Boss: A Novel Read online

  Chapter 3

  When the doors of the elevator slowly open, I step out tentatively into a silent hallway.

  After being accompanied literally from my front door, it feels odd to finally be left on my own.

  The sparse white wall stretches on in both directions.

  What’s the point of a hallway if there are no doors?

  I look to the left but it seems to lead nowhere, turning at a large picture window. I look the other way and spy a small desk near a set of glass double doors.

  As I get closer the doors open and an immaculately dressed blonde emerges. Her long blonde hair falls just past her slim shoulders and she’s wearing a muted, but figure hugging, light blue business suit.

  When she sees me, her grey eyes widen for a second before narrowing as she looks me up and down.

  “You must be Miss Snow,” her voice is cool and soft and seems to fit perfectly with the space made up of white paint and glass.

  “Yes,” I try to make my own voice sound as cool but I don’t think I succeed.

  “Mr. Blake asked if you would mind waiting.”

  She points to a long white leather sofa with one perfectly manicured finger, “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “No thank you.”

  I sit and she takes her place at her desk.

  The only sound is that of her gently clacking nails on the keyboard but even that echoes slightly.

  After about ten minutes, I start to regret not accepting a drink, at least then I would have something to do with my hands. I’m left sitting very still trying hard not to fidget as the minutes roll past.

  I’m just about to pull out my phone to send a message to Olivia when a chime tones on the woman’s desk and an inaudible voice follows. The woman looks up at me with a pasted on smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and says, “He’ll see you now, Miss Snow.”

  It takes all my willpower not to jump to my feet.

  Instead I stand smoothly, with only a slight wobble on my five-inch heels, take a breath, and walk slowly and carefully towards the doors.

  As I pass his assistant, I suddenly realize what it is making me feel so uncomfortable.

  I clash with everything.

  The whole space, including the only other person in it, is made up of light creams, cool blues and pinks, and glass. Everything is controlled and functional and not remotely decorative.

  I, on the other hand, am clad in black, red and white with my dark hair flowing in unruly waves. I feel like a poisonous thorn.

  Sigh.

  Grasping the cold handle, I push and enter the spacious office.

  On first inspection I think I’m alone.

  Plush cream carpet begs me to kick my shoes off and wriggle my toes in it but a figure by the window stops me.

  The window stretches across the entire office and even from here I can see that it offers an incredible view of the New York skyline.

  The man, I assume he’s Mr. Blake, is standing very still with his back to me, staring out the window.

  I open my mouth to let him know I’m here but the words catch in my throat. There’s something about the stillness of his silhouette that’s captivating.

  I feel as though if I spoke right now he might shatter.

  Instead I turn to look around the office.

  The color of the carpet matches the walls so perfectly it was difficult to tell where they meet.

  It was a disarming effect.

  On the far wall is a white canvas four or five feet across and not much less down.

  Stark white and covered with long, rough black strokes.

  It feels violent but at the same time familiar.

  Maybe I’ve seen other pieces like it in a gallery. I suppose it wouldn’t be so strange to find the art of someone famous on these walls.

  “What do you see?” the smooth voice is so close behind me I jump and move to turn.

  “Don’t turn around. Look at the painting.”

  It’s not a request. It’s an order.

  I can feel him behind me. It’s like I can feel the heat and energy radiating off his body and the hair on the back of my neck stands on end.

  “What do you see?” he asks again, his voice softer but his mouth closer to my ear.

  “Black lines,” I reply.

  I search my mind for something more interesting.

  Damn.

  I could have easily taken an art appreciation class as an elective back in college.

  “It feels angry as though the lines were slashed onto the canvas.”

  He makes an approving sound - a sort of deep chested hum, “That’s very interesting. May I?”

  Before I can respond his hands are resting on either side of my face and I gasp in a breath but don’t move until he gently tips my head to the side. My back is just touching his front and I am suddenly very aware of how close and how much bigger he is than me.

  “Now look.”

  His voice is a whisper but it is so close to my ear, I can feel his warm breath.

  Is this how he deals with all his business acquaintances?

  And what’s going on with me?

  My whole body feels electric with him so close and I can’t seem to get enough air. If this is how I react to him before I’ve even seen his face how am I ever going to be able to negotiate a business deal?

  “Are you looking?” his voice is seductive.

  “Yes.”

  I blink and focus on the black slashes and my mouth goes dry.

  No longer are the black lines a random slashing as I stare at them I can see patterns, familiar shapes standing out from the angles and lines.

  I get a sudden visual flash of a woman on her knees in front of a man holding a belt. The image should be disturbing but I feel my heart pounding almost painfully against my chest and I’m afraid my whole body might combust as arousal pools in my lower belly and makes my thighs tremble.

  His finger strokes a sensitive point between my throat and shoulder.

  “Your pulse is going crazy and your body temperature just spiked.”

  He chuckles and it vibrates through my whole body.

  “Why are you showing me this?” my voice is breathless.

  I should move away but his hands are on my shoulders now.

  It’s not that he’s forcing me to stay - I don’t want to move.

  “Have you ever heard of a Rorschach test?”

  “Ink blot pictures, aren’t they? Used for psychological analysis.”

  I look at the painting again. It’s just a bunch of black lines on a canvas.

  Was he testing me? Did he test everyone who entered his office? And for what? Mental stability?

  I can feel my temperature spike but I bite my tongue and carefully pull away. I immediately feel chilled by the loss of his hands on my skin.

  I stride towards his desk and take a seat, “Mr. Blake, I understand that you are a very busy man so maybe we should focus on the reason I’m here.”

  “Of course, forgive me,” his voice is soft and quite with a slight accent that I can’t help finding familiar.

  He takes his seat and I think my mouth falls open.

  Oh no.

  His voice is familiar because I’ve heard it before.

  Because we met yesterday when I fell at his feet…

  Chapter 4

  I blink but there’s no mistaking it.

  The stormy blue eyes and full mouth are unmistakable, although his suit today is a light grey.

  There is no mistake.

  He’s the man I slammed into at the gym last night. The gorgeous man I couldn’t stop ogling and ended up dreaming about all night.

  “You’ve gone pale,” he says, looking concerned, “Can I have my assistant bring you something? A glass of water?”

  “No, I’m fine. I think I sat down a bit too fast.”

  “You were looking at me as though you’d seen a ghost.”

  His eyes study me with the kind of shrewd awareness that comes from
years of dealing with people and multitudes of business deals and negotiations.

  I feel like he’s not simply taking in my appearance but trying to look into my soul. Once again, I have to fight not to fidget.

  “Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Claire,” he says, cocking an eyebrow. “May I call you Claire or would you prefer Miss Snow?”

  “Claire is fine.”

  He doesn’t remember me.

  It’s a good thing after all one only gets a single change to make a first impression.

  Still, it irks me.

  The meeting wasn’t memorable, in fact it bordered on humiliating but while I remember everything about him right down to the tilt of his head and the slightly amused twist of his lips, he remembered nothing about me.

  He’d swept me from his mind like one might flick a piece of lint from an expensive black coat.

  “I hope you didn’t mind that I sent my own personal driver,” he says, “I detest lateness.”

  My brain kicks back into place along with my ire.

  Why would I be anything but punctual to such an important meeting?

  Is a million dollar investment so unimportant to him that he expected me to simply rock up when I felt like it?

  His eyes narrow towards me, “You’re mad at me.”

  What?

  I panic.

  “Of course not,” I say lightly, “Why would I be mad at you?”

  He taps a finger against his lips.

  “Perhaps you saw my sending a driver to insure you were on time to this meeting as a vote of no confidence in your ability to be punctual.”

  “I was simply – confused – as to why you would go to such lengths to ensure my punctuality only to have me wait outside for twenty minutes.”

  The words are coming out and I have no control.

  His expression is impassive for almost a full minute while he studies me.

  Did I just ruin my chances?

  Just as I’m wondering if I should simply stand up and walk out with whatever scraps of dignity I have left, his face suddenly shifts into am wide smile.

  “You are completely right,” he says, “I like to… I need to be in control and it can make me appear rude, sometimes. Will you forgive me?”

  My voice is stuck in my throat so I simply nod and smile.

  “To business?” he suggests.

  “Please.”

  He smiles but his eyes glimmer with amusement.

  He turns his attention to his laptop and with a couple a clicks, the second monitor, this one facing me, glows to life and I can see my proposal.

  It takes me a second to recognize the work as my own but at once my mind snaps into mode.

  This is not personal.

  I’m not here to discuss my personal feelings or dwell on my sudden fluctuating libido.

  This is a business deal and I know that my idea is solid.

  “I’ve read through your proposal and inspected the prototype of the app you’ve been developing,” he says, tapping the screen to bring up various interface images, “And James’s recommendation was very impressive.”

  James?

  Oh! Dr. Henderson.

  “I have a lot to thank Dr. Henderson for. I feel that I’ve become a much stronger professional under his guidance,” I state.

  His eyes flick to me and narrow, “I hear that a great deal. Tell me, how well did you get to know Dr. Henderson?”

  “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

  “It’s a simple enough question. How well do you know James Henderson?”

  That’s not what he’d asked but I let it drop, “As well as any student can know their lecturer, I suppose.”

  “You don’t think it’s odd for a student to seek out her college lecturer outside the boundaries of the student-teacher relationship?”

  He was starting sound very familiar and Trent’s voice whispered nastily, I told you so.

  “I don’t think so, no,” I reply, unable to keep the sharp edge out of my voice, “While in his class he took a particular interest in my projects and ideas and helped me to hone my talents. When I started designing the Gifting Elf app, it simply made sense to me to seek out his advice.”

  “I’ve heard some interesting rumors over the years regarding the young women James takes particular interest in.”

  “Of course you have,” I mutter.

  Why did he agree to see me if he just planned to accuse me of sleeping my way to the top?

  Had he planned all along to humiliate me?

  If that was his plan all along then there’s no reason to hold back.

  I meet his gaze feeling suddenly very calm, “You seem to be implying that I achieved my final score and in fact gained James Henderson’s recommendation on my back.”

  His eyes widen at my frankness.

  I stand up and walk around his desk.

  “May I,” I ask, indicating his laptop.

  At his bemused nod, I quickly and deftly type in the URL for my personal page and bring up the full page of apps, games, and interfaces I’d made since and during college.

  “This is what I do,” I say, highlighting app after app along with the glowing testimonials from users, “I believe that everyone has a natural ability and I am lucky enough that mine can earn me a living. I love what I do and I am very good at it but I have also worked hard to gain the knowledge and skills necessary.”

  I bring up the Gifting Elf app.

  “My app is deceptively simple but I honestly believe it will make life easier for busy people from all walks of life.”

  I bring up another page.

  Bending to tap his screen is sort of awkward with him sitting so close but I’m in the zone and won’t be distracted.

  “Through the interface you can type in the names and birthdays or other special days of friends and family,” I click to the next page, “Then you simply pick gifts at your leisure. Then even if you forget the app will order and have the gift wrapped and delivered for you – of course sending you a useful text so you know why you’re being thanked.”

  I look at him and almost gasp when I realize how close we are.

  We’re almost nose-to-nose and he’s looking right back at me.

  “Impressive,” he murmurs.

  My gaze drops to his lips just in time to watch him lick them, slow, inviting.

  I stand up straight and move back to my seat, feeling suddenly deflated.

  He clears his throat and shifts in his seat, adjusting something below the desk.

  “James would never have recommended you to me if he didn’t believe you were worth my time and investment.”

  “No he wouldn’t have,” I breathe out a sigh, “I’ve heard the rumors too. But I’ve never been the kind of girl men seek out for illicit affairs.”

  He blinks at me and looks like he might have something to add but instead he focuses again on the laptop.

  For the next hour he fires questions at me regarding the app and my preparation for heading up such an ambitious project.

  I planned for this and handle it comfortably. I answer his questions by drawing on my years of study and personal passion, and by the end he looks satisfied.

  He checks his watch and smiles at me, “Would you join me for lunch? Perhaps we can get to know each other a little better in a less formal environment.”

  “That sounds very nice,” I say, “But I should get back home. I have another app I’m about to submit to…”

  Damn!

  Will he remember me if I say the name of the gym?

  “Oh yes,” he clicks and brings up the page of my workout and fitness apps, “Joey tells me that your apps have nearly tripled business.”

  He looks at me and smiles.

  It’s a slow, mischievous smile that looks at once completely out of place and sexy as hell.

  “I met a rather interesting young woman when I paid him a visit yesterday afternoon.”

  I look at him squarely.

  Fine.


  If he wants to talk about it I won’t hold back. Yes, I work out and like other humans I sweat – and sometimes trip over my own feet.

  “Really?” I reply, taking control back, “Did you accuse her or having an illicit affair with her college lecturer too?”

  He meets my gaze then licks his finger and marks a point on an invisible chalkboard.

  The gesture is so human and familiar I can’t help smiling.

  “What would you say if I offered you a job? Put you in charge of a team to create apps like these, and others.”

  The question catches me off guard but almost immediately I know the answer.

  “I would thank you for your kind offer, and be honestly complimented and honored, but I would turn it down,” I say, “If I wanted to simply create software and apps for someone else I could be doing that by now. I don’t want to work for someone else, at least not entirely in a boss employee relationship.”

  “You want to be free. You want to forge your own way in the world.”

  His words are so attuned to my own thoughts that for a second, looking into his eyes I feel like something sparks, a connection deeper than the usual.

  “I – did one of those – personality thingies a while ago,” I say, not even sure why I’m telling him something I’d never told anyone else, “It said that I had a complicated relationship with authority.”

  He tips his head to the side and I wish I knew what he was thinking.

  He has one of those faces that shows nothing unless he wants the other person to see.

  “Then I have another offer, but I should tell you that it is my only offer,” he says and I nod for him to continue, “I want to be your partner in this particular app, not merely an investor. I see potential in it and you. I think that you are a remarkable woman but I don’t feel like you’re quite ready to run with a project like this on your own.”

  I open my mouth to argue but he holds up a hand and I shut my mouth.

  The least I can do is hear him out.

  “I will give you the funding you’ve asked for, and you will still be a free agent and have complete creative and technological control over the app.”

  He pauses and when I don’t argue he continues, “But I would like to be your partner in this venture and as such would like to offer you my personally picked specialist team. Marketing, design, programming, PR. I think that working together we can create something – special.”