“Everyone? That’s a big order, isn’t it?”
“Which is why few people are as prepared as I am and that’s how I win my battles. I make sure I know everything about everyone I’m in business with.”
“And you use that against them?”
“There’s a fine line.”
“How fine?”
His lips thin, his spine suddenly a little straighter. “I’m starting to believe that depends on who you’re dealing with.”
“What does that mean?”
His phone starts ringing again. “I better talk to Jessica before she shows up here to get me and I have a few calls to make myself. Room service?”
“Great,” I say, and I have the distinct impression he’s not as worried about Jessica as much as I’ve hit a sensitive topic he wants to avoid.
“How about omelets?”
I nod and give him my order before he grabs his phone from his pants in the bathroom and then disappears into the hallway, leaving me with one thought. He always knows everything about everyone. There’s only so long before that includes me, which brings me back to what I told him this morning.
“Your bags,” Shane says, reappearing in the room, carrying everything the hotel sent me into the bathroom before joining me again. “I’m going to order our food now.”
“Great,” I say as he heads toward the door.
“Did Jessica set up a meeting?” I ask, not sure how to dress. Okay, I’m not even sure I have clothes that fit.
“We missed it,” he tells me. “She’s working on it and she’s pissed.”
“Chocolate,” I suggest.
“She’s more expensive than that,” he assures me and once again he’s gone. I’m staring after him, a knot forming in my belly.
What am I doing? I’m crazy about this man. I don’t want him to find out the truth about me. I want to tell him, but that doesn’t protect him. Damn it, I refuse to accept this situation as unchangeable or unspeakable. Throwing off the blanket and darting for the bathroom, I quickly shut the door and lock it, beginning to scavenge through the items Tai had brought me, weeding through makeup, face cream, clothing, and a flat iron, to finally find my purse, which I’d scooped up by the door and shoved in one of the bags. Grabbing it, I pull the zipper open and grab the two phones, focused on the one I’ve been willing to ring.
No messages.
“Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.” I punch the call button, but after one ring I get voice mail. “You have to call me,” I say at the beep. “You have to call me or … I am going to be forced to take matters into my own hands.” I end the message and rest the phone on my forehead a moment, and the magnitude of one bad decision changing my life doesn’t escape me. And yet, I think, resting my hands on the sink and staring at my now wildly messy brown hair and pale skin, had I not made that decision, I wouldn’t have met Shane.
Giving myself a mental shake, I stick the phone back in my purse, and grab the other one, and this time I find a message that amounts to a temp service offering me a low-paying job. In so many ways, Brandon Enterprises is a blessing. A knock sounds on the door and I jump. “Room service said fifteen minutes.”
“Great,” I say. “I’m starving. I’ll hurry.”
His footsteps sound and I stuff my phone in my purse, bury it in the bottom of a bag, and remove the toiletries, along with a flat iron I unwrap and plug in. While it heats up, I hunt down Shane’s blow dryer to remove the dampness in my hair and dress in a light blue pair of Nike sweats, matching V-neck tee, and tennis shoes. Another ten minutes pass and I’ve managed to apply light makeup in pale pinks and run a brush through my hair. It’s scented with some sort of musky Shane-scented shampoo, and is actually a shiny light brown, draping my shoulders. I like smelling like him. I like a lot of things about being with Shane.
Setting all of the bags in a corner out of the way, I head for the door, but stop before I exit. I just left a message demanding a returned call. I rush back to the bag and grab the appropriate phone, stuffing it in my pocket, and head back to the door. I’m not sure how I’ll handle it if it rings, considering under no circumstances can I take that call in front of Shane. My hand comes down on the knob, and I pause to force myself to make a hard decision. I set a deadline. If I can’t come up with a solution that lets me tell Shane the truth by Monday, I have to get fired and stay away from him.
Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.
—Michael Corleone
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
EMILY
Saturday afternoon finds Shane and me huddled inside his office, which is actually more of a library than anything, bookshelves sandwiching a massive pale wooden desk. Us claiming the dark brown leather sofa and chairs nested in a corner. Shane chooses to sit on the couch, while I settle onto the plush brown rug on the floor beside him, both of us placing the two MacBooks he has on top of the wooden coffee table that matches the desk.
Once we’ve reviewed what he wants achieved, it doesn’t take long for us to dive into his research, or for us to get creative and turn the one open wall into a giant bulletin board with a massive amount of data sorted by topic, organization, and people. It becomes evident almost immediately that we are just as good at working together as we seem to be at everything else. And I not only enjoy our sharing of information, but really, truly, get a real thrill out of the case law related to drug-centric lawsuits, but we argue about his risk or reward with certain product choices for the BP division.