Money Shot (51 page)

Alyse Zaftig is a romance author who loves to write about women who break the mold. Sassy heroines are her favorite.

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Chapter One

Nicole

My desk phone rings in its usual way but still, I have a bad feeling about the call, and my heart rate speeds up.

“Mr. Hinton requests your presence in his office,” the secretary says.

Shoot. I knew it was coming.

My heartbeats come even faster.

I’ve heard that Mr. Hinton doesn’t visit the office much, but he must have made a special trip just for me; I screwed up that Wellington account big time.

The accounting is on track to be sorted out, but I knew a mistake like this was not going to go without heavy reprimand. Still, I thought I’d get it from the office manager or some other office minion, not the big boss himself! Like I hadn’t been humbled enough by the blunder.

This job is a hell of an opportunity for me, and I was surprised and delighted I got it in the first place, despite knowing I had all the qualifications and deserved it.

To tell you the truth, I suspect my coworker, Becky, had something to do with the screw-up. I can’t prove it—I have no evidence—but there are little things she does to me every now and then that leads me to believe she is trying to get me fired, or make sure I don’t advance, or…I don’t know—”keep me in my place.” She has ‘accidentally’ left me off of important mass company emails and forgotten to inform me of meetings, and even denied agreeing to pass a message along for me in a face-to-face interaction. I didn’t even ask her to do it, she volunteered!

I started to fill with sadness at the thought that finally, that manipulative, passive-aggressive bitch had won.

Becky clearly saw me as a threat and was going to do everything she could get away with to get rid of me. Even if it meant logging on to my computer while I’m gone and messing around with spreadsheets and numbers, perhaps mixing up files and removing important documents from the ones on my desk so that when someone comes to look for something, they’re looking at me like I lost the document they were looking for.

Ugh!

As I said, I can’t prove anything, I only have my gut feelings, and Becky makes sure that only I see her wicked smug look when I am caught with my pants down.

I can’t even tell anyone about my suspicions—I don’t exactly have any friends here. Does anyone, really? At work? But for me, things are further complicated by my skin color. I was surprised I even got hired since I clearly don’t fit the “culture” here—it’s one of the ways Human Resources rejects you after job interviews. In my case, and in the cases of some other people I know, it usually translates to: You make a lot of people here uncomfortable by being black. Your skin is a distraction. Thanks, though!

And there’s no way HR or anyone would look at me favorably if I accuse Becky directly of being malicious, when all she’s going to do is bat her big, blue eyes and pretend that her omissions or jumping to conclusions were innocent, honest mistakes.

“I really did think you were gone longer than that, sorry!” she once said when I confronted her about ‘casually’ mentioning I’d been gone for over an hour for lunch one day in front of the wrong people, which I was confronted about, of course.

First of all, why are you watching my time? And second of all, at least get it right—I was not gone for over an hour. But obviously, getting anything right when it came to me wasn’t her priority—except when it came to ultimately screwing me over. She wanted to rely on underhanded means and ‘legacy’ to get ahead, and that meant putting her foot on the neck of the pretty, Ivy League black girl.

Yes, I am aware of that aspect too—pure female jealousy. Some of the guys in the office have sent appreciative glances my way, and even old, highly conservative Bob asked me out to lunch once. I know people find me attractive—I’m fairly tall with smooth, medium brown skin, and I take care when it comes to my looks. I make sure my hair and makeup are neat and pretty at all times without going overboard. My outfits too.

It’s all part of what my dad taught me—the importance of presentation. No matter what, people judge books by their covers. I can’t do anything about my skin color, and don’t want to, so even though some people will come to simple conclusions based on that alone, I can control every other part of my presentation. Then, when some people think they’ve got me pegged for someone who is too vain to be anything but empty-headed, one conversation with me will shame them.

Becky learned that quickly, and the moment she realized I was actually smarter and more qualified than her, her campaign began.

Now here I am, heading to Mr. Hinton’s office, with dread filling me more and more the closer I get, the journey made more nerve-wracking by the elevator ride up.

I didn’t even know what to expect—I’ve never met him before, even though I’ve been here for three months now. Was he some sixty-year-old in a toupee? Did he still have a thick head of hair that he dyed, trying to look young? Was he fat and white-haired, with whiskers and a bushy old mustache? Or was he completely bald and in a wheelchair with spotted skin?

I mean, he’s a billionaire. Besides the Facebook founders, pretty much all the other billionaires are old and decrepit, right?

I’m twenty-five, so I guess, no matter what, he’d be old to me.

As I near the closed black door with ‘Alan Hinton II’ spelled out in gold lettering, I take a moment to breathe deeply and pull myself together. It would be so embarrassing to lose this job so quickly. How would I explain it to friends and family?

I knock gently.

“Come in,” a strong, masculine voice says, and I straighten up my back, put my chin up, and plaster on a pleasant, calm look.

As the door opens and I take a look at the man behind the desk, I am sure my calculated expression falls immediately—I certainly did not expect Mr. Hinton to make my temperature rise in this way.

He is looking down as he makes some notations on something in front of him so he hasn’t seen me yet, and I am glad I have a second to put my poker face back on while I examine him.

The sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms, and his face—his face is beautiful. He looks almost olive-skinned, but I realize he just has a healthy tan. The masculine planes of his face include a firm jaw, and the serious, dark eyebrows match his thick, dark—almost black—hair. I feel a desire to run my hands through it and mess it up a little.

When he raises his eyes to me, I almost melt on the spot.

His stunning steel-gray eyes arrest me with their glare, but I am unable to read anything from his expression. I’m not even trying to—I’m still lost in my trance.

This hot, middle-aged guy is definitely not who I pictured Mr. Hinton to be.

I can’t even guess how old he is—he is definitely not in his twenties, but he can’t be over forty either—or perhaps he is an exceptionally well-kept forty-five-year-old.

I examine his face again and figure mid- to late thirties.

I am generally attracted to guys around my age—not that I’ve dated much. Still, I never imagined being attracted to someone who is at least ten years older than me.

But you know what? Fine is fine, and fine sure as hell knows no age.

My body does more than heat up under his gaze, and I start to feel tingly in parts.

“Miss Sawyer,” he says at last. “Please, have a seat.” He indicates the chair in front of his desk.

I walk toward it, aware of getting closer and closer to his unsettling maleness.

The heat between us increases with every step, and I wonder if the room is actually getting hotter, or if it’s just my body.

I feel like I am walking in slow motion. Maybe I am—I feel hesitant about being that close to him. He is affecting me in ways that frighten me, ways that I have absolutely no control over, and I hate giving up control.

“You have been working for my company for a few months, correct?” he asks, his voice an even, sexy rumble.

“Yes…sir.”

He unexpectedly flashes a brief smile, and my heart stops for a moment. That flash of straight white teeth, softening the sternness of his face momentarily, makes him even more gorgeous.

“No need to be so formal,” he says, only a hint of smile remaining and those damned arresting eyes restarting my heart and sending it into a beating frenzy.

Christ, how could anyone function around a man like this? No wonder he stays out of the office for the most part.

I realize my lips have parted—probably to help me breathe better—and I close them consciously, straightening myself up again and sticking my chin out.

I once read that with the right actions, you can trick your body and emotions, and I’ve tried it before and found it worked. Right now, affecting a confident posture is sure to make me feel more confident and able to answer this stunning man’s questions without stuttering like a fool.

I feel the posturing working and my temperature starts lowering.

I am able to meet his eyes without getting lost in them.

I smile back at him—the full version of what I’ve been told is a winning smile that gets people on my side. The braces and dental work I had in my teens is going to continue making returns for me today.

I see a break in Mr. Hinton’s own composure, but it passes so quickly, I wonder if I’m seeing things.

“Then what should I call you?” I ask, and I am proud that my voice sounds absolutely normal—calm and confident like I had hoped it would.

“Call me Alan,” he says, and I nod, waiting for him to get to his berating of me.

“You are probably wondering why I called you here,” he says after a few more painstaking seconds.

I nod again.

He stands up suddenly, and my eyes travel up for a while. He is tall, and his shoulders and chest look even broader.

I feel dwarfed, and must stifle a need to stand to counter it.

Having this large man sort of towering over me like this, oozing testosterone, is making my thoughts go south.