Fierce (2 page)

Until I met Hope. 

But then, I did a lot of things differently before that day. Or rather, I did them the same way. I did them
my
way. I kept my personal life in shadow, for one thing, partly because mystique was good, but mostly because my personal life didn’t bear scrutinizing. 

My physical presence was a different story. I’d seen the articles saying that I was a walking advertisement for my products, but that wasn’t the reason. Vanity is a weakness and a delusion, like love. I knew that my appearance, like my intelligence, was nothing more than a gift bequeathed by my ancestors, a gift it was my responsibility to hone. I’d built up a naturally strong body the same way I’d built up my company, and for the same reasons. If we were both powerhouses, that was because winning was the only option. Close didn’t count, and second place was for losers. You could call it my philosophy. 

I didn’t get photographed for my ads, of course. I left that to the models, which was why I was there that day for the kickoff shoot for my new underwear line. I always came to the first day to make sure they did it right. I knew some people called me controlling. Arrogant. Obsessive. As if any of that were a bad thing.

Now, I stood in one corner of the spacious studio and kept an eye on the slow progress before me. They’d be shooting outdoors tomorrow, with Central Park in the background, but I wouldn’t be around for that. No need. Anyway, I could see Central Park anytime from the windows of my Manhattan penthouse. 

My fingers flew, checking and responding to the messages on my phone as I waited for the crew to finish their endless fiddling. I indulged one brief flash of annoyance at Galway not being ready for the ten o’clock shooting schedule I’d specified, then let it go and concentrated instead on the task at hand. Annoyance wouldn’t help right now, and I never indulged in unnecessary or unhelpful emotion. My assistant would be reaming him out after I left. That was what he was there for. Instead, I typed out a quick answer to my VP of Finance about the upcoming bond issue, then moved on to a question from Martine in Publicity about the Paris show. She thought she was short-staffed, but everybody always thought that, when the reality was that they didn’t want to do what it took to get the work done. So I texted back,

Make it happen anyway.

and moved on.

My attention kept straying, though, and that was completely unlike me. It was the girl setting up the camera who was doing it. She seemed too small for the task of hauling those tripods and umbrellas around, and I had to restrain myself from going over to help her. She was as fragile as a flower, her pale-blonde hair falling in a soft cloud to just below her narrow shoulders, her little face a perfect heart dominated by enormous blue-green eyes.

And then there was that mouth. Surely, that mouth had been created for a man to use. I remembered the way her lips had parted when I’d touched her. The way I’d been able to feel her heart fluttering, even when I wasn’t touching her at all, and the kick of pure lust it had given me, a shot straight to the groin. When I’d licked my fingers, and she’d watched me do it—the connection had been as strong and sharp as a lightning bolt.

And when she was on her hands and knees, crawling to plug in the cords…I lost my train of thought entirely, my fingers and mind both stilling as they never did, taken over by one thought.

I want that.

“Hope!” Vincent Galway, the prima donna behind the camera, was barking again now. When I’d first met him, I’d appreciated his brusqueness, his cold insistence on perfection. I’d been accused of possessing exactly those same qualities often enough. Now, it was making the hot rage rise, and I couldn’t afford that.

 “Hurry up with those lights,” Galway ordered. “Mr. Te Mana is waiting.”

She bit her lower lip, and it trembled a little as the delicate color rose in her porcelain cheeks. “Sorry,” she said. “One moment.” Her fingers were fumbling, and I somehow knew that she needed this job. That she couldn’t afford to fail.

Nobody should be treating her like that. Nobody should be doing anything to her. Nobody but me.

My heels tapped on the echoing marble of the lobby floor. I couldn’t help a hasty glance down to make sure the black marker I’d used to cover up the last-minute nick in my good pumps had done its job. Yep. Unless somebody was
really
staring, I was golden. And thanks to the beauty of consignment stores, the rest of my outfit would pass muster, too. Maybe. Barely.

Note One. Be Positive.

I stepped into an open elevator and pushed the button for the 48th floor. The elegant brushed-nickel doors whispered shut, and my stomach dropped as fast as the car ascended. It wasn’t just the ride doing it to me, either. 

One nervous hand ran over the waistband of my severe black skirt—simple and secondhand, but, like the jacket, Chanel all the same—making sure my white blouse—from Target—was still neatly tucked in. I wished the ride would take a little longer. We were already on 11, and I needed to breathe. 

Note Two. Be Zen. I breathe with the universe.

Who was I kidding? I breathed like a panicked horse. All right, then, breathe like a
less
panicked horse.

My hands were sweating, and I fumbled in my purse for a tissue.
Note Three. Wipe hands discreetly on skirt as approach Ms. Hiring Manager.
Whose name I suddenly couldn’t remember.
Martine Devereaux. Martine Devereaux. Ms. Devereaux.

I wiped my hands, glanced up at the security cameras, and waved.
Hi, guys.
They were probably used to watching terrified job applicants trying to get it together on the elevator. Probably their big entertainment. 

I still couldn’t believe my luck. After all the resumes I’d sent out, met by a silence that had resonated all the way from midtown to my crummy apartment, I’d thought I’d be stuck working for Vincent forever. Submitting to his tirades, having him tell me how stupid I was, how clumsy I’d been every time
he
made a mistake. It couldn’t be
his
fault, and there I was, available to take the blame, because I needed the job too much to quit, and I had nowhere else to go, and he knew it. And because I was little and blonde, and everybody loves pushing little blondes around. It’s in the DNA or something. 

No. A lifetime of Vincent wasn’t happening. This was the turning point. It would be this, or it would be…something. I wasn’t going to be stuck in this rut forever. 

They all wanted somebody with a college degree, that was the problem. There was no place on their forms to explain that when other young women had been going to parties and studying for finals, I’d been taking care of other things. Or that I would work harder than anybody they could hire. I learn fast, and I never make the same mistake twice. 

But if you can’t meet them, you can’t impress them. And once they see my associates degree—earned at night, one painfully-scratched-together semester’s worth of tuition at a time—there goes my application, straight into the virtual trash. 

Sometimes, I’ve wanted to go down to their offices and sit there until they see me. Just sit there, nice and polite, and refuse to leave. I’d been about to go for it when the call had come. Nothing to lose. The police wouldn’t actually
arrest
you for being desperate enough to try a little too hard to get an interview, would they? 

Probably. Next plan. 

Well, that was then, and this was now. Because out of the blue, I
had
gotten the call. For a job I hadn’t even applied for, an interview for the publicity department at Te Mana, a glamour position beyond my wildest dreams. 

Why? Maybe I’d impressed somebody from the company at the shoot. Maybe they liked the way I crawled on the floor or fetched coffee or got yelled at. Hah. Or maybe Vincent wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe he’d recommended me. Hah again. I’d told him I had a dentist appointment today. I wouldn’t put it past him to ask to see the bill, either.   

The elevator stopped on the 40th floor, and my heart slammed against my chest. Because it was Hemi Te Mana himself getting in, his glance flicking over me just as it had the week before. 

A predatory glance,
my wild imagination provided. Or a dismissive one, more likely. A little smile appeared on his beautiful lips. He’d probably noticed my shoe. Rumor had it he noticed everything.

“You’re here,” he said, pushing the button for 51. “Looking forward to your interview?”

Oh, God. I was staring. At his shirt, open at the neck to reveal a triangle of smooth brown skin, glimpsed for a single glorious instant before he turned to stand beside me. Which gave me a great view of the perfectly tailored black suit jacket that clung to his broad shoulders and narrowed to his trim waist.

It took me a moment to register what he’d said, and not just because I was stunned to be standing beside him. It was the accent. I’d heard it in interviews as well as at the shoot, but all the same, the clipped tones and New Zealand vowels fell strangely on my ear. But there was nothing a bit strange about the low voice. As creamy as chocolate, as deep and rich as his skin. As hot as a New Zealand summer. Well, what I imagined a New Zealand summer would be.

“How did you know?” I asked, struggling to focus on what he’d said.

“I make it my business to know everything. Because it
is
my business.”

The elevator came to a stop, the doors glided open, and he put a hand out to hold them. “Here you are.” 

“Thanks,” I said. “Wish me luck.” Then I could have kicked myself. Why was I talking to him like that? Like he was…anybody? 

A faint smile warmed his brown eyes for just a moment, lightening his expression so he wasn’t the cold, forbidding figure he’d seemed at the shoot, and then the mask had slipped back into place, and my heart was fluttering, beating out a fierce tattoo. 

“I don’t think you’ll need luck,” he told me. “I have a feeling you’re going to knock them dead.”

I stepped out, the doors closed again, and he was gone.

The Human Resources Department wasn’t too bad. True, the frighteningly thin woman behind the desk eyed my resume as if it had been scrawled with crayon, but she didn’t actually laugh and point or call Security. Instead, she talked about the company—which I’d already researched, of course—then rattled off a healthy list of benefits that had my head spinning. Her business done, she led me into the elevator, down three floors, through a humming hive of activity that was the publicity department, then stopped at the door of a corner office and gave it a quick rap. 

“Good afternoon,” the woman behind the desk said as she rose to greet me. “I’m Martine Devereaux. You must be Hope.” 

She was cool. Poised. Perfect. A slim, elegant figure, white, white skin, dark hair that fell in a smooth glossy sheet that spoke to a perfect cut, nails French-manicured into delicate ovals, and a cream suit with black edging that most definitely had
not
come from a consignment store. 

I stepped forward and took the hand she offered. “Thank you for seeing me today, Ms. Devereaux.”
Project confidence.
Yeah, right.

“Martine. Please. You’ll find we’re all quite informal here.” She smiled, and didn’t look quite so scary. 

The Human Resources lady left, and Martine said, “Please sit.” She asked a few questions about my job with Vincent and listened to my carefully-rehearsed-to-sound-upbeat answers, though I had a feeling she saw straight through them. And that took all of twenty minutes.  

After that, she sat silently for a minute. Was this a test? Was she seeing if I’d blurt something out, or have the composure to wait? I bit my lip to keep myself from babbling and gave my palms a surreptitious wipe that I hoped she didn’t catch from under her half-lowered lids. 

Finally, she sighed, clicked a gold pen, and fingered an impressive diamond pendant at her white throat. “You know the fashion world,” she said. “That’s a plus. The job isn’t glamorous, but you’d learn, if you were willing to put in the time. And I mean
time.
”