Her desk, however, was empty.
CHARLOTTE WAS ZIPPING UP a dress in deep magenta when her cell phone rang, a familiar name flashing on the screen. “Mr. Bishop?”
“I can’t find the damn Baxter file.” It was a snarl.
“I put it on the left corner of your desk.”
A pause.
She took the chance to check out the dress in the mirror, was shocked to realize the vibrant color looked good on her. Not that she could wear it yet. It was one thing to remove the cloak of invisibility, another to shout her presence.
“Got it.” Gabriel’s voice back in her ear. “I need you back here ASAP.”
“Why?” It was much easier to dig in her heels when she wasn’t face-to-face with him.
He growled—actually growled down the line. “Because you’re my damn PA.”
“I didn’t see a slave clause in my contract.” Charlotte had no idea where this was coming from. “I didn’t take a lunch break, so I’m having a short break now.” She went to unzip the dress, stopped when she realized he might hear her.
“Eat fast.”
She dressed and undressed fast instead, sending Molly photo after photo. Fifteen minutes later and she had a couple of new outfits. Making plans with her best friend to do some further shopping once Molly returned to the country, she girded her loins and returned to work. To find T-Rex’s door shut.
Wondering what was up since he didn’t have anything scheduled, she sat down at her desk and decided to take the time before the inevitable confrontation to check her e-mails. The routine task would calm her the same way the other routines did in her life.
Except the e-mail at the top was from Gabriel Bishop, complete with an ominous subject line: Changes to the terms of your employment.
Clicking it with her heart in her throat, she got ready to be penalized for snapping at the boss… and burst out laughing. A hand over her mouth to muffle the sound, she glanced at Gabriel’s closed door. The man was lethal.
Turning back to the screen, she read the e-mail again.
Dear Ms. Baird,
As of today, you do have a slave clause in your contract. It means you do everything I say. Under no circumstances are you to eat, sleep, take breaks, or check in to hotel rooms with men named Eggplant.
Sincerely,
Gabriel Bishop
Hitting the Reply key, Charlotte typed a message and sent it before she could second-guess herself. Afterward, she printed out both his e-mail and her own and put them in her handbag.
8
OH, THOSE RED, RED ROSES…
GABRIEL WALKED VIV GRIMES to the door, having just spent an hour discussing her options with Saxon & Archer. The previous CEO had misused the intelligent supply manager to the point that she’d been about to resign when Gabriel came on board. He’d just convinced her that she could trust him to watch her back. Which he would.
Unlike his predecessor, Gabriel understood the value of good people.
He glanced toward Charlotte’s desk as Viv left. Seeing her chair pushed back and an open file beside her computer, as if she’d stepped out for a quick minute, he wondered if his suddenly mouthy assistant—he grinned at the memory of that phone call—had seen his message.
Before he could check his e-mail for a reply, she walked into his office with a bottle of water, a foot-long sub, and a scowl on her face. “Since I know you didn’t stop for lunch.” She put both on his desk.
“Where’s my coffee?” he said, needing the hit.
“You mainline it,” she muttered. “Drink some water for a change.” With that, she turned and left.
He decided he liked her back view as much as the front.
Except for the fact her ugly sack of a dress hid every feminine curve he wanted to see. Whoever Ernest was, he was a damn idiot if he hadn’t taught Charlotte that she was sexy as hell.
Gabriel wasn’t going to hit on a vulnerable employee, even when he wanted to more every damn day, but he was allowed to admire her when she couldn’t see him. It probably wasn’t behavior HR would agree with, but Gabriel wasn’t exactly planning on telling them.
Since he was starving, he ate the sub and drank the water in the five minutes he had before leaving for a meeting with the board. It was a waste of time as far as he was concerned, and he was annoyed enough today to tell them.
“No more fucking meetings,” he said, bracing his palms flat on the table.
The men and women around the table flinched. “Mr. Bishop, we hired you and—”
“And you need to let me do my job,” he said, well aware his percentage of the company wasn’t the majority—and also aware they needed him more than he needed them. He had shares in multiple national and international companies, a property portfolio that would make their eyes bulge, as well as a number of other highly profitable investments.
The only reason he worked with failing companies like Saxon & Archer was for the challenge of rescuing them from the scrap pile. His patience with idiots who kept him from doing that only went so far. “I am not a trained poodle who’ll perform for you,” he told them. “If you can’t handle that, then fire me, otherwise this discussion is over.” He paused—to shocked silence. “I’ll give you a monthly report as agreed in our initial discussions. Any questions?”
There were none.
He left with a cordial “Good afternoon.” Yeah, they could fire him, but they wouldn’t. He was very, very good at saving sinking companies, and Saxon & Archer was definitely sinking, or had been until he came on board.