I’d contemplated covering it up this morning, but I knew from my ex-girlfriend’s bitching that foundation never really did the job anyway so I’d left it, and had hoped my stubble would cover it some.
Apparently not.
“It was a regular night.” I wished. “Thank you for asking,” I tacked on politely.
She hummed under her breath, eying me over the reading glasses she wore perched on her nose—I’d swear she didn’t need them and that they were clear, but I couldn’t prove it when she never took them off—and replied, “I’m always interested in my staff and what they do for fun.”
I doubted that. Cassandra both hated Rhode and was terrified of her.
The second you got on the wrong side of her, that was the moment your career nose-dived for good. Talk about a reminder that you should never meet your idols.
With that thought in mind, I murmured, “Plenty of fun to be had in Manhattan.” I poked my thumb at the door. “If you need me, I’ll be in my cubicle.” I started my retreat, smiling at her with a rictus that made my cheeks ache. When she didn’t reply, just watched me like a snake would a mouse their owner had plopped into its tank, I twisted around at the last minute and darted out the door.
A predator didn’t have to be a man, and whenever I looked at her, she gave me the chills.
She was used to buying whatever she wanted. Be it with her name or her wealth, used to commanding respect for her position here, and she wore that power around her like a mantel.
She thought she was untouchable, and the bitch of it was, she was probably right.
Shuddering, I headed toward my cubicle unsurprised when Cassandra hissed at me, “You should have left it on my desk. I only went out for two seconds.”
“She called for it,” I mumbled as I moved past and took solace in my tiny workspace.
When I got there, I saw the reports that were nearly as tall as my computer, and grimaced... but instead of reaching for the folder on top which would be filled with mock ups, and instead of checking my email which was likely full to bursting as well, I went to Google and typed in:
The Astleys.
Three
Devlin
He worked here.
What were the odds?
I wasn’t sure whether I was pissed or glad or turned on. That it was a complicated cocktail to dissect only irritated me more.
“What department does he work in?” I demanded, turning to my executive assistant. Lizzie turned to her PA, who turned to hers, until we reached the bottom of the pile—Paul.
He just blinked at me. “The intern?”
I frowned. “What?”
“You mean, which department is the intern in?”
“He’s an intern?” Christ, how old was he?
Envisioning our tryst being splashed over the tabloids, I realized damage control might be in order. Those emergency lights could be the bane of my life. I hadn’t known the dark rooms even had them until they’d flashed on, for God’s sake.
“Yes. With the Marketing department.”
“I overheard Rhode praising him to Kirkland, saying that he shows promise,” Lizzie said flatly.
Taken aback, I arched a brow because Jacquelyn Rhode liked no one and approved of no one. In her mind, she was God, and the supreme being, meaning that everyone around her was a peon and only capable of worshipping at her feet.
For her to even mention that her intern had promise made me wonder if she was banging him. And if she was, was it consensual? Or another sexual harassment suit just waiting to happen?
“Keep an eye on her,” I warned my team of assistants, aware my tone was grim.
Pain flashing in her eyes, Lizzie heaved an impatient sigh. “She’s on her final warning,” she reminded me as if I didn’t know that already.
“Final warnings mean nothing to her. You know she’ll get a team of lawyers onto me the second I even dare fire her.” I grunted, as exasperated and infuriated as my EA. Rhode was a shark that darkened the halls of Astley Publishing. The day I fired her arse would be a good one. “If she incurs another warning, she’s out of here. I don’t give a shit about the litigation, even if I end up paying for it out of my own pocket, but if she’s going to drag us through the press then I want to have something to hurl back at her.”
“I keep sending the records to the lawyers,” Lizzie assured me, her mouth tightening because she knew what she was sending over wasn’t enough to protect the company. “If she tried, I’d like to think we have more than enough to get her laughed out of court.”
“And we’d still manage to end up looking bad because we kept her on.” Reaching up to pinch the bridge of my nose, I muttered resignedly, “Regardless, watch the intern. If she’s complimenting him, she’s either moved in for the kill and we’re too late, or she’s getting ready to up her game.”
The thought was enough to irritate me into scowling.
Before I climbed onto the elevator, the urge to watch the guy go was a strong one. I really wanted to see if his ass was as fine as I remembered clutching at last night when we kissed.
But I was an Astley.
We didn’t shy away in the face of difficult tasks. If anything, we went head to head with them.
So, battling my desire to see if he was as pretty going as he was coming—and that wasn’t a pun because, sadly, the dark room and our positions hadn’t enabled me to see anything like that—I tried not to worry over whether the press would have a field day about Astley Publishing’s top of the tree being the bottom of the dark room.
Fuck—I just knew they’d use that as a headline too.
Priorities, however, dictated that I ask, “How old is he? Tell me he’s not eighteen.”
“Interns can’t be that young, can they?” Lizzie questioned her team of staff.
“He’s twenty-two. Two months into a three-month internship.”
“You know a lot about him,” I murmured, eying Paul up as relief battled with the disquieting notion of wondering whether the kid had boned him too.
Had I been targeted?
The insidious thought whispered in my mind, until I registered I’d been the one to go into the occupied dark room. I’d been tipsy but not that bloody tipsy.
Almost grunting with relief, I nearly didn’t hear Paul say, “He works with Cassandra. Rhode’s EA? We’re dating.” He shrugged. “We talk about work.”
I dipped my chin in understanding, oddly grateful he was dating the assistant.
I remembered Cassandra—if Paul let her discuss work, then he was wasting time. She was fine, too fine to work for Rhode that was for sure. Everyone knew working for that bitch was like becoming the prime minister of a developed nation—the second you were appointed, it might be considered a promotion, but after a single day on the job, you’d be turning gray overnight.
I was under no illusions where she was concerned. Rhode was a Marketing wet dream, but a PR nightmare.
Grateful my early morning meeting about the Trevelyan release hadn’t been with her but Kirkland over in PR, even if I’d be seeing that harpy later, I waited for the elevator to take me to the top floor of my domain where the seventy-thousand square feet of space was taken up by my office, reception, and boardroom.