Hard Rules

“Shane,” she says. “I mean … Mr. Brandon.”

I step to her. “Not ‘asshole’?”

Her cheeks heat. “That would be unprofessional and I’m trying hard not to get fired. Unless you just made that happen.”

“In other words,” I say, “calling me an asshole is an appropriate term. Just not at the office.”

“I plead the fifth. I’m not incriminating myself to a man who could fire me.”

“A little too late for that, sweetheart.” I step around her.

“No,” she says from behind me and when I face her she steps closer, lowering her voice. “I didn’t know who you were and no matter how many ways you infer, or say I did, it still won’t be true. And I’m not your sweetheart, Mr. Brandon.” She whirls around and charges into my father’s office.

I stand there, fighting the urge to go after her. Whether she is telling the truth or not, there is one thing for sure. It’s game on, and if I win, she’ll be telling the truth and back in my bed, where I most definitely want her. If I lose, she’s lying, but she’s still ending up back in my bed.

EMILY

Trying to garner some semblance of control, I make a mental list I don’t dare write down, deciding a number of things quickly. Number one: I don’t have the luxury to leave this job if I’m not fired. Number two: In order to survive in the middle of a company, and a family, at war, I can’t be the gazelle outside the lion’s office. I have to be me, the real me that my nightmare of a secret has suppressed, and that means holding my own with all of the Brandon men. It’s a task I take on with Brandon Senior, from the moment he barks his first order and I spout back with knowledge, not fear, an act that earns me a long, hard glower, before respect flints through his stare.

By six thirty, only a half hour before Shane’s demand that I meet him in the garage, I’ve continued to hold my own with my new boss. On the other hand, I’m concerned that meeting his son, who had me naked and submissive last night, in private, isn’t the best way for me to keep my job. The intercom buzzes for about the twentieth time this afternoon and Brandon Senior barks, “I need that document I asked for before you leave.”

“Finishing it now,” I assure him, only to glance up in shock to discover Shane’s brother has snuck up on me and is standing in front of my desk.

He leans forward, resting his palms on my desk, his eyes the same gray as Shane’s, but his are cold and cunning while Shane’s are intelligent and calculating. “Yet another new secretary,” he observes.

The many ways I don’t care for that description are too many to count. “And you’re Derek Brandon.”

“And you know this how?” he asks, a predatory tone to the question that reaches beyond its simplicity and is meant to intimidate me.

“Because,” I say, stamping the paper in front of me to assure him he does not have my full attention, “I’ve met your brother and you look like your father.”

His reply is a long, intense stare, another attempt to stir unease in me because he clearly thinks I’m the gazelle outside the lion’s office. I laugh after a few beats. “Do you not like to be told you look like your father?” And before I can stop myself I say, “Would you rather I say you look like your brother? Or do you prefer to hear that he looks like you?”

I’ve earned an instant scowl and he shoves off my desk as if pushed. “Good luck with the job. I hear there’s a betting pool for how many days you’ll last.” And with that fear-mongering remark, he walks into his father’s office. And that’s when my skin prickles and I feel Shane before I even see him.

My gaze jerks to the hall, and there he is, far better looking and intimidating than Derek could ever hope to be, leaning on the wall, just watching me, his expression all hard lines and shadows. Seconds tick by like hours in which I wonder if he thinks me still being here is a sign of guilt rather than necessity. I wonder if he knows his concern over my possible betrayal made him act like the true spawn of his father. Or maybe it wasn’t acting at all? Worse, I wonder if he thinks the way Derek was leaning over my desk infers intimacy and my guilt. Another couple of seconds pass by, and he turns and walks away, and I swear he takes all of the air in the room with him.

I shake myself, my decision about tonight’s meeting made. Grabbing the Rolodex, I find Shane’s number, surprised his cell phone is on the card, and I key it into my phone. Next I grab the file on my desk and walk toward the office, only to have the door shut, but I still hear Derek say, “I told you Shane would buy the Nina Thompson story.”

I grimace and turn away, walking to the desk and punching the intercom. “Yes, Ms. Stevens?”

“I have your document. Shall I bring it into you for your review?”

“Leave it on your desk.”

My list for the day complete, I ask, “Do you need anything else before I leave?”

“Just an answer to a question.”

“Of course.”

“How many days?”

I blink and then I grimace at what I know is a reference to my conversation with Derek. “However long I stay,” I reply, “won’t be determined by an office bet or by delicate sensibilities I don’t have.”

There is silence. And more silence before he says, “Good night, Ms. Stevens.”

I pop to my feet and grab my purse, shoving it over my head and across my body and all but run through the now dark lobby. Punching the elevator call button about ten times, I will it to produce a car. The door to the offices opens and that prickling sensation is almost instantaneous. I whirl around and he is walking toward me, and why, why, why, does he have to be so stunningly male when he was so stunningly an asshole.