Rock Hard

  The file opened in Charlotte's mind, her visual memory acute. She could hear her mental voice laying out the facts in a clean, crisp manner, but nothing came through her vocal chords; instead, her fingernails dug into her palms. Panic fluttered in her chest, a trapped bird with a sharp beak that pecked and pecked at her.

  2

  There Is Growling

  "Let's table that question for now," Gabriel said when it appeared Ms. Baird was about to hyperventilate. "It's Saturday night, and you've already pulled a full day."

  She gave a jerky nod and gulped down some water, her eyes anywhere but on him.

  Gabriel was used to inciting a reaction in women. The tall, confident, sexy ones flirted with him. The not-so-confident ones smiled shyly at him, and even women put off by his physique generally changed their minds after speaking to him for a few minutes and realizing he wasn't all brawn and no brain.

  He knew many of the women who hit on him weren't actually interested in him as a person. A few just wanted "a bit of rough" in bed, while others were after a trophy sports-star husband--enough to overlook the fact he was no longer on the playing field. Then there were the ones looking for a wealthy CEO who could keep them in diamonds.

  The fact he was young and in good shape was a bonus to the fortune hunters; it was his money that was the draw. As long as they had access to a healthy bank account, those women would coo sweet nothings into the ear of a toothless old man of ninety-eight. So while Gabriel knew he was attractive enough and had never had trouble finding a woman with whom to heat up the sheets, it wasn't as if he thought of himself as God's gift to women. However, neither was he an ogre.

  Except Charlotte Baird, whose personnel file he'd looked up after meeting her, seemed to strongly disagree with the latter. Petite and pretty, she'd been sitting so petrified through dinner that anyone would think he'd attacked her rather than the other way around. Her fear roused his temper, which only made her fingers clench tighter on her cutlery, until the fine lines of her bones were outlined against creamy skin dusted with gold--which further exacerbated his temper.

  Realizing she'd starve if he didn't allow her to leave, he motioned the waiter to their table. "Box Ms. Baird's meal to go. Add the blackberry cheesecake."

  Her eyes flicked up, hazel and clear behind her glasses, her lips parting. "No, it's okay," she said in a rasp of a voice even as the waiter cleared away her meal.

  "I'm paying for the damn meal, Ms. Baird. You might as well enjoy it." He didn't care about the cost; what he cared about was that the woman across from him had eaten exactly two tiny bites in fifteen minutes. It wasn't as if she had flesh to spare--though she wasn't skin and bones. No, she was just small, her weight in perfect proportion to her bone structure. So she ate. Just not with him.

  Having shut up at his snarl, skin paling, she didn't say another word until they'd left the restaurant.

  "Where's your car parked?" he asked, not wanting her on the streets alone given the high number of sports fans who'd poured into the city while they were in the restaurant. Most were fine, in a cheerful mood, but it was obvious a few had started drinking early.

  "I catch the bus," she said, shoulders hunched under that hideous brown coat that swallowed her up. "I only live just past St. Lukes."

  Gabriel's first instinct was to offer to drive her to the suburb. It was what he'd have done with any other woman in this situation. However Ms. Baird's bones might well chatter themselves out of her skin if he suggested she get into a confined space with him for longer than a few seconds.

  Leading her to a taxi stand instead, he said, "Take a cab and file an expense report on Monday."

  "I didn't--"

  "Take the damn cab." It came out through gritted teeth. The idea of any man hurting a woman made Gabriel see red. The fact Charlotte seemed to think he'd hurt her scraped against his every nerve.

  Flinching, she didn't argue again when he pulled open the back door of the cab and told the driver she needed to go toward St. Lukes.

  "Ms. Baird," he said once she was seated, "don't forget that expense claim. I'll be checking on it personally."

  Huge hazel eyes locked with his for a second. Beautiful eyes, he thought, clear and striated with gold and green behind the transparent lenses of her spectacles. Her eyes went with the soft blond curls she'd tied into a ponytail, a few wisps having escaped to kiss her flawlessly clear skin.

  A petite but tempting morsel. Too bad she was terrified at the sight of him.

  Charlotte didn't say thank you to Gabriel Bishop for the cab, instead sitting frozen in her seat until he shut the door and the driver pulled out. Probably not the best thing to do if one was trying not to get fired, but her nerves were shot. One more minute in his company and she might just have burst into tears.

  Pathetic, Charlotte. You are a pathetic excuse for a woman.

  Her teeth clenched at the ugly echo of Richard's voice; her hands fisted so tight her bones hurt. She hated that despite all the work she'd done, all the success she'd achieved in overcoming that horrible year of her life, fear could still creep into her heart like this, incapacitate without warning. Hated even more that Richard's voice could infiltrate her thoughts even now, the ugly things he'd said dripping venom into her veins.

  Monday would be a nightmare. All she could hope was that Gabriel Bishop would forget about the inconsequential mouse he'd taken to dinner and stay focused only on the higher-ups.

  3

  T-Rex Goes on a Rampage

  She'd filed the expense claim. Putting down the phone after checking with the accounts department, Gabriel wondered what Ms. Baird would do if he decided to pay her a visit and ask her how her Sunday had gone. Probably jump out of her skin, her bones clattering against one another.

  Scowling, he continued to go over the documents in front of him. Saxon & Archer was an old company with a good, strong core. Unfortunately, that core was buried under multiple layers of mold, courtesy of serious mishandling by the past CEO--a man who'd given the appearance of competence, but who, from what Gabriel could tell, had spent the majority of his time playing golf with his cronies. He'd all but driven the company straight into bankruptcy.

  As a result, the luxury department stores that had long been the jewel in Saxon & Archer's crown were faltering; retail and corporate employee morale was so low that attrition was at an all-time high. As for the supply centers that created branded Saxon & Archer goods--once considered a premier brand--they'd been badly managed to the point that online review sites had begun to joke about knockoff Saxon & Archer goods being better than the originals.

  When the board had woken up at last and terminated the idiot CEO's contract, they'd also voted unanimously to offer the position to Gabriel. Two major reasons underlay their decision. The first was his consistent track record in hauling ailing businesses out of financial hot water and putting them on the path to stellar success. The second was his ability to fire people who needed firing.

  After spending the past week going over the personnel and financial files at his home office, then rechecking details this weekend, Gabriel had a long list. "Anya," he said into the intercom, "get Legal up here."

  The portly and bald sixty-year-old in-house lawyer was in Gabriel's office five minutes later, his shoulders stiff and his lips pressed into a thin white line against the deep brown of his skin.

  "I'm not firing you," Gabriel said, waving the older man into a seat. "You're actually one of the few competent people on the senior staff." Age didn't matter to Gabriel; it was what the individual brought to the table that counted.

  Blinking quickly, the lawyer took a seat and pulled out a sheaf of documents from the briefcase he'd brought with him. "I'm assuming you want to know if there are any legal or contractual issues you need to be aware of before you begin to terminate contracts?"

  Gabriel smiled what one business opponent had called his "shark" smile. "Like I said, you're competent."

  Charlotte hid out in her cubicle after reachin
g it without running into Gabriel Bishop. Word filtered down by midmorning that he was causing carnage in upper management. More offices had been cleared out in the past two hours than in all the time Charlotte had been working at Saxon & Archer.

  "Psst."

  She looked up at the furtive sound to find Tuck leaning with his arms on top of her cubicle wall.

  Smiling at him, the lanky nineteen-year-old mail clerk one of the few men with whom she was totally comfortable, she said, "Careful you don't get caught 'lazing about' or Mr. Varma might decide he doesn't really need a clerk." Charlotte herself had been working nonstop since arriving at her desk; Anya had been driving her hard as Gabriel Bishop made demand after demand.

  "Nah." Tuck looked left, then right, before leaning even farther over the wall to whisper, "Mr. Varma's too worried about his own job. Did you hear the new boss just fired Mrs. Chang?"

  Charlotte's eyes widened. "Wow." Dolly Chang had been running the PR department for over ten years... though she did have a tendency to take long lunches with her friends and bill it to the company. Not to mention she constantly copied the old campaigns of offshore companies, making just enough minor adjustments to get away with it. The fact most of those campaigns had no relevance in the New Zealand market seemed to either escape her or cause her no concern.

  "I guess I'm not too surprised," Charlotte said slowly. "Mr. Bishop does have a reputation for coming in and cleaning house."

  He cemented that reputation over the next eight hours. Two-thirds of senior management was gone by the end of the day, the remaining third too busy to worry about anything but work. Five members of the junior staff received unexpected promotions, while others were demoted or warned to improve their performance if they wanted a job at the end of the month.

  Once again, Tuck had the gossip. "I heard one of Dolly's juniors say the boss said he wouldn't blame her for her shoddy work to date since she'd had a bad supervisor," the teenager told her as they left the office together.

  "That's kind." Not a word she would've associated with the man who'd snarled at her to take the damn cab. Like a bad-tempered T-Rex, she thought.

  Tuck zipped up his multicolored jacket with its dozens of pockets. "Yeah, but then he said if she didn't improve over the next three months, she'd be out." He drew a line across his throat. "I figure that's fair, right? Especially now that she has a chance to get a promotion since Dolly isn't around to push her favorites into the best spots."

  "Yes," Charlotte said. "It's very fair." Harsh, but reasonable.

  However, if she'd thought that first day was the end of it, she was wrong. She came into work the next day and quickly learned that T-Rex wasn't finished. The atmosphere on her floor was muted and tense and hyperactive all at the same time as people tried to show they could do their jobs.

  Anya kept Charlotte busy until Charlotte barely had five spare minutes to gulp down lunch at her desk. Charlotte wasn't naive or stupid; she knew full well the other woman was taking advantage of her. Charlotte's job was in Records, not as Anya's assistant--but as long as Anya was too lazy to do her job, Charlotte's would be secure. The fact was, with Records now so well computerized thanks to Charlotte's own work, she'd worried she'd be seen as redundant, her head on the chopping block.

  Especially with Gabriel Bishop on a mission to clean house.

  He really was a T-Rex, stomping through the company, chewing up people and spitting them out left, right, and center. But the T-Rex wasn't looking Charlotte's way, and that was fine with her. She'd just be a quiet, industrious little mouse in the corner, not worth bothering with but too useful to fire.

  Then the carnivorous creature decided to notice her.

  Tuck was handing her a stack of mail that afternoon when the dreaded call came. "Boss wants to see you," Anya said, a smirk in her tone. "Now. And bring your laptop."

  Her pulse in her mouth and her cheeks hot, Charlotte smoothed her hands down the dark brown linen of her calf-length skirt before pulling on the matching jacket over her white shirt. "Off I go to get eaten alive," she said to Tuck, trying to make a joke out of what was no doubt her execution and failing abysmally.

  The idea of those hard gray eyes on her, that icy focus... Goose bumps broke out over her skin as she picked up her laptop and slid it into a bag. She wasn't sure she could carry it in her hands without it slipping out of her grasp; the fine tremor in her bones had her barely able to sling the strap of the bag over her shoulder.

  "If he fires you," Tuck said, his brown eyes stark with distress, "he's an idiot."

  Charlotte wondered if Tuck would still say that if he knew she'd thrown a stapler at the boss's head. As far as first impressions went, it couldn't get much worse. Unless, of course, said stapler-throwing employee then lost the ability to speak while out at dinner with the same boss, instead doing an excellent impression of a statue.

  Stomach knotting at the reminder of how badly she'd screwed up, she stepped out of her cubicle. Her skin prickled. It was obvious from the number of sympathetic eyes on her that people had guessed where she was headed and why. Not surprising. Three others from this floor had made the trek. None had returned, their belongings packed up by assistants assigned the task.

  Some of her colleagues called out soft words of encouragement, but she could tell that despite their sympathy, they all thought she was a goner.

  One of the senior people in Legal was more blunt when Charlotte passed her office. "I told you to apply for Anya's position when it first opened up."

  Yes, she had, not seeming to realize the extent of Charlotte's shyness. Charlotte's inability to sell herself as an employee was pathetic. After being fired, she'd probably end up working for a mail-order business out of her home, never speaking to any other human except Molly. Eventually, she'd turn into a crazy woman with bird's-nest hair who frightened small children and random telemarketers.

  Shut up, Charlotte. This is not helping.

  A second later, she was off her floor and climbing the stairs that led up to the managerial level. Taking several deep, gulping breaths when she reached the landing, she gripped the strap of her laptop bag and entered the floor. Everyone was too busy up here to stare at her--and quite a few offices were empty, the occupants booted out.

  All too soon, she was in front of the automatic glass doors that guarded the CEO's domain, the walls on either side of the doors also clear glass. The expensive renovation had been done by order of Bernard Hill, the previous CEO. Anya's office lay in the section immediately beyond the glass, and it had a glorious view on the right as you walked in, courtesy of a floor-to-ceiling window that drenched the area in natural light.

  The CEO's office with its rumored even more spectacular view of the city lay behind the PA's office and attached waiting area. It had its own door, no glass anywhere in sight. Likely so Bernard could nap in quiet privacy while Saxon & Archer fell into ruin.

  Anya noted her entrance and waved her into the den of the T-Rex without bothering to rise from the clear glass--of course--sprawl of her desk. The other woman was all perfect makeup and poise, her glossy brown hair expertly blow-dried and her grape-colored dress hugging her svelte form while appearing businesslike.

  According to the rumor mill, the other woman had set her cap for Gabriel Bishop. One of the general admin staff had heard Anya talking to the CFO's personal assistant about her ambition to be Mrs. Bishop. She'd said something along the lines of having him eating out of her hand inside a week.

  Charlotte didn't think anyone could manage Gabriel Bishop if he didn't want to be managed, but physically at least, Anya fit his type: tall, beautiful, together.

  "Go in," Anya said with a roll of her eyes when Charlotte hesitated in front of the closed door to the CEO's office. "It'll only take him a minute to give you your marching orders."

  Then who'll do your work?

  Throat dry, Charlotte didn't utter the snarky thought. Instead, determined not to let Anya see her flinch, she swallowed and, opening the door after a q
uick knock, went in. She made sure to close the door behind herself. If she was about to be fired, she could at least save herself the humiliation of having Anya listen in.

  The view was spectacular, and the previous CEO's pristine glass desk was gone. Charlotte knew about that desk because she'd seen it being brought in by the movers. It had been a stylish designer piece that Tuck had seen in the office itself. Apparently, Bernard had kept it clear of everything but his phone and a single gold-plated pen, the desk's surface shining and clean.

  Gabriel Bishop, in contrast, was seated behind a heavy and scarred mahogany desk covered with paper and binders as well as two laptops running different programs. He was currently scowling at what looked like a contract with one of their suppliers. His dark blue tie hung loosely around his neck, as if he'd tugged impatiently at it, and the sleeves of his white shirt were folded up to his elbows to reveal just a hint of the extensive ink on his body.

  He seemed unaware of the breathtaking view at his back, the waters of the Hauraki Gulf glittering under the icy-white autumn sunlight.

  "Ms. Baird," he said without looking up, "for what earthly reason do we still have a contract with McElvoy Shoes when the stores have had to send back multiple shipments for shoddy workmanship?"

  Palms sweaty, Charlotte gripped the strap of her laptop case even tighter.

  T-Rex raised his head, those steely gray eyes laserlike in their intensity. "Sit down before you shake apart." A snarl.

  Charlotte sat.

  And he went back to flipping through the contract. "Ms. Baird, an answer before I'm eighty-five would be nice."

  Realizing his question hadn't been a rhetorical one, she closed her eyes so she couldn't see him and blurted out, "Mr. Hill was friends with old Mr. McElvoy, and when McElvoy Senior was in charge, the workmanship was exemplary, the delivery dates never missed. But now he's handed the reins to his son and things are slipping."

  "The many and various people in management who had to be aware of this didn't bring it to my inept predecessor's attention?"