Hard Rules Read online

  “No,” I say quickly, flattening my hand on his chest. “I have to go to work, Shane. Your father won’t like me being late. And this is very complicated.”

  He cups my head again and kisses me, deeply, passionately, until his forehead rests against mine. “Does that feel complicated? We’ll work it out. Together, Emily.” And for several seconds we just breathe together and I think, Maybe I can do this. Maybe he’s the light at the end of what has been a dark tunnel. He leans back and looks at me, and what I feel in that moment is something I do not understand. Something warm, and ripe, and undiscovered, that I want to know. “Let’s get some coffee and sit down and talk,” he says, brushing my messy hair from my eyes. “Okay?”

  “Yes. Okay.”

  A loud knock sounds on the door and I jolt. “Are you done in there?” a woman calls out.

  “Just a minute!” I shout back before I whisper to Shane, “This is so embarrassing.”

  He leans in and presses his cheek to mine, his lips near my ear. “Hold your head high when we exit and act like it’s normal.” He nips my lobe, sending a shiver down my spine, before lacing his fingers with mine and leading me to the door. Glancing over his shoulder, he gives me a questioning look.

  I reply with a choppy nod and he exits the bathroom first, with me doing just what he said, holding my head up and never looking at the woman waiting just outside. We are almost at the end of the hallway when a thought has me tugging on Shane’s arm. He turns to face me, a question in his expression. “How did you go from accusations to this?”

  “I heard you meet my brother for the first time and I heard you taunt him over me. No one who was with them would speak that way to him.”

  “But after that, by the elevator, you said me sleeping with you wasn’t me making a mistake, inferring that it was calculated.”

  “No. I simply said it wasn’t a mistake and I would have come to your apartment and said as much last night, but I had an ex-firm call me about a case that reopened. Anything else?”

  “No. Nothing else. The time?”

  He glances at his watch. “Six thirty.”

  My eyes go wide. “I can’t sit and have coffee. I have to shower and dress and walk to work.”

  “We’ll get it to go and I’ll walk you home and come back and give you a ride.”

  He’s already leading me toward the counter, and I’m repeating the word “home” in my head. As in my shell of an apartment that I can’t let him see without him asking questions I can’t answer without lies. And he deserves more than lies, but if I tell him the truth, he’ll hate me.

  “What was that sweet concoction you were drinking when I met you?” he asks as we stop at the counter.

  “White mocha,” I say and he glances at the woman behind the counter.

  “White mocha and a large triple-shot latte.”

  My mind flashes back to our dinner, and how he’d nailed my personality off my coffee, and I off his. I can’t do this and not just because I work for his father, which is a whole other kind of complicated. I’m quickly falling hard for this man and I will destroy him in the process. I have to end this and there is no halfway about how. This man goes for what he wants and unless I’m brutally clear, that will be me. Even quitting my job, which isn’t an option until I find another, won’t be enough. We both live downtown and I can’t afford to move.

  He pays for our drinks and the minute he faces me, I say, “I can’t do this.”

  His hands come down on my arms, warm and strong, right and wrong at the same time. “What are you talking about, Emily?”

  “You all but called me a whore, Shane. You were an asshole. You are an asshole and I don’t accept your apology.” I shove at his arms but he holds on to me the way I want him to, when he cannot. “Let go, Shane,” I hiss.

  He studies me, his expression unreadable, hard. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going home to change and do not follow me. Don’t be such an asshole that I have to quit a job I need. Don’t do that to me after what you did to me in your office.”

  “Emily—”

  “You touched me like it was your right in that office, Shane. Touched me. We’re done.” I turn and rush for the exit when all I want to do is turn back around. Darting past a couple holding open the door, I cut right, instead of left toward my apartment and immediately cut into an alcove in front of a closed office, sinking into the dark corner, and waiting. And waiting, but he doesn’t come, a reality that delivers both relief and regret. Sinking into a squat, I press my face to my hands, hating what I just did.

  * * *

  By seven fifteen I’ve showered and left a message for every job I applied for, and two temp services, and needing some semblance of control at least, I make a list of their companies and phone numbers. A lesser salary somewhere other than Brandon Enterprises isn’t ideal, but a paycheck is what matters. By seven thirty I’ve dressed in a navy skirt with a matching jacket, paired with a matching scoop-neck silk blouse. My hose are black. My heels are four inches high. My hair is flat ironed to a rich brown shine and my makeup is done in pale pink hues. I reach for the bracelet my mother gave me, but set it down. It’s too me and that’s exactly what I can’t be right now. And when eight o’clock arrives and I walk into the fancy Brandon Enterprises offices, I look like that someone else I’m forced to embrace. Like I belong here, even though I’m pretty sure at least one Brandon male is ready to disagree.

  I stuff my purse in my desk, after taking out today’s to-do list, and I poke my head into Brandon Senior’s office, finding him behind his desk, scowling at his computer. Delicately clearing my throat, I say, “Good morning.” His head pops up, his eyes narrowing on me, and I add, “Would you like coffee?”

  “What I’d like is the contract Shane promised I’d have this morning.”

  “I’ll call Jessica right now.”

  “Don’t call. Walk over there and get it.”

  I can almost feel the blood drain from my face. “Yes. On it.” I step away from the doorway, drawing a calming breath that isn’t calming at all. I knew I’d have to see him today. I just didn’t think it would be right now. I glance at the clock on the wall beside my desk. Eight ten. If I’m lucky he won’t be in yet and I can get Jessica to pass along the contract to me the instant it’s ready.

  Spurred by that possibility, I hurry down the hallway, waving at the pretty, happy blond receptionist, barely remembering a time when I was like her. I steel myself for the potential of seeing Shane and round the corner. Jessica is behind her heavy mahogany desk, looking stunning in an emerald-green dress that contrasts with her striking light blond hair, while Shane’s door stands open. His lights are on but there is no stopping now.

  Her eyes land on me. “Happy day two. That’s longer than some of Brandon Senior’s former secretaries made it.”

  I stop in front of her desk. “I have thick skin and a history of working for assholes,” I assure her.

  “And you’re visiting me early.”

  “I offered Brandon Senior coffee and he commanded me to present myself here to pick up a contract he’s waiting on.”

  “It’s right here.”

  At the sound of Shane’s voice, my gaze lifts to find him standing to the right of Jessica in his office doorway, his suit a dark gray, his tie light blue, his expression impossible to read, and a folder in his hand. “Is it ready for me to take to him?”

  “Yes,” he says, and I am certain he will punish me for this morning with a power play, forcing me to walk to him, so I step around the desk. At the same time, Shane pushes off the doorjamb, and before I can prepare for the impact, he’s not only striding toward me, he’s radiating that dark energy I’d noted after his meeting with his brother. That’s where I rank now.

  Too soon, and not soon enough, he’s in front of me, too close considering Jessica’s watching us. For several beats, we just stand there, him towering over me, big, broad, and intimidatingly in command in ways beyond who he is in this buil
ding.

  He offers me the folder. “It’s all yours,” he says, his voice low, terse.

  I reach for it and he doesn’t let it go, holding my stare as he adds, “And now we’re done here, Ms. Stevens.”

  Ms. Stevens. I didn’t even know he knew my last name. The formality, along with the certainty that his statement has nothing to do with the contract and everything to do with him being done with me, cuts like glass, despite that being my necessary goal. I tell myself to politely say thank you, but I just can’t. I nod and he releases the folder, allowing me to turn and walk away. And somehow I manage to do just that: walk, calmly and professionally, even though the explosion of emotions inside me has me ready to launch myself forward and get to the bathroom before they get the best of me.

  I exit the hallway to the lobby, wave when the receptionist greets me, and keep moving, exiting the offices, to the exterior section of the floor. I cut to the bathroom to the right of the elevators. Shoving open the door, I pass three empty stalls and enter the final larger one, and lock myself inside before sinking against the door. My chest is tight, the ball of emotions I’ve been suppressing for months building there, threatening an eruption I can’t have now. This has to wait until I’m out of here, but really, it’s so appropriate that secrets and lies have forced me to Denver and now they’re tearing me apart while I’m here.

  Pressing my hand to my face, I shove hair from my eyes, only to have the folder fall to the ground, the contract slipping out. I squat and grab it and my gaze catches on the name “Nina Thompson” and the conversation I overheard last night comes slamming back into my mind. I told you Shane would buy the Nina Thompson story.

  The exterior door opens, jolting me into shoving the paperwork into the folder and standing. Footsteps sound and I move to the back wall to avoid being seen.

  “Emily.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut at the sound of Jessica’s voice. “I’m in here,” I say, but make no move to open the door.

  “You okay?” she asks, now at the other side of my stall.

  “Yes,” I lie, because if she believes it, maybe I will too. “Of course.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Okay. That went well.

  “I buzzed Brandon Senior,” she continues. “I told him he’d have the contract within an hour to buy you some time. Open the door.”

  “Not yet.”

  She’s silent a few beats. “How do you know Shane?”

  “I … What?”

  “Obviously there was something between you two and it didn’t start here.”

  She’s direct and in a world wrapped in lies, I actually respect that about her. I inhale and open the door. “I don’t know how to answer.”

  “He trusts me. You can too.”

  “Has he told you?”

  “He said it’s none of my business.”

  She’s honest again. God, I like this woman. “It’s complicated.”

  She snorts. “When is anything not around this place? How about we go to lunch today?”

  “No,” I say quickly and when her eyes go wide I quickly add, “I mean, thank you but Shane will misread it. He’ll think Brandon Senior has me nosing around for information.”

  She smirks. “No one in this place believes they can get information from me. We’ll do lunch. I can try and get details from you and you can keep dodging my questions. I enjoy the challenge.”

  “Shane won’t like it.”

  “I’ll take care of my boss. How’s noon?”

  “Jessica—”

  “Noon it is.” She turns and exits the bathroom, determined to get her way. She won’t. I’m not antagonizing Shane after what happened this morning. I glance down at the folder. I told you Shane would buy the Nina Thompson story. I need to tell Shane, but he might think coming from me that it’s a trick. I could tell Jessica, but I don’t know if Shane really trusts her. E-mail could be hacked and so could internal phones. That leaves only one option.

  Decision made, I rush for the door, and I don’t stop walking until I find the security of my desk, relieved to find Brandon Senior’s door shut. Hurrying to my desk, I sit down and slip the contract into my top drawer before removing my cell phone and clicking Shane’s number. Not sure it’s really him, I pull up the text message option and type: This is Emily. It’s urgent. About a work thing. Are you there?

  Him. I think. I’m here.

  I study it and type: Please prove it’s you.

  Him again. Your bra is hanging on a light above my balcony.

  Impossibly, I laugh, quickly shaking it off to type: Before I give this contract to your father, I overheard Derek say quote: I told you Shane would buy the Nina Thompson story.

  There is a long electronic silence before he replies with: Give him the contract.

  That’s it. I stare at it. And stare at it some more and then finally it beeps again with: Thank you, Emily.

  Emily. Not Ms. Stevens. I stare at the screen all over again, and I type: I’m sorry. Then I erase it. I type it again, but I don’t hit send. The truth is, even if I could open that door with Shane again—if he’d let me, which I doubt—I can’t. And I really hate the reality that creates that certainty. I erase the apology and put my phone back in my purse, shutting the drawer, and with it, the short chapter of my life that was me with Shane Brandon.

  If a man is dumb, someone is going to get the best of him.

  —Arnold Rothstein

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  EMILY

  The rest of the morning, my cell phone does not ring with even one single call about a job, but the phone on my desk rings incessantly. It becomes abundantly clear that the primary business Mr. Brandon is involved in is the investment side of the company. Presently, he’s packaging a high-dollar hedge fund that has tensions elevated between him and his potential investors, and I’m getting the brunt of it all. By midday, my list of things to do is a mile long, I’ve been yelled at by him and at least three other people, I’ve coordinated two conference calls, both with groups of complete asses, and I’m pretty sure I’ve started to grow horns of my own.

  It’s nearly noon when the intercom buzzes and I hear a loud cough. “Get in here, Ms. Stevens.”

  Unfazed at this point by his barked orders, I walk to his office, entering at the same moment he bursts into more coughing. Then he scowls at me as he demands, “Why do I not have Mike Rogers on the phone?”

  “His secretary says he’s at a team meeting,” I say, wondering how I’ve turned my low profile into calling NBA team owners who will actually answer.

  “I don’t care where the fuck he is,” Brandon Senior snaps. “If I don’t have him on the phone in fifteen minutes, you’re fired.”

  I bristle at the threat, and my first instinct is to retreat, which angers me for my reaction more than at him. I will not allow these damnable circumstances to turn me into that person. If he really intends to fire me, he’s going to do it no matter what, and if not, my response sets a tone for the future. “If you fire me,” I say, my voice firm and confident, “who’ll put up with your crankiness? And arrange your conference calls? And find Mike for you?”

  “Well, you haven’t found him, now have you?” he asks, the challenge in the question sidetracked when he hacks a few more times.

  “I have found him,” I retort when he settles down. “He just refuses to be interrupted.”

  “When he’s on the phone with me, then you’ve found him. Get out of my office and shut the door until then.”

  I’m not fired, apparently, and I don’t get out of his office, watching as he obviously chokes back more coughing. “Can I get you something hot to drink and some drugs to go with that cough?”

  “Mike Rogers is the only drug I need.”

  “I respectfully disagree.”

  “You’re pushing your luck, Ms. Stevens.”

  Resigned to his stubborn arrogance, I exit the office, pulling the door shut, and then claim my desk, immediately searching my Rolodex for
Jessica’s number, and hitting that extension. “Jessica,” I say when she answers. “It’s Emily.”

  “I was about to head in your direction for lunch.”

  “I told you, I can’t go with you,” I say, and quickly change the subject, “but I have a question. Is there a drugstore that delivers nearby? It’s for Brandon Senior.”

  “Not that delivers. What’s wrong with him?”

  I open my mouth to reply when a gorgeous woman in a sleek black pantsuit breezes into my workspace, her long, brunette hair a shiny veil touching her shoulders. More than a little shocked that I wasn’t warned of her entry first, I quickly say, “I need to call you back,” to Jessica and replace the receiver on the cradle. “Can I help you?”

  “Honey,” she purrs, stopping in front of me, and shifting her Chanel purse from one shoulder to the other, “if you’re sweetening my husband with that sweetness you ooze, you’ve already helped.”

  My eyes go wide. “You’re—” I almost say Shane’s mother. “Mrs. Brandon.” And good grief, she looks too young to be Shane’s mother, her pale skin more porcelain than most twenty-year-olds.

  “And you’re the newest target for my husband’s wrath.” She claims a chair in front of my desk and a bit to the left. “How are you handling him?”

  “His wrath isn’t so bad,” I say. “Some of the people he does business with are fairly hateful, but I’m no delicate flower.”

  “Has he threatened to fire you yet?”

  Obviously this is a thing for him. “We just did that about five minutes ago.”

  “And you’re not in the bathroom crying. I approve. If you’re still here in two weeks, I’ll take you to the spa to celebrate.” She stands up, and I turn in my chair to watch her walk to her husband’s door, open it, and walk right in. Oh God. Is she going to get me fired? Or … not? What does a man who brings his mistress to his son’s hotel expect of me where his wife is concerned? And officially, I’ve decided Shane’s family unit is as screwed up as mine.