The Truth About Numbnuts and Chubbs (9 page)

There she was, standing as he came in, looking especially hot in a navy pencil skirt and ivory silk blouse buttoned all the way to her neck. She wore her hair up today, minimal make-up. Still those high heels, he noted, glancing down slyly as she put out her hand to shake his. She wasn't wearing the red ones he'd sent to her. Yet.

He liked the way she didn't feel it necessary to dress like a man just to blend in at the office. Confident in her abilities, she clearly enjoyed her clothes and had great personal style. She made no excuses for her beauty.

Introductions over, he moved to a chair and sat, positioning himself directly opposite Bryony. She put on her glasses and shot him a warning look that was probably meant to freeze his dick off. Certainly hardened it. Slowly he smiled.

Rostrop took a seat at one end of the long conference table and two other men joined the meeting, although Ben had no idea who they were. He'd shaken their hands, but wouldn't know them again if he met them again half an hour from now. There was only one person in that room he cared about. He barely heard a word. Just went through the motions.

"We'd be honored, of course, to have your business, Mr. Petruska. Here at Rostrop and Philips we have a long tradition of working with the businessmen who built New York from the ground up and made it what it is today."

"Uh huh."

"When my great grandfather started..."

Ben tuned out.  He already knew more about the shady history of Rostrop and Philips than he really wanted to know. Did they think he wouldn't have his people research the firm before he sat down in their conference room? And he wasn't there for them anyway.

History? He could tell them history that would curl their toes.

He watched Bryony's pale pink fingernails on the files she'd set down in front of her. He'd made it clear that he wanted Ms. Mulligan to handle all the accounts he gave them, but he knew Rostrop and Philips operated like an old boy's club. Still. She might think she had a chance of rising up in that firm, but she had limited uses in the eyes of Adam Rostrop.

She was a hot, smart, damn sexy woman and even in this century that had its own set of problems. Her skills as an chartered accountant came second to that. She'd chosen the wrong firm. They'd never appreciate her.

The way that slimy old letch, Rostrop, looked at Bryony and referred to her chillingly as "
Our
Miss Mulligan" proved he saw her only as bait to bring Petruska Industries into the fold. She'd never be allowed to take on the full responsibility of all his accounts, but they'd used her to draw him in.

He wouldn't be surprised to learn that Rostrop sent her deliberately to Leonato's yesterday. The injustice made him angry. Often accused of being old-fashioned and using women for nothing more than sex, even he could see Bryony had much more to offer. She was keen, ambitious, bright and capable. As he'd commented to her yesterday, she didn't take bullshit. He liked that about her. He liked a lot of things about her.

Everything in fact.

And he wanted to know more. One night might have been enough for her; it wasn't for him.

* * * *

He'd better stop looking at her that way. Luckily, Adam Rostrop was getting into his stride and forgot anyone else was present. She shot a quick glance at Tom and Brad, but they were busy playing their role, nodding along with the boss. Might have known they'd be invited in on this. She couldn't be allowed to handle it herself, naturally. Annoyance flared through her, but she quelled it by pressing her fingernails into her palm until they made blood red moons. Looking up she caught Ben's eye again.

He leaned back in his chair, stretched out his arms and said suddenly, "I'd like to have a word with Ms. Mulligan. Alone."

Adam Rostrop was cut off mid-sentence. Like a robot with the batteries suddenly ripped out, he didn't know how to proceed. His minions looked to him for guidance but he had none to give. This was unprecedented. No one dismissed Adam Rostrop from his own conference room.

No one except Numbnuts.

"Well, of course, if it's—"

"Alone," he repeated calmly. "Now."

It was raining again, hitting the window behind her with a steady pulsing rhythm.

"I'd like to discuss my proposition and my terms with Ms. Mulligan," he added. "In private. She can bring it to you later. If she decides I'm worth it."

She wanted to laugh. It seemed a very odd reaction at that moment, but since no one else knew what to do, perhaps it was fitting. A minute later they were alone, facing each other across the conference table. She took off her glasses, because clearly he didn't have anything for her to read. He hadn't even come to the meeting with a briefcase.

"What do you want, Mr. Petruska?"

He smiled, showing his fine teeth and incidentally reminding her of how he chewed her panties off last night. "You, Ms. Mulligan."

"I'm talking about—"

"I know. The answer is still you. I want you to work for me. For me exclusively."

Needing occupation for her hands, Bry picked up her pen, flicking the nib in and out. She wasn't certain what he meant. There was the matter of that "Mistress" he said he wanted. Maybe that was the job he offered.

But last night was supposed to be a one off.

She shook her head. "Resign from my new job? A job I'm lucky to have? A job I beat out two hundred other candidates to land?"

"Correct."

"Why would I—"

"I'm leaving tomorrow for the Bahamas. Petruska Leisure Industries is buying property for a new hotel resort. I need an assistant to come with me, so you'll have to make your mind up tonight. Since you just got back from France, I know you have an up-to-date passport. My plane leaves at six a.m. We'll be back by Monday afternoon. Call my office for any other travel details you might need." He stood, buttoning his suit jacket. Then bowed his head as if they were in a Jane Austen novel. "Good afternoon, Ms. Mulligan. I look forward to working with you."

As he strode out, she realized she hadn't even thanked him for the flowers, pastries and shoes. He hadn't asked about them. She also had not demanded that he clarify the terms of the job he offered.

She was still sitting there in a state of shock, when her boss came in with rolled-up shirt sleeves and demanded to know what happened.

"I don't know," she answered truthfully, clutching her glasses. "I think he just asked me to go to the Bahamas with him."

"
What
?"

"Petruska Leisure Industries is buying property."

His eyes lit up and he slapped his hands together. "Good job, Mulligan. You're a fast worker."

She chose not to explain that the position she'd been offered did not involve Rostrop and Philips at all. Anyway, she didn't know if she was going to take it. Whatever
it
was. In fact, she knew she couldn't. That would be a huge mistake.

Right?

Rain shook the windows again and she looked out at the low, ashy clouds. The Bahamas sounded pretty good about now, however she got there.

Returning to her office she turned on her cell phone, just in time to pick up a call.

"Where have you been?" Helena exhaled gustily in her ear. "Your apartment was evacuated last night. I just spoke to your grumpy pal Kelly. Why didn't you tell me that when I phoned last night? Where did you go?"

"I stayed in a hotel." The lie flew out of her in haste, her mind rushing through the possibilities.

"You stayed with a man. Kelly told me that too."

Damn you Kelly! Couldn't keep her trap shut. "Oh. Yeah."

"
Oh yeah
?"

She shut her office door. "I was going to stay in a hotel, but he invited me over. So I went."

"Who? Don't tell me it was that asshole Petruska."

She choked. "Of course not. Do you think I'm crazy?"

Helena's sigh of relief blew down the phone. "I didn't think you would, but the horrifying idea just struck me. Carl said he left the gallery early last night too."

She banged her knee on the desk and winced. "Where did you see Kelly, anyway?" Ah good. Swift change of subject, quite subtle.

"Barnes and Noble on 86th street. I had to pick up some books for Rory and Randal. Honestly, you'd think they wouldn't need books anymore with everything online."

"Ok." Checking her emails, she saw one from Ben. Sent at one thirty, just before he must have left his office for their meeting.

Ms. M.

Attached please find terms of employment for your consideration.

P

She clicked on the attachment and printed it.

Helena was still complaining in her ear about the never-ending, expensive requirements of the two children she'd wanted so badly that she went through four rounds of IVF to achieve. A lesson in being careful what you wish for, Bry thought.

A pertinent topic indeed.

She'd wanted Ben Petruska's attention for years, when she was a sweaty-palmed, spotty teenager. Now she had it.

The attachment from his email lurked in the printer by her door. If Sandy came in she might see it. "Hel, I'll have to go, I—"

"So who was he then? Who were you with last night?"

"I can't talk right now."

"Come to dinner tonight. I have to know all about it."

That was true. Helena always wanted to know everything. Sometimes the substitute big sister act got old. The new Bry didn't have to explain her actions to anyone. And really, was it any of Helena's business if she did sleep with Ben?

But some habits were hard to break. One disapproving frown from her sophisticated cousin could still dissolve little pieces of her newfound confidence. Recently Helena, in her usual dictatorial fashion, had told her she ought to dress less colorfully and wear flat shoes at work.

"You won't get ahead wearing clothes that remind them you're a woman," she'd said firmly. As if she'd ever worked in an office. Ironically, Helena would scream bloody murder if anyone dare suggest she wasn't a liberated woman, yet she came out with priceless gems like that. Apparently no one had told Helena that there was more to feminine empowerment than reading
Cosmo
and singing along to the Spice Girls when she thought no one was listening.

"Hel, I'm pretty sure that if I shaved my head and wore a double-breasted suit that would give me other obstacles," she'd replied to her cousin's warning.

"I wasn't suggesting that. You do exaggerate."

Which was further amusing, coming from Drama Queen Helena.

"Well?" she shouted down the phone at Bry, evidently in the middle of traffic somewhere. "Can you come tonight? I'm trying a new recipe. The kids have band practice this evening and then they all go out to some dreadful fast-food place, so it'll just be me and Carl."

Bry accepted the invitation to dinner. Maybe it would be good to get out and keep her mind off Numbnuts. Keep her from temptation. With Helena to cheerfully remind her about all his bad points she'd be in no danger of making a mistake.

* * * *

Carl's text blipped across his phone.

Dinr ton. Hel coks. Seven.

That message ought to come with skull and crossbones, he mused. Helena's cooking was usually to be avoided at all costs. Occasionally—often after a quarrel with Carl—she went to the effort of playing housewife for a few days, charring some gourmet meal on her six-burner stove. Carl liked to invite Ben, as if he wanted witnesses.

Well, since he had a good excuse to make it an early night, it should be safe just to turn up with wine and leave before dessert. Wouldn't do any harm to try and get Helena on his good side, however uphill the slope seemed. He was a fighter and when he made up his mind that he wanted something nothing got in his way. Not even that sharp-nailed harpy.

And there were other reasons to stay close. He always found out useful information from an unsuspecting Helena, by way of careless Carl. Things like where Bryony had just got a job, what flowers she liked and when she was going to a gallery opening.

So he sent a text in reply.

OK.

The punishment he was willing to suffer for that sweet piece of ass!

Smiling, he dialed a number on his phone and held it to his ear. Rain dashed his car window, just as it had most conveniently last night.

"Yep?" A male voice answered. "Petruska, you ol' devil." Laughter.

"Good job, Officer. Payment get through ok?"

"You bet. It was in the fund account first thing. The widows and orphans oughta put up a plaque to you."

"Hey, you did good. You even fooled me last night."

"No problem. Next time you need a gas leak organizing, let me know, eh?"

Chapter Seven

The odor instantly suggested something was wrong with dinner. Unless Helena had boiled green beans with an old sock and some soap. Intentionally.