Hard Rules Page 26

  “He could be a supplier.”

  “He could, yes,” she agrees, “but I don’t think he is.”

  “And you base this on what?”

  “For one thing,” she says, “he’s very secretive and nervous, often going outside to make calls.”

  “That could be personal.”

  “No. Something isn’t right with him, Shane. Look. I’m smart and observant and this man is my boss. I wouldn’t make an accusation if I wasn’t truly concerned.”

  “I need more than you being smart and observant to believe he’s guilty of some unknown misstep.”

  “I know.” She reaches into her purse where it hangs at her hip, and removes a piece of paper. “That’s why I brought this.” She steps closer and flattens it on the counter. “I made copies of two versions of the same inventory report, side by side.”

  “Two versions?”

  “Right,” she confirms. “The left is the one I found on his desk. The right is the one that got uploaded into our database. They don’t match.”

  “Maybe the first wasn’t final?” I ask, digging for an answer that doesn’t end with the Martina cartel.

  “He doesn’t handle inventory,” she says.

  “That doesn’t mean it didn’t change from the time it was on his desk and the time it was entered,” I argue.

  She points to a particular line. “Right here. This indicates the sales for Ridel, an anti-inflammatory drug that’s in low demand because of side effects and better patient options. I know this because I spent some time working on a new version and it got sidelined for more urgent projects. Column one indicates that low demand, but in the second version of the report, twenty times as many units have been sold.”

  “Has sales done a push on Ridel?”

  “I can’t say for sure. That’s done through outside reps I have no exposure to, but considering the drug’s history, I find that hard to believe.” She hesitates and abandons the paper to focus on me. “That night—”

  “Don’t do this. Not now. Not when you’ve just dropped a bombshell on me. Fuck.” I turn away and run my hand over my face, the magnitude of what she’s just told me starting to hit. Could Sub-Zero be packaged and labeled as this anti-inflammatory drug?

  I face her and all of a sudden, she’s in front of me, one hand on my chest, scorching me through the material. I grab her wrist, and she steps into me, her legs pressed to mine. “I can help if you let me.”

  This was always her goal, I realize, and the truth is, she’s exactly the kind of woman I should be fucking. Devious. Calculated. Incapable of being ruined by me and my screwed-up family. She belongs here. Emily does not.

  EMILY

  My plan to leave Brandon Enterprises with something, anything, to help Shane win this blood war gets easy when I return from running a million and one errands for his father and find the offices dark. Entering the lobby, I lock myself inside, drop my purse on my desk, and head straight for Brandon Senior’s office. Opening the doors, I flip on the light, and while I really don’t know what I’m looking for, one thing is certain. I promised Shane this would be my last day at Brandon Enterprises and that means this is my last chance to use my role in this company to help Shane in whatever way I can.

  With that goal in mind, I cross the office and sit down behind the desk, and since Shane believes the hedge fund is being used to hide a secret that seems like a good place to start my investigation. Reaching for the drawer where I’ve seen him stick the file, I tug, but it doesn’t move. I try another drawer with the same result. Not ready to give up, I search the desk for a tool of some sort, and grab a paper clip, inserting it into the lock with zero success.

  Frowning, I scour my brain for a solution, and a crazy idea sends me to my desk, where I snag my own key, and return to Brandon Senior’s desk and the locked drawer. Inhaling, I pray for luck, insert the key into the nemesis lock, and bingo, it turns. Pulling open the drawer, I snatch up the hedge-fund folder and one labeled MIKE ROGERS, who’s both a board member and a key player in the hedge fund. I then spend a few minutes making varied selections of other folders. My prizes in hand, I hurry to the large file room behind the reception desk, flip on the light, and power up the copy machine to begin duplicating everything in the files.

  I’ve just finished with the final documents, gathering all my paperwork, when I hear, “It’s late to be working alone, isn’t it?”

  I jolt at the male voice, whirling around to find a dark-haired security guard I’ve never seen before, standing in the doorway. “What are you doing here?” I demand, his big body, and the empty office, hitting all of my many raw nerves.

  “I saw the light on and thought something was amiss.”

  “Just catching up on my work.”

  “I see that,” he says, eying the stack of files I’ve created, and with what strikes me as more interest than an outsider should have.

  “Thanks for checking on me,” I say, shutting the file I have open and scooping up the entire stack of files. “I’m fine. I’m going to leave soon.”

  “I know you think you are,” he says, “but that’s when people make mistakes.”

  My throat goes dry with what seems to be a hidden meaning. “Mistakes?”

  “They let their guard down and forget to stay alert. Case in point, we’ve had a few strange reports in the building this week, which one wouldn’t expect with our level of security. You said you’re leaving soon. Why don’t you let me walk you downstairs?”

  “Oh no,” I say, kicking myself for giving him that opening, and growing more uncomfortable by the moment. “Thank you, but ‘soon’ for me translates to the next hour or so.”

  He studies me for several more of those creepy moments in which I contemplate the heel of my shoe as a weapon, before he finally gives a quick nod and says, “Be careful on your way down.” He disappears out of the door, and I have no idea what possesses me, considering he freaks me out, but I dart forward, catching him as he’s about to exit the office.

  “Excuse me,” I call out.

  He faces me, and I ask, “What strange happenings?”

  “For tenant privacy reasons, I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “I understand. What’s your name?”

  “Randy,” he says.

  “Randy,” I repeat. “Thank you, again.”

  He inclines his head and exits, and I quickly dart forward, locking the door that apparently won’t keep “Randy” out anyway, his name nagging at my gut for some reason. Shaking off the feeling I can’t place, I return to Brandon Senior’s office, and start refiling the folders I’d taken, when I pause with realization. The guard who’d helped me with my lost phone my first night in the building had been Randy. Of course, they could share the name. Obviously, they do share the name, but something, no, everything, about this new “Randy” is bothering me.

  Turning off the light and shutting Mr. Brandon’s doors, and fighting a nagging sense of uneasiness, I sit down at my desk and retrieve a large interoffice envelope from a drawer. I’m about to insert all the documents I’ve copied inside it, when my gaze catches on a list of proposed investments for the hedge fund. “Brandon Transportation,” I murmur, and then, “Rogers Athletics,” a company famously owned by Mike Rogers. Those companies seem like curious choices, considering this particular hedge fund is brokered by Brandon Senior, but I don’t pretend to know if that is a problem or not. This is Shane’s expertise, not mine.

  I stuff all the documents in the folder and stand, one more task to complete before I say adios to this place. Trying not to think about Randy’s potential return, I will away my nerves, and start walking, my path leading me down the dark hallway to Derek’s door. Inhaling for courage, I reach for the knob, turn it, and find it locked. A sudden roaring sound from near the front of the offices has me whirling around toward the lobby, my heart thundering in my ears right along with the air conditioner that just kicked in. Okay. That’s it. I’m done and I all but run to the front door, turn out
the lights, and hesitate in the doorway. Wait. I never turned on the lights in this part of the offices. Did I? No. I did not and they weren’t on when Randy left either.

  Officially freaked out, adrenaline surges through me, and I flip the light switch off, lock the door, and cross to the elevator panel, where I punch the button over and over, until finally a car arrives. Stepping inside, I dig out my phone, holding it like the weapon I wish it was, and watch the hallway every second until the doors shut. Another thirty seconds that feel like thirty years later I exit into the downstairs corridor. I start walking for the front exit, glancing toward the security desk to discover the first Randy at the desk. More unease rolls through me, and as much as I want to confirm the other man really works here, I want out of this building more.

  A few dozen fast steps, and I am outside, a chilly breeze lifting my hair, and without hesitation, I start walking toward the Four Seasons, punching in Shane’s number as I do. It rings once and goes to voice mail, and in the short two-block walk, I try twice more, with no success. Arriving at the entrance of the hotel, I wave at Tai as he helps another visitor, and enter the lobby to make a beeline for the elevators.

  Once inside, I key in the security code, and watch the floors tick by, certain this knot in my belly will disappear when I see Shane. So much so that I am out of the car the minute the doors open, and double-stepping for his door. Once I’m there, I resist the urge to just go in, forcing myself to punch the doorbell. Seconds tick by and he doesn’t answer, and I finally dig out the key he’d given me. I’m reaching for the lock when the door opens and I come face-to-face with a stunning brunette.

  “Oh,” she says. “Hello.” Her lips curve in a cat-that-ate-the-canary smile. “He’s all yours.” She steps around me and starts walking.

  My stomach rolls, at the same moment Shane appears in the doorway, his Burberry tie I’d put so much meaning behind gone, along with his jacket. “Emily,” he says, and before he can utter a lie I don’t want to remember him by, I try to turn away.

  He catches my arm, dragging me to him, and my hand flattens on his chest, but he doesn’t say anything and he smells like perfume. No. He smells like her. “Let go of me,” I say, my voice trembling with the pain I swore no man would cause me again.

  Several beats pass and if I wanted some sort of denial from him, I don’t get it. He releases me, and every warm spot this man ever created in me turns icy. I take a step backward, swallowing hard, and turning away. Somehow, my feet are moving, while the cold, hard truth is slowly, but precisely, seeping in and carving out a piece of my heart. This isn’t even a betrayal. He’d cut ties with me last night and I’d simply chosen not to believe it to be true.

  Reaching the end of the hall that leads to the elevator, I already know he’s not following me, but some part of me needs that confirmation. Inhaling, I rotate to glance down the path I’ve just traveled to find Shane lingering in his doorway, now in profile, his hand on the jamb, his head tilted forward and low. Tormented, it seems, but I don’t pretend to know what he’s feeling. I don’t pretend to know him at all. I leave then, turning the corner and moments later, stepping into the elevator, I have two thoughts. I’m still clutching the folder I never gave him against my chest, and I must have been falling in love with him to hurt this badly.

  I step out of the Four Seasons and onto the street to start the six-block walk to my apartment, shoving aside the tears threatening to erupt. I will not cry. I will not be defined by the actions of one man. And the very idea that if Shane had declared that woman’s presence in his home an innocent encounter, I’d have believed him—despite her scent clinging to his clothes—infuriates me. I will not become the fool my mother was with my stepfather, with Shane or any other man.

  A half block later, I have found a cold, gray spot in my mind and taken residence there, not overthinking my relationship with Shane, when I so easily could. Instead, I occupy my mind by reading store names, never letting myself go to places that might test my emotions. By block four there is a prickling sensation on my neck, a sense of being watched I do not like. It quickens my pace, reminding me of more than Randy. It reminds me of why I’m in Denver, and it is with relief that I reach my apartment and lock myself inside.

  Leaning on the door, I walk to the kitchen, and set the folder on the counter. I grab my purse and the new disposable phone inside, punching in Rick’s number. He doesn’t answer, of course. He never answers. “I think I’m in trouble,” I say. “I need help. You have to call me back.” I press end and then redial his number, with the same result. I try again and again, and I have this clawing feeling that Rick is gone for good. I set my phone on the counter, and stare at my apartment, absent of all furniture, and I have never felt so alone or without resources. That’s not true. I do have a resource. Shane and the Brandon family empire.

  Perfection is achieved, not when there is nothing more to add, but when there is nothing left to take away.

  —Carlo Gambino

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  EMILY

  What better place to hide than inside the Brandon family empire, outside the king’s door? That is the idea I cling to as I fall asleep, and the same one I cling to come morning light. That one premise motivates me to get up and dress in what has become my go-to navy skirt and matching blouse and to apply bright pink lipstick to deflect from the dark circles under my eyes that concealer has failed to cover. Task complete, I end up in the kitchen, staring at the folder I’d left on the counter, not sure what to do with it. Ultimately, no matter how Shane and I ended, I do believe he’s the better man, and I snatch it up and head for the door, deciding I’ll leave it on his desk the first chance I can discreetly manage.

  I exit my apartment, lock up, and find myself scanning for something, or someone, or I don’t really know what. I just know that I still feel that creepy, being-watched sensation that has me taking longer strides on my path to work, and solidifies my decision to keep my job. I can’t worry about a confrontation with Shane right now. No one can be as safely invisible as I am if I leave my job. Finally at the building, I head inside and waste no time making my way to the office and my desk outside Brandon Senior’s still dark office, and stick the folder in my drawer.

  It’s then that the reality of Shane and me coming face-to-face hits me hard, but my phone buzzes, distracting me, and I spend the next hour juggling calls for Brandon Senior. A break comes and the need to go to the file room has me thinking of my visitor last night. I grab my Rolodex, and find the security desk number, punching it in.

  “Security,” a woman answers. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes. Hi. This is Brandon Senior’s assistant. Can you tell me the names of the guards who were on duty last night?”

  “Was there a problem?”

  “Oh no. The opposite. One of the men checked on me when I was working late and I want to tell his supervisor.”

  “Randy was the only guard working last night.”

  A bad feeling rolls through me, the memory of seeing the original Randy behind the desk crystal clear in my mind. “I thought there were two men named Randy on duty last night?”

  “No. We only have one Randy working here.”

  My throat tightens. “Okay. I must be confused. Thank you.” I hang up, a sick feeling expanding in my belly. Who was that man and how did he get into the office?

  “Good morning.”

  I jolt at the sound of Jessica’s voice, glancing up to find her standing in front of me. “Hi,” I say cautiously, worried this is the start of a confrontation when I’m still reeling from the Randy revelation.

  “Hi,” she says, pressing her hands to the waist of her cream-colored dress. “Want to go downstairs and get coffee?”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “Because of Shane?” she asks, and waves off the idea. “He’s not here.”

  “Really? Okay then,” I say, welcoming a friend right now, and any hint about how Shane might react to my presence.
“Coffee sounds really good.” I stand and reach for my purse.

  “It’s on Shane,” she says. “He has an account and he’ll be happy to buy for us.”

  She can’t begin to understand the many ways that feels wrong but I let it go, and we make our way to the elevator, where we end up sardines in a crowded car, a short reprieve from what I know will be her many questions. Sure enough, we step off the car and she gets right to the point of this coffee break. “Are you staying or leaving?”

  “Staying,” I say as we arrive at the coffee shop and take our place in line.

  “Does Shane know?” she asks.

  “Shane doesn’t get to make this decision,” I say, folding my arms in front of me and preparing for the attack that may follow. “Severance won’t last forever and I have bills to pay.”

  “I did think of that,” she surprises me by saying. “And you’re getting paid well. But Emily, he’s worried about you.”

  I don’t even know how to reply to that and it turns out I don’t have to, at least not now. The customer in front of us leaves and I step up to the register and place my order, quickly moving to the end of the counter to wait for my coffee. And damn it, I suddenly remember I’m wearing the same lipstick I’d been wearing the day I’d met Shane.

  “Emily.”

  Shane’s voice radiates through me, a wicked hot reminder of what might have been and will never be; facing him, I find him nearly on top of me. “What are you doing here?” he demands, the scent of him, spicy and male, somehow adding to the anger his question ignites in me.

  “I need a jolt of caffeine,” I say, cautiously containing my temper.

  “Don’t play innocent,” he says, his gray eyes darkening to match the deep gray of his suit he wears too well to be such a jerk.

  “I didn’t sleep last night,” I say. “I needed a jolt of caffeine.”

  He attacks again. “Why are you at work?”

  “Because you aren’t pushing me out. I need this job.”

  “I promised you severance pay,” he reminds me, as if he’s offered me a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow he’s destroyed.