Flashes of Me (9 page)

“You must think I’m foolish.” I crumple the newspaper clipping in my right hand. “I’m a grown woman missing her father.” I stagger to my feet. Henley helps me, his fingers clasping my elbow.

“I don’t think you’re foolish.” He takes the clipping from me, smooths the paper flat, folds it neatly, and tucks it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

“I’m supposed to shred that.” I frown.

“There’s nothing confidential about a newspaper article.” Henley dusts the white powder off his dress pants. “And since when do you do what you’re supposed to do?” He raises one of his eyebrows.

“That’s true.” I force a smile. “Are we having lunch together?” I quickly change the subject, unable to deal with any more pain.

“Yes, we’re having lunch together.” Henley holds out his hand. “Come.”

I slide my palm along his, his touch revitalizing me, filling my heart with genuine joy and banishing my sorrow. “Are you discarding all of your no-touching rules?” He folds his fingers over mine, capturing me, his grip powerful and sure, his scars rough.

“Yes.” Henley brushes his lips against mine, his embrace frustratingly brief. “I’ve admitted defeat.” He opens the door and leads me out of the shredding room.

Grown men and women scatter, ducking into cubicles. Conversations stop. Henley’s face darkens, his expression grim.

“They must know I’m ready to eat anything,” I tease. “I’m almost hungry enough to consume my shoes.” I skip a bit beside Henley, swinging his arm. “And that would be a disaster because they’re adorable.” As we wait by the elevator, I hold up one of my feet so Henley can admire my pretty white slingbacks. He bobs his head, silently acknowledging their cuteness, and I smile. “They’re comfortable also.”

The elevator doors open and we step inside. A tall blond woman moves to the far mirrored wall. Her slender form is clad in a black suit crafted by one of the hottest young designers.

I study her slim frame with open admiration. “I can’t wear his suits, but you certainly have the figure for them.” Her gaze flicks to me and then to Henley. “I’m Kat.” I hold out my hand.

She hesitates for a telling moment and squeezes my fingers quickly. My father calls this a chicken-shit handshake. I suspect she’s more scared of Henley than of me.

“It’s as though he designed the suit for you.” I sigh, appreciating the fit. “It also comes in cream. That would look marvelous with your skin tone.”

The doors open. The woman gives me a nervous smile and exits.

As we continue our ascent, I turn and face Henley. “The elevator is going up. Both the cafeteria and your cleverly named Fortress are located downstairs. If I don’t eat soon, I’ll collapse and you’ll have to carry me.”

“We’re having lunch with Mr. Blaine.” Henley’s tone tells me he’s not honored by this request. “I don’t hold back information from Mr. Blaine.”

Henley has told his CEO I’m a Volkov. “I don’t expect you to hold back information from him.” I nibble the inside of my cheek. “But I don’t want everyone else to know who I am. I want to continue pretending.”

Henley doesn’t look at me. He stares straight ahead. His jaw juts. “Is that what we’re doing? Pretending?” His voice is soft, filled with a pain that I caused.

I take both of his big hands, holding onto him tightly. “What we have between us is real.” Henley meets my gaze and the unabashed need in his eyes causes my heart to constrict. “But the rest isn’t and I need it to be that way . . . for a while longer, maybe forever.” I twist my lips. “I’m crazy, aren’t I?”

“You’re not crazy.” Henley lowers his head, his gaze fixed on my mouth. “You’re perfect and you’re mine.” I clutch his shoulders, pulling myself upward. His breath fans over my skin. Our lips press together.

The doors open and Henley straightens. “Come.” He pulls me out of the elevator car and onto the executive floor. The color scheme is the same as it is on the other floors. The walls are dove gray, the carpet is a shade darker, and the ceiling is stark white. Video screens display smiling images of people using technology.

A smartly dressed brunette woman sits behind a large black lacquer desk. Matching leather sofas are arranged to the left. Technology magazines are set on the glass coffee table.

“Mr. Blaine is waiting for you, Mr. Henley.” The woman doesn’t look directly at Henley and her smile doesn’t reach her big brown eyes.

“Thank you,” Henley rumbles, leading me through an arched entranceway. I hustle to keep pace, my heels not making a sound on the padded carpet.

“What? No passcards are needed?” I joke, seeking to break the tension. “Security is lax up here, chief.” I look around us. The space resembles the legal floor, the cubicles gray, in need of color. Employees raise their heads, spot Henley, and duck back down.

This happens again and again, the sight hilariously funny. “Have you ever played that amusement-park game where the rodents pop out of holes and you have to whack them with a mallet?” I ask. Henley doesn’t answer, his broad shoulders shaking. “You’re strong and fast. I think you’d be great at that game. You could win me a stuffed bear or a giant plush unicorn.”

A bark of laughter bursts from his lips. Heads pop up. Henley laughs even harder and I join in, his joy feeding mine. I bump against him. He holds onto me, I hold onto him, and we laugh as though we have never known loss, have never known sadness.

A door swings open. “This is not good,” a deep voice drawls. I gaze upward, wiping the joyful tears from my cheeks. A dark-haired man with brilliant green eyes stares at us.

“Mr. Blaine.” Henley straightens to his full impressive height, his lips twitching.

“Get in here, both of you.” Gabriel Blaine, the CEO of Blaine Technologies and my father’s former archenemy, ushers us into his office.

Chapter Seven

M
R
. B
LAINE’S OFFICE
has very few screens, extremely ugly modern art, and a big boardroom table. Fran, his assistant, and a very pregnant tiny brunette woman are seated on one side of the table. Plates, utensils, and glasses of water are set in front of them. The empty power seat at the end of the table clearly belongs to Mr. Blaine.

Henley pulls out the chair across from Fran for me, and he sits by Mr. Blaine’s left hand. The two men exchange glances, communicating silently. Mr. Blaine is wearing an expensive black suit, a crisp white shirt, and a gray silk tie. Its hue perfectly matches the color of the pregnant woman’s designer suit.

This yet-to-be identified woman glances at me, her big brown eyes wide with curiosity. “Ummm . . .”

“Hi. I’m Kat.” I reach across the table, taking the conversational initiative. “I’m a brand-new intern here at Blaine Technologies.”

“I’m Anna, Fran’s assistant.” Anna shakes my hand, her grip confident and firm. She knows her place in this world and now, after hearing her first name, I know her place also.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Blaine.” I grin. Anna is our CEO’s much-beloved wife and a woman my hard-to-impress uncle greatly admires. We’ll be friends, she and I. I know this as surely as I know Henley is mine.

My behemoth sighs heavily, the sound loud in the quiet room. I look at him and raise my eyebrows. “Am I not supposed to know who she is?”

Henley shakes his head.

“Oops.” I wince dramatically. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know . . . or rather I did know, but I shouldn’t have said anything,” I apologize to a now smiling Anna. She inclines her head toward me.

“Can I know who Fran is?” I ask. The older woman watches us, her eyes dancing with amusement. Henley says nothing. “Hi, Fran.” I wave at her. She waves back.

Mr. Blaine opens the take-out containers, his well-manicured hands tanned and slender. “Henley, what are you doing?” He fills Anna’s plate with beef teriyaki and rice, the two women acting as though a CEO serving his assistant’s assistant is normal. “You’re giggling in the hallways, openly cavorting with pretty young interns, getting naked in the shredding rooms.”

I straighten, my good humor evaporating, and Henley’s face darkens. “That’s my personal business,” he growls, folding his thick fingers into massive fists.

“When it happens at the office it’s no longer your personal business.” Mr. Blaine glowers at Henley, his eyes as hard and as unyielding as emeralds.

I shift closer to my behemoth, seeking to protect him.

“It hasn’t interfered with security,” Henley baldly states, his jaw jutting.

“Hasn’t it?” Mr. Blaine continues to verbally attack my man and my anger escalates. “The head of cybersecurity should be a figure worthy of respect, not a source of gossip.”

“Respect?” I splutter, unable to remain silent. Fran inhales sharply. Heads turn toward me.

“Do you have something to say, Miss Brand-New Intern?” Mr. Blaine’s voice is scarily quiet, his body still, his gaze fixed on me.

“Kat,” Henley cautions.

I won’t be cautioned. No one criticizes my man. “Henley is more than respected. He’s feared. Employees act as though he’s some sort of wild ravenous beast. They avoid him in the hallways. They won’t speak to him. They won’t even look at him. How do you expect him to do his job when employees won’t talk to him?”

Henley straightens, his head lifting. “Are you questioning whether or not I can do my job?”

“No, I know you can do your job,” I assure him, patting his arm. “You’re the best at what you do, but you’re also only one man and your support team is small. You can’t monitor every inch of space, both physical and cyber, every minute of the day, especially now with the buyout.” I meet his gaze, willing him to understand. “Your responsibilities will double. You’ll have two buildings, two systems, thousands of miles apart. If employees don’t feel comfortable approaching you, they won’t tell you about possible threats.”

“I could fail to protect them.” Henley presses his lips together.

“I won’t allow you to fail,” I promise him. “People talk to me. I’ll show you how to open the lines of communication.”

“Or our employees could simply talk to you,” Mr. Blaine declares. “You’ll be our new liaison for cybersecurity.” He calmly transfers some of the orange ginger chicken onto Fran’s plate, his movements measured and graceful.

I blink, stunned by his sudden decision. “I don’t have any formal experience with . . . well . . . anything, Mr. Blaine.”

“You don’t need formal experience for this position, Kat,” Henley rumbles, drawing my attention away from his boss. “Employees will come to you with their concerns. You’ll relay those concerns to me. I’ll take action. You can do this.”

“You think I can do this?” I ask. He nods and my chest warms. “Ummm . . .” I chew on the inside of my cheek. “Henley—”

“I need you,” he states softly, those three words scattering all of my objections.

I ladle some of the beef teriyaki onto Henley’s plate, giving him extra vegetables, the action buying me more time, time I don’t need. I know what my answer will be. He needs me and I can’t say no to him. “I’ll try,” I finally concede. “But if I can’t do the job, if I ever jeopardize the company’s security, I expect you to fire me.” I give Henley some orange chicken also. Big behemoths require a lot of food. “Promise me you’ll do that. The company’s safety comes first. I won’t—”

Henley places one thick finger over my lips, stopping my babbling. “You can do the job and I promise if you ever jeopardize the company’s security, I’ll fire you.”

He always keeps his promises. I press my lips fervently to Henley’s fingertip, tasting the salt of his skin, silently thanking him for believing in me.

Henley pulls his hand away. “We’ll work together . . . closely.” His eyes glow.

“I’d like that.” My voice is husky.

“Then that’s settled.” Mr. Blaine takes beef teriyaki for himself. “I’ll talk to Yen this afternoon.” The fluorescent lights reflect off the gold band on his ring finger.

I plunk orange chicken onto my plate, my doubts about my ability to do my new job lingering. Henley devours the beef teriyaki, making a healthy dent in his heaping plate of food. He appears relaxed, almost pleased with himself.

“Has the security breach been resolved, Henley?” Mr. Blaine asks.

“We had another security breach this morning, sir.” Henley glares at the slice of orange impaled on his fork. “We stopped her at level two.”

“She’s good.”

“She is,” Henley agrees, pops the orange into his mouth, chews.

I suspect they’re talking about Camille and I frown, not liking that my new friend is causing trouble for Henley. He has other issues to worry about, genuine threats to security.

Henley applies himself to the meal with his trademark intensity. I give him two more servings of beef teriyaki, happily taking care of him, keeping his plate full.

“Mr. Blaine used to smoke,” Anna, Mrs. Blaine, blurts into the silence. I meet her gaze and wish I hadn’t. Sorrow and sympathy reflect in her big brown eyes, a cringeworthy combination I’ve seen too often. “He smoked cigars.” Her top lip curls and her nose wrinkles. “But he quit the moment I told him I was pregnant.” She rubs her hands over her rounded stomach. “He wants to be there for our baby.”

“I’m glad.” A father should want to be there for his child. He should want it more than anything. I struggle to maintain my smile, to suppress the wild urge to run out of the room, to escape the truth, the pain, the conversation that always follows.

Because Anna clearly knows who I am. I glance around the table. Fran studies her plate, her lips turned downward. Mr. Blaine’s angular countenance is carefully blank. They all know. But maybe if I don’t acknowledge this awareness, I won’t have to face reality. I can continue to pretend.

“The orange chicken is delicious.” I infuse my voice with a perkiness I don’t feel. “Did you order it from a local restaurant?”

No one says anything and my heart clenches. I’ll be forced to deal with the truth right here, right now. I can’t do this. I look toward the door. I’m not strong enough. Shifting in my chair, I prepare to run, to leave everything behind me yet again.

Henley puts one of his arms around my shoulders, encircling me with his big body, preventing my escape. “Blaine Technologies has been ordering orange chicken from the same restaurant since the start-up days.” He gives me the reprieve I need, saving me, and a hard lump of gratitude forms in my throat. “Fran claims full credit for discovering the dish.” His tone is soothingly casual.