Текст книги "The Singles"
Автор книги: Emily Snow
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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 45 страниц)
Chapter 7
The next morning, I walked in to my office to find a pleasant surprise. The event planner coordinating Margaret’s fourth annual Halloween Charity Ball had left me a voicemail over the weekend. Although she sounded somewhat irritated, her message still took what felt like a hundred pounds of pressure off my chest.
“Ms. Connelly? This is Natalie Roche, from Natalie Roche Events. I received your messages, and I’ll be able to accommodate your needs. I can meet you at ten-fifteen Monday morning in the Heritage Ballroom. If you can’t make it, please call my cell. Once again the address is—”
Sliding Margaret’s coffee to the edge of my desk, I grabbed my LCD tablet and jotted down the address. I replayed the voicemail to make sure I got it right before hanging up my work phone and texting everything I’d written down to myself. It was 9:28 now, which meant I’d have to leave to meet Natalie as soon as I was finished checking in with the stepmonster. Balancing her latte, my purse, and the folder full of information she’d requested last week, I flipped off the light switch and went across the hall to her office.
She was already behind her desk, looking formidable in a white tailored suit that only Margaret Manning-Emerson could pull off in October, and her blond, highlighted hair was twisted into an elegant knot at the nape of her slim neck.
“Did you enjoy your trip to New York?”
“Did you rearrange the Paris trip like I asked you to?” she countered, referring to one of the instructions she’d given me in the email she’d sent while she was away last week.
I lowered her coffee to the silver coaster by her right hand and the folder next to her desktop monitor, eyeballing the laptop she was hastily pecking away on without pause. God, I couldn’t wait to get a look at what she kept hidden away on that thing. Dragging my attention from the second computer, I pointed to the folder.
“Everything for the Paris trip is right here. Also, the hotel upgraded you to the presidential suite free of charge after I let them know what you said about your last stay there.”
“Good enough.” Although I’d hoped I wouldn’t be thinking about him so soon, hearing her mutter those two words instantly reminded me of Oliver. I thought back to what he’d told me last week in his office, about her reaction to his speech problems when he was a child, and I fought to keep my gaze neutral. To keep myself from slamming her computer screen closed, regardless of what flesh might be in the way.
“Any progress with Roche?” she questioned.
“I’m actually headed out to meet her now.” Pressing the point home, I reached into the side of my used Prada bag and fished out my car keys. “She’s expecting me to meet her at the venue in less than an hour.”
Margaret’s head popped up, her fingers hovering motionless above the laptop. “What did you say?”
The smile I offered her was the first genuine one I’d managed since stepping foot in her office, even if there was an underlying smugness to it. “Natalie left me a message over the weekend and confirmed that she’d meet me this morning,” I explained as I started to back up to the double doors. I was still a little stunned about that myself, considering last week the event planner had sworn up and down that meeting today wasn’t a possibility.
My boss blinked once, twice, and then a third time, and I thought I would explode from the delight rolling through me. Sliding her chair closer to the desk, she tilted her thin body forward. “Make sure you record it on your phone.”
“Excuse me?”
“Make. Sure. You. Record. It.” She swallowed a drink of her latte, the fact that it was still steaming hot not seeming to bother her one bit. “When I get the chance this week, I’d like to take a look. Have her explain where everything will go. This is a different location from previous years, and I’m absolutely kicking myself for letting Oliver convince me to change everything around.”
I froze the moment she said his name, and I prayed she couldn’t see my reaction. Then I tried to convince myself that my response was only because this was the first time I’d heard of Oliver’s involvement with the event.
“Is he co-sponsoring?” I asked nonchalantly.
“The Heritage is owned by Manning.” She returned her focus to her laptop, her manicured fingers beating a rhythm across the keys. “When you come back to the office this afternoon, I need you to start organizing lunch for fourteen to be delivered tomorrow. Do you think you can handle that?”
“Definitely. Do you have a particular restaurant in mind?”
Releasing a hiss of irritation, Margaret looked up from her screen. “Weren’t you an assistant before this?” she demanded, and when I replied that I was, she snapped, “Then you should realize I’m too busy to go through menus. If the menu is in the approved stack in your office, it’s acceptable. Surprise me!”
“Will do,” I commented through a jaw so tense, it made the muscles in my face ache. With every name in the book attached to my stepmother’s name and hurtling through my thoughts, I was desperate to leave the building before I screwed up and let one of them become audible.
I didn’t stop moving until I was in the lobby, and an accented female voice called out my name as I waited for an elevator to go down to the parking garage. I looked behind me to see Stella striding my way, her black hair bouncing around the off-the-shoulder neckline of her striped shirt as she closed the distance between us.
“You look chipper,” I commented when she stepped beside me and all I could smell was her jasmine perfume.
“And you”—she stared me up and down slowly, curiously, and then tapped her finger against her lips—“well, you look like a woman possessed.”
“Headed to a meeting with Natalie Roche.”
When the elevator opened, we both stepped in the warm car, Stella moving her head from side to side. “That poor woman won’t know what hit her. Did she send you armed with a list of demands and questions?”
Recounting all five minutes of my talk with Margaret, my nostrils flared. “I’m supposed to record the entire meeting so she can take a look at it later.”
The marketing manager fought to keep the smile from cracking through her professional mask as the doors open and we stepped out of the elevator and beneath the dim lights of the parking garage. “Interested in having company?”
“Are you loaning yourself out to me?”
She reached into her purse, her eyebrows knitting together as she searched for what I guessed were her keys. “I was on my way out to burn some time before my one-thirty doctor’s appointment.” She shrugged. “I’m a bad, bad employee.”
“Hence, the chipper smile,” I stated. “But yes, I’d love to have some company.”
As soon as I told her where we were going, she insisted on taking her car, a silver BMW 4-series convertible that she let the top down on since it was sunny and mid-seventies. Though she seemed at ease with the wind whipping her hair around her artfully made-up face, I grabbed a hairband from my bag and scooped my own into a high, messy bun. While she drove, she made small talk, which gradually improved the sour mood Margaret had managed to conjure in just a few minutes this morning.
“So the foster charity event—what are you dressing as?” At the shift of my eyebrow, Stella added, “In case you were thinking of skipping out on Margaret’s function, cancel your plans now. She’ll skin you alive if you’re not there.” She touched her chest. “I ordered a Catwoman costume, but I’m trying to figure out if it’s too risqué.”
“Depends,” I said as she slammed on the brakes at a stoplight. Giving my seatbelt a tug, I made sure it was secure. “Anne Hathaway Catwoman or Halle Berry?”
Her mouth twitched. “Anne Hathaway.”
“You should be fine then. And to answer your question, to be honest, I haven’t really given my own costume any thought.”
“Could have sworn you said Halloween was your favorite.”
“It is. Don’t worry, I’ll find something good before then.” Though, when I stopped to think about it, I was probably running out of time to put something unique together. Last year, Pen and I had gone out as Sofie Fatale and The Bride from Kill Bill. It had been my favorite costume in years, since the days when my mother had helped me make the perfect outfit, but I could already picture Margaret’s disapproving glare at my blood splattered wedding gown and fake baby bump.
Sexy schoolgirl and Captain Hooker were probably out of the question, too.
Pulling her BMW into the Heritage Los Angeles at Beverly Hills, Stella parked by the ballroom entrance—which was utterly unique since the venue’s walls were made entirely of privacy glass. There were cars on either side of us, a gold Land Rover and a sleek black sports car, and my mouth went dry when I realized I’d seen that car before.
On the other side of those tinted windows sat six-feet, two-inches of the most distracting man I’d ever met in my life. I shoved all thoughts of costumes from my head and focused on the problem at hand—the fact that Oliver was here for some reason.
Forcing me to think about him.
“Hmm,” Stella murmured, and I heard the click of her seatbelt as she unhooked it. “Wonder if she sent him to make sure you could operate the camera.”
I reached for the door handle, squeezing it tightly. Even though I knew she’d only been teasing, I muttered under my breath, “She’d hire a damn camera crew before that happened.”
When I stumbled out the BMW, I heard Oliver’s engine stop, and a moment later, he eased out of his car. He was the epitome of calm and collected as he started toward me, the slight breeze ruffling his already disarranged golden-brown hair. My attention dipped to his day old stubble—would it be soft or scratchy—and then to the knot in the scarlet tie that he was adjusting.
“Morning,” he greeted me.
Do not think of him naked saying that. Do. Not. Think. Of. It.
“What are you doing here?” I crossed my arms tightly over my breasts. “Did you hack my messages too?”
He feigned a look of surprise. “I’m checking in on one of my company’s properties before I head to my eleven o’clock meeting.” His eyes darted over my shoulder to focus innocently on Stella, and I turned to follow his gaze. “You can see what I’m doing, can’t you, Ms. Marchand?”
“Yes, sir, I sure can.” She nodded, resembling a pretty bobblehead. She held her wrist close to her face, studying her watch before asking me dramatically, “Are you ready to go in, honey?”
“Yes—”
Oliver immediately cut me off, stepping between Stella and me, the spicy scent of his cologne wafting into my face thanks to the breeze. What did he think he was doing? After casting a wicked look behind him and turning my pulse into a ticking time bomb, he turned back to her. His voice was smooth and persistent when he said, “Ms. Marchand, do you mind filling in for Ms. Connelly while I speak to her for a moment?”
“Pressing work matters?” she questioned, and Oliver inclined his head in confirmation. I fought the urge to cover my face with my hands, but I succeeded in facing her scrutiny without flinching as she moved slightly to the left to look around him at me. “I don’t mind going in to talk to Natalie, but is that something you want me to do?”
Oliver was expecting me to stay out here with him, that much was obvious from his arrogant smirk. If I went in the hotel, I’d have the satisfaction—albeit the incredibly brief satisfaction—of proving him wrong. But if I went into the hotel, I’d spend the rest of the day stressing over what he might have wanted from me. Hell, probably the rest of the week. I glanced between them for a moment before my shoulders sagged and I relented.
“I’ll be in there in five minutes,” I promised.
“Take your time,” she said, admiring Oliver one last time before disappearing through the entrance. Fisting my hands by my side, I counted slowly until he finally turned back to me.
“I hadn’t expected you to bring someone,” he stated almost apologetically.
“And I didn’t expect you to be here.”
He digested my words for a second and then released a low laugh that reverberated through me. He nodded to the black Viper parked behind where I stood. “Get in, Lizzie.”
“You could ask me. I get enough commands from your mother throughout the day.”
He stepped closer. “Please, get in the car, Lizzie, before I kiss the fuck out of you right here.”
Piqued, I was already breathing heavily well before my back touched the black leather seat in his Viper. He didn’t give me an opportunity to catch it because as soon as both our doors were securely closed, he leaned over the narrow center console and pressed his face close to mine.
“I can’t do patience to save my life,” he growled, the sweet, cinnamon scent of his gum fanning my face. “I had no intentions of seeing you until you came to me, and yet here we are.”
“How did you know I’d be here?”
“Easton.” He let out a low noise when I ran the backs of my fingers over the end of his red tie. “You shouldn’t do that.”
“So I was right?” I moved my hand a little higher, the silky fabric combined with feeling the hard muscles beneath his shirt sending a trail of goose bumps up my arm. “You have him digging into my stuff too?” I couldn’t deny the waver of nervousness in my voice at the thought of him prying too deeply.
That was a toxic recipe for disaster.
“As much as I’d love to know everything about you, no. You don’t have to worry about that happening,” he answered. “But when he was erasing Margaret’s sent box, he saw an email from her to you, threatening you about making Monday happen.”
“And you intervened. You’re the reason Natalie met with me this morning?”
“Guilty.”
I was impressed. Impressed, grateful, and curious. What did he have to do for the event planner to convince her to alter her schedule? When I asked him, he lifted a shoulder.
“I’m giving her clients a thirty percent discount off the use of all Manning venues for the next year.” When my mouth parted, he his blue eyes dropped to my lips. “It was a small price to pay.”
First he’d served me lunch and now he’d gone out of his way to make a business meeting happen for me. I had to fight to keep myself from swooning right then and there.
“You make it hard—” I started, but I cut myself off, a deep moan pushing up from the back of my throat as his thumbs stroked my collarbone.
“No, beautiful, you make it fucking hard.” With his free hand, he grabbed my fingers, pressing them to the zipper of his tailored pants. He stifled my gasp, nipping at my bottom lip, then the top. Sheer lust flared within me, constricting my core. “But tell me, what do I make it hard to do? And don’t lie to me.”
I jerked him closer to me by his tie, feeling his cock stiffen against my other hand. Wow. I struggled to find the words I was searching for, and momentarily, the only one that entered my brain was gifted. Oliver Manning was incredibly and without a doubt gifted.
When he cleared his throat, I jerked my hand from his zipper, clutching it to my chest like I’d just been scorched. “You make it hard to tell you no,” I finally told him.
“Then maybe you should start saying yes.” Lowering his attention to the navigation’s clock on the center console, he groaned. Then, without warning, he untangled himself from me. “Time’s up.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I promised Ms. Marchand five minutes, and I’m a man of my word.”
Is he kidding?
He had to be, right?
But I watched helplessly as he got out the Viper and came around to open the door for me. Taking my hands in his, he pulled me up, making sure that the front of my body brushed up against his so I could feel every inch of what I wasn’t saying yes to today.
“That was intentionally cruel,” I said, but he rubbed his thumb over the center of my lips.
“Next time, Lizzie.”
As I stalked into the hotel, my body burning from the few minutes I’d spent inside his sports car, I could feel his blue eyes following me. I gave my hips a practiced extra little sway as payback, and I could just hear his frustrated growl as the door closed behind me.
*
Thanks to a combination of dreams and nightmares that night—everything from Oliver to my father—by eleven the next morning, I already had a massive headache building as I listened to the Emerson & Taylor board of directors meeting. Even though I’d quickly given up the hope that one of the male voices would jump out to me, revealing the identity of the man who’d called me nearly five months ago, I continued to pay close attention from my spot near Margaret where I was recording the meeting and also taking notes.
“...the effectiveness of the winter marketing campaign?” the company’s vice-president was asking Margaret, when she leaned her blond head close to mine.
“We’re recessing for lunch in an hour,” she whispered. “I need you to call the restaurant and make sure the delivery will be here on time.”
“Of course.” As I started to leave, grateful for a breath of air away from the crowded conference room, she grabbed my wrist, her wedding rings cold against my skin. I looked down to see her light blue eyes were narrowed in warning.
“Don’t screw this up, Ms. Connelly.”
I wanted to tell her that I hadn’t screwed up with the event planner yesterday or with any of her travel plans so far, but I gave her a dutiful nod before quietly leaving the conference area. As I started to my desk, the open French doors leading into Margaret’s office, and the laptop sitting on her desk, stopped me in my tracks. I regarded them for several seconds, wavering over whether or not to go in. If she caught me, she’d probably fire me on the spot. Fire me and start digging around for more information about me.
But hell, this moment was too convenient to pass up.
I glanced over my shoulder to make sure I was alone before sneaking inside the office and closing the door.
Sliding into the chair on the other side of her desk, I tapped the MacBook’s keyboard, feeling a rush of excitement when the screen illuminated to reveal the desktop. No password, which was a shock I knew Pen wouldn’t even believe when I told her later. I scanned over the icons—a variety of folders labeled everything from Fiscal Reports to Marketing Plans to Charity.
The one that made my heart drop, though, was the folder titled Gregory Emerson.
My father.
I didn’t know what I was expecting to see when I clicked on the icon, but an old picture of my dad and Margaret stared back at me. She was smiling—the first authentic sign of pleasure I’d ever seen on my stepmother’s face—with her arms wrapped intimately around him. They were both blond and blue-eyed—though my father’s eyes had been midnight—and I hated to admit they looked happy together. Leaning closer to the screen, I squinted to see that behind them, a banner indicated they were at the 1994 charity event for a local children’s hospital.
I swallowed the lump in my throat before it could finish forming. My father had still been married to my mom at the time.
Wow.
Had she known? Had she realized that my dad might be cheating on her?
Is that what had torn them apart?
I started to click to the next picture, but movement outside the door immediately halted me. When the knob twisted, I quickly exited out the folder and scrambled beneath Margaret’s desk, my heart hammering in my throat as I waited for her to find me hiding, jerk me up by my hair, and start freaking out.
Maybe she’d call security and Carl would shake his balding head in disappointment as they grilled me about what I was doing in her office.
But then I heard a voice that set my blood on fire for entirely different reasons. “Thanks for your concern, Dora, but I swear I can handle it.”
“Oliver,” I heard the HR director whine, but he quickly shut her down.
“Don’t you have payroll to sort through?”
“Don’t be a dick,” she said angrily. “Besides, your mom is in meetings all day. She hates when you go through her things.”
“I don’t mind waiting. She’ll be in here eventually, and I don’t really care if she doesn’t want me here.” When Dora started to interrupt him again, Oliver heaved a deep sigh and promised her, “I’ll listen to everything you have to say about Finley as soon as I speak to my mother about it.”
Finley. The woman Pen had said my boss looked up frequently on her desktop. I’d managed to do a little research on Finley Scott, but the beautiful brunette who’d probably once shared Oliver’s bed was almost a ghost. All I knew was that she was a year and a half older than him and they’d dated on and off for a number of years. Although I wanted to know more, it had seemed like a waste of time to ask my best friend to do research of her own when she was already doing so much for me.
“Oliver, I don’t think you should—” the HR director began, but then the door slammed, causing my chest to tighten in fear.
Were they gone?
Several seconds passed by, and then, to my horror, I realized I wasn’t alone when I heard footsteps drawing closer to me.
"You can come out." Despite the heavy, betraying thud of my heartbeat, and the ringing in my ears, Oliver's voice—spoken directly to me—was something I couldn't ignore.
"Get your ass out here." This time his smooth voice was low and undeniably dangerous. "I can smell you, Lizzie. You're the only one in this building with that perfume. And it makes me think of..."
Think of what?
What the hell did the Bvlgari scent make him think of?
He was cutting himself off intentionally, baiting me with the unknown, and if not for my gasp for air, he might have given up. But I did breathe. And he took it as an invitation to continue.
"That perfume makes me think of fucking you. Everywhere. Anywhere. Your scent is a distraction, so I'm asking you again: Come out and tell me why the hell you're under there." The sound of his footsteps approaching Margaret’s desk continued. "Or maybe I should just call security to drag you out.”
Holy fucking shit.
