Dead Serious (28 page)

My boss is a dick.

This is a fact that can't be sugarcoated, denied, or contemplated. It just is. Lex Lyndon is an asshole. He struts around the office in a suit that costs more than my car and he
never
smiles. You'd think a man who owned a piece of fabric worth more than a Lexus would at least have
something
to be happy about. But no. Instead, he breathes down the necks of every employee on floor twelve and occasionally makes his way down to floors eleven and nine to glare and stomp around in his five figure loafers (he only skips floor ten because it's where the cleaning supplies are kept). He's attractive in that dark, mysterious sort of way, but any infatuation I might've developed over the man has been completely and utterly flattened by narrowed, steel gray eyes and lips pursed so tight I don't think a kind word has ever filtered between them.

For the most part, Mr. Lyndon avoids my desk. One, because I'm always here on time. Two, because I never leave early. And three, because I'm the best at what I do. Period. Although, in all honesty, I don't think Lex Lyndon has any clue what it is that I do for his grandfather's-now his father's-soon to be his business. So when he glides over to my desk, smooth as smoke and twice as sultry, I ignore him and keep on doing what it is that I do. That is, what I never expected I'd
ever
be doing. My moms (yes, I have two of them) think I'm simply a paper pusher, and they're disappointed enough as it is.
Three years of art school and this is all you have to show for it?
Well, so I suppose I'm a bit of a sell-out as far as things go. I abandoned oil painting and took up real estate. But not local, residential stuff. I'm talking international, commercial real estate, investments. Basically, I move around amounts of money so astronomical they make my head spin. I buy properties and then I sell them. Online.

And Mr. Lyndon occasionally stops by to narrow his eyes and sniff. Sometimes, he adjusts his tie – always a different color, never a brown or beige or black. I guess the random assortment of brightness on all of his dark suited person should reveal something to me, like maybe underneath all of that pompous arrogance and demeaning sneer, there's a person who feels things, who smiles, who laughs. But I never see it. To me, the legend of the Laughing Lex Lyndon may as well be Bigfoot. It could exist, but a few shoddy, blurry portraits aren't convincing anyone.

Today though, today is different.

Today, Mr. Lyndon comes up behind me in the lunch room, the
lunch room,
where he never goes, and pauses. I don't know he's there at first, not until my friend and confidante, Maxi Heath, drops her fork into her lap and starts to choke on her rice noodles. Her pale green eyes focus on a spot directly above my head and stay there, wide and inquiring. It only takes me a second to turn in my chair and spot him, like a blotch of night against the brightness of the sunshine filtering in the window. He looks so out of place standing on these linoleum floors, like his majestic feet were never meant to grace the presence of such poor craftsmanship. I try not to roll my eyes.

“Can I help you, Mr. Lyndon?” I ask, voice calm but unyielding. This is, after all,
my
lunch break. My
unpaid
lunch break. During this hour, I'm free to do as I please. It's the law, and frankly, no matter what he thinks, Lex Lyndon is not above the law.

Lex takes a deep breath and wrinkles his nose at the smell of hot Thai food, his pale skin practically glowing under the fluorescent bulbs from overhead. Even in this light, though, he's handsome – tall, strong, lean, confident. I'm sure Lex has no problem finding women to fill his bed. Or men, if that's his flavor. I have no idea since I've never seen him flirt with anyone, and according to office gossip, he's single.

“Are you Oliver?” he asks me, voice a Lucullan feast for the ears and sumptuous as silk over chocolate. Yeah, he's that good. He's also mean. I can already tell from the slight inflection in his voice that something – or someone – has pissed him off today.

I clear my throat and swallow a bit of broccoli.

“My name is Olivia. Some people call me Oli.” I try to be as polite as possible, but it isn't easy, not with him lording over me the way he's doing. If he's trying to intimidate me, it isn't working. Lex barely registers that I've even spoken and doesn't acknowledge my statement.

“Were you in charge of the Eureka Inn project?” I have to pause here for a moment and think about it. Maybe Lex doesn't realize, but if it has to do with buying or selling, I'm in charge of pretty much every project. “Are you not sure?” he hisses, fists clenching at his sides. I watch his knuckles fold and unfold next to the perfectly sharp creases in his black trousers. “Because this is a multi-million dollar deal, and if you can't even give me a yes or no answer to that question, we have a serious problem.”

I wish I could say I was shocked by his behavior, but I'm not. I've seen it before, directed at other employees around the floor. But I've never had it focused on me, and let me tell you, I'm not about to put up with it.

Maxi looks terrified, like a deer caught in the headlights. I don't blame her. She's not the only one that looks like that when Lex is around. Most of the employees spend their time gazing at Lex in equal parts fear and lust (or envy if they don't swing his way). She's just one of hundreds.

I refuse to participate.

I push my chair back and stand up, rising to my full height and not caring that Lex towers over my petite frame. No big deal. Today's battles are fought with wit and craft, knowledge and cunning, not brawn or stature or elegant frames draped in muscle. I take a deep breath and brush some of the ruby red hair from my forehead. It's all natural, even though it looks like it came from a bottle. I've got an almost purple tint to my hair that doesn't match either of my mothers. Since they refuse to tell me who the birth mother is, I've never been able to figure out which one of them it is.

“Excuse me, Mr. Lyndon,” I begin, speaking slowly but surely, making sure my voice is projected up and out. I used to play the usher at my brother's baseball games when he was a kid, so I know I've got the lungs to make myself heard. “You may not be aware of the daily operations that occur in each and every department as that would be a logistical impossibility as well as a poor use of time management, but let me fill you in on a little secret.
Every
deal here is a multi-million dollar deal, so I apologize if I have to comb through my mind a bit before I can recall the specifics.”

I pause and the room is so silent, you could hear a pin drop.

Lex opens his mouth, and his face reddens bright as a summer cherry, but I don't let him speak, not yet.

“The Eureka Inn project was halted because the building inspectors that we hired, and which came very highly recommended to our company by our local real estate representative, falsified documentation on the boiler system for the building. We were told that all was well and functioning and that all seventy-five of the historic rooms and suites on the property could be adequately heated according to local and state regulations. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately for we wouldn't want to step on the toes of any of our foreign partners, the sale was halted when a third party inspector deemed the system irreparable and well past the last legs of its life. Therefore, to make this property sellable, we'll need to install a whole new heating system.” I take a deep breath to continue when Lex holds up his hand. His face has gone from red to white and now he looks a little like a ghost.

“Miss Oliver,” he growls, butchering my name worse than a lamb at slaughter. “Do you have any concept of the way in which you address me?”

“This isn't the 19
^th
century, Mr. Lyndon. I think the way in which I
address
you is perfectly adequate.”

Lex stares at me, his strong, square jaw tightening painfully and his perfect, white teeth gritting so hard I can practically hear the enamel scraping.

“Do you like working here, Miss Oliver?”

I stare him down, locking my eyes on his, letting him know that this is the 21
^st
century, and that I will not take shit. Not from him, not from anyone. I do my job, and I'm damn good at it. That's all he needs to know, and that's all that matters.

“It pays the bills,” I respond lamely. What else can I say? I don't
like
working here. Nobody does. Lex makes certain of that.

“Well then,” he snarls, fury foaming around his being like he's just been infected with rabies. Seriously, I have never seen such character or emotion on the man before. It makes him … dangerous. And sexy. Too bad his attitude is so sour. It spoils the milk, so to speak. “Consider them unpaid. You're fired.”

I don't flinch.

Instead, I cross my arms over my green blouse, the one I know makes my cheeks look rosy, and I smile.

“You can't fire me,” I tell him, flicking my tongue across my lower lip to moisten it. The air in here is getting hot, sizzling with fire and rage. Lex can posture all he wants though, won't do him any good. I won't be intimidated. “Not with unjust cause. And besides, without me, this company wouldn't function properly. It'd be like prying out a cog from a clock. It might still tick, but it won't keep time.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Lex whispers under his breath. I think he's trying not to yell. I stay still and watch him, expecting a burst of violence to explode from his hand, send my drink flying. Instead, he steps closer to me, touching the toes of my black pumps with his loafers. His hot breath drifts across my face and makes my lips tingle. Deep down, I feel an attraction stirring, spicy and sour, something painful but downright friggin' delicious. It's frightening. Lex is a beautiful specimen of humanity, but seriously? Not with that attitude.

“A woman who knows her rights.”

“You're an infuriating twit,” he growls back at me. My fingers clench the sleeves of my blouse tight, digging my nails into the silken fabric. It's only one of a hundred dress shirts I own, all of which cost a fortune and that I only bought because the dress code here is ridiculously specific.

“I could sue you for that comment,” I reply simply, refusing to show any of the anger inside of me. Men like Lex Lyndon get off on moments like this, so I decide not to give him the pleasure. His eyes bore into me, like two steel beams, slamming into my resolve with silent fury. I will not give in. I adjust my hip to put some space between us and wait to see what he's going to say next.

“My office. Now.” I stare at him and wonder how long it's going to be before he turns into a cartoon caricature of himself and starts to pour smoke from his ears. Lord knows his face is red enough. He takes a deep breath and adjusts his tie, glancing over at Maxi and curling his full lip. His gaze flicks up and down once before dismissing her without a second thought. She's just another useless peon in his eyes. Fucking Lex Lyndon has no idea that she's actually head of the accounting department. If he knew how carefully she handled his books, he might have a better attitude.

When he moves away, I cast my friend a reassuring smile and follow my boss's broad back out the swinging door and past curious gazes and terrified grimaces. Nobody thinks Lex dragging me out of the lunch room is a good thing. They all know better. Things are about to get bad. Really bad.

I think I'm about to get fired.

If the bastard thinks I'm going down without a fight though, he's got another thing coming. I keep my chin up and my stride even, shoulders back, chest out. I know how to hold my own, even against rich, powerful bullies like Alexander Lyndon.

When we get to his office door, he walks right through it, slamming into it with palms out and letting the damn thing swing precariously close to my face. A scowl rips across my lips for a moment before I school it back into place. Even though I'd like to consider myself a post-modern feminist, having a guy hold the door open for you just shows good manners. I mean, come the fuck on? I tug the front of my jacket down, tuck some red waves behind my ear and pull in a calming breath.

When I follow in after him, I'm cool as a clam and twice as stoic. I refuse to let my face show anything at all. This is like poker, and he's got a royal flush. He knows it; I know it. I just can't acknowledge it. California is an at-will state. If Lex wants to fire me, he can. But I'm going to sue him for sexual harassment. I'm sure an arrangement can be reached. I
need
this job. I just bought a new car, a new house. In San Francisco. Yeah. I need the money just to pay for my parking space.

Lex sits behind his desk and watches me with eyes that are as gray as the fog outside his window, cold and wet. There's no hint of warmth in there, no twinkle that shows me there's good inside this man. He's like a statue, perfect and chiseled, but just as heartless. I mimic his pose and fold my arms over my chest again.

We stare at each other in perfect silence, cut off from the rest of the office by expensive sound proofing and heavy wooden doors. I wonder sometimes about all the privacy. What the hell goes on in here anyway? As far as I know, Lex Lyndon doesn't actually do any work.

I keep my gaze trained on his, refusing to break eye contact for even a moment. I can tell from the minimalist design of his office that it's meant to intimidate. The room is massive with a single floor to ceiling window stretching across the entire back wall. The carpet is dark and heavy, pulling the space down and neutralizing it, crushing spirits with beige walls and photographs of suited men shaking hands. There are no personal items, no couches, no chairs, just Lex's desk and two bookcases on either side of me, pressed tight against the walls as if they're trying to escape this black hole in the center of the room, this empty rectangle meant to intimidate and break down.

I smile.

“Something funny, Miss … ” Lex pauses and doesn't even try to pretend that he knows my last name. I wait for him to continue. He doesn't.