haircut was fighting a losing battle to hold what wisps of hair he
had together over his bald spot, his Italian silk suit was buttoned
up the wrong way and happened to be entirely the wrong shade of
maroon for his complexion, and while his cologne was undeniably top
shelf, he’d doused himself in enough to kill anyone with even a
hint of asthma.

“And Miss Bartlett,” he
said with a slimy grin. “I’m so glad to see that you and
Hunter have patched things up. It’s so important to keep our
meal tickets satisfied, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I
said frostily.

Chuck raised an eyebrow at my
impertinence, and I backtracked hastily, the very image of someone
afraid of his money-fueled wrath. “I mean, of course. Yes.
You’re right.”

He gave a satisfied grin and fell into
his seat, propping his feet up on the table.

It had already been quiet in Persona,
but at this, the volume somehow dropped another level in disbelief.

It was so quiet you could hear a pin
drop, and also the sound of the maitre’d having a heart attack.

Chuck was oblivious, though. “Shall
I foot the bill? I’ve got an excellent new credit rating now
that I’m essentially in charge of Knox Liquors.” He
leered at me. “I wouldn’t want to take the clothes off
your back, after all. Well, not figuratively, anyway. Ha!”

I could practically hear Hunter’s
teeth grinding, but he just smiled—and I think the
teeth-grinding added some verisimilitude, because Chuck grinned at
him before looking back over to me and letting his gaze drop low
enough and long enough to make it absolutely clear that he was
checking out my cleavage.