So Much More (9 page)

The vice president of Marshall Industries is scheduled to retire in three months, and interviews and scouting have begun for his replacement. He’s an old codger whose time came and went a decade ago. For the past few years, I’ve done everything I could to make him look good while still taking credit for the accomplishments simultaneously. That’s quite a task when you’re performing as the conductor
and
the symphony, and you need the audience to be attentive and take notice of both. The audience noticed.

The president, Loren Buckingham, is a powerful man. He oversees Marshall Industries from his office hundreds of miles away in Seattle. No one ever interacts with him in person, unless they’re summoned to him.

I was summoned last month.

He’s twenty years my senior. Handsome in that dignified way that only excessive money buys and fosters. The glint in his eyes screamed
I could buy and sell you
, and that's dead sexy to me. Shaking his hand turned me on more than anything I’ve ever experienced in my life. The authority and command in his touch was a lethal transfer of voltage, erotic as hell.
 

The interview went well.

Dinner afterward went even better.

I returned home confident I’d made it to the next round.
 

The next round is here.

Seamus wished me luck this afternoon when I left for the airport.

I won’t need it. I’ve got this. This is what I excel at. Closing deals.

Mr. Buckingham’s personal driver picks me up at the airport in a blacked out SUV. When we miss the exit for his office downtown, I inquire.

“Mr. Buckingham’s asked that I deliver you to his residence,” he answers professionally.

I can’t help the satisfied smirk that tips up the right corner of my mouth. I powder my face, freshen up my lipstick, and release the top four buttons of my silk blouse. I had breast augmentation surgery a few months ago because age and the pregnancies had taken a toll on the girls. They look phenomenal now, and I’m not beneath showing some cleavage to leverage advantage. Mr. Buckingham and I had some chemistry during our last meeting; I felt it. And you can be damn sure I’m going to use that to my benefit tonight. Let the vixen siege began.

His residence is what can only be called an estate nestled cozily behind an elegant iron fence and automated gate. The moment I lay eyes on his opulent home I’m sent into a daydream tailspin; visions of living here with him and reigning over his empire by his side involuntarily dominate my every thought. My mind and body are vibrating with need. A need that’s completely driven by power and money. A need I will do anything to satisfy.

Fuck the façade I’ve been living, I want this instead. This is my destiny.

The driver pulls into the circle drive and ushers me to the front door, after which he hops back into the vehicle and disappears around the back of the house with my overnight and garment bags.

I’m greeted stiffly at the door by an elderly, regal-looking woman. She side eyes me, and I’m left wishing I had two additional buttons secured on my blouse.

That is until Mr. Buckingham joins us in the expansive foyer, and I notice as his eyes slowly run the line from my five-inch stilettos up my tanned legs to the hem of my unquestionably short, but tasteful, designer skirt before skipping to, and pausing appreciatively on, my cleavage, where he pairs a quick eyebrow raise with a sexy smirk. His eyebrows resume their natural position, but the smirk remains in place when his eyes find mine, and he addresses, “Mrs. McIntyre, so nice to see you again.”

The elderly woman huffs her disapproval and walks away without a word.

Mr. Buckingham leans in too closely to be deemed socially acceptable and whispers, “My mother, please excuse her. She forgets sometimes.”

I smile flirtatiously at his words and ask, “Forgets?”

“That though I’ll always be her son, I am a grown man.”

I nod. Still smiling.

“Who can appreciate an exquisite woman when he sees one,” he continues with a wink. His stare is weighted with an intensity that has me trapped. Unable to move. This is a test. I can feel it. He’s waiting for my reaction.

He’s waiting for me to melt into a puddle at his feet, which is, I’m assuming what most living, breathing women would do. Accepting the compliment with such an overenthusiastic reception that they look a submissive fool by the end of the short, but telling, exchange.
Two can play at this game,
I think as I lift an eyebrow in challenge.

His smile is undeniably flirty, and he chortles in response. “I knew I liked you from the very beginning, Miranda. We’re going to work well together.”

My heart does somersaults. The position is as good as mine, and I haven’t been here five minutes.
 

The rest of the afternoon is comprised of business related discussion. Poring over reports. Asking my opinion on several hypothetical, disastrous scenarios and how I would handle them if I were in charge. Asking what changes I would make if I had the full control necessary to do so. Discussing where I see myself in five years, ten years, twenty years. I answer every question confidently. I’m outstanding at my job and have a clear-cut vision of the direction this company needs to head to flourish over the next decade. I don’t just want to grow the company, I want it to be the best in its field. I want to annihilate the competition.
 

He smiles approvingly while I speak. And it’s not a smile to pacify and keep me talking, he loves what I’m saying. He can feel the passion in my words. They mirror his.
 

He asks me to stay and join him for dinner.

I do.

Then he asks me to stay and join him for a glass of wine.

One glass turns into two.

Then three.

Three leads to a not-so-innocent exchange on the settee in the living room: playful quips, flirtatious touches, and loaded glances coupled with telling conversation.

When talk becomes laced with brazen innuendo, he offers a fourth glass. I decline and boldly ask, “Are you trying to rid me of my inhibitions?”

I know the telltale signs of sexual desire in a man. I’m practiced in luring them out. The hungry eyes, nostril flare, deep breathing, muscle rigidity, not to mention his cock impressively filling out his dress slacks. He wants me so badly he’d take me right here on the settee in his living room. He licks his lips. “Maybe.”

I flick one more button open on my blouse and whisper, “I don’t have many, but I left them at the door when I came in today.”

He doesn’t ask me to stay and join him in bed.

But I do.

He tells me I’m his new VP the first time I make him come.

He calls out my name in pure ecstasy every time after.

I leave the next morning with my contracts signed in triplicate and Loren wrapped around my little finger.

Mission fucking accomplished.

She usually saves the sigh

present

“I want full custody.”

The words charge through the phone and to my ear like a physical blow that takes me to my knees. They steal my breath and make my vision blur. They make my thoughts halt and suddenly my head feels like it’s filled with boiling, white-hot shock. That’s quickly replaced with fury and a fierce need to protect what’s mine, whatever the cost. “Over my dead body.”

She sighs. Loudly. She usually saves the sigh. It’s the exclamation point to emphasize extreme irritation. I’m surprised she’s used it so quickly, which makes me believe she somehow thought this would be easy. That I wouldn’t fight her.
 

Like hell I won’t.

“Seamus, be realistic. You can’t provide the life they need.”

I’m still seething and at a loss for words because all that’s raging through my head is a continuous, manic loop of “Fuck you.” I can’t come back with that because that’s what she wants, so I settle for, “What?” until I can gather my thoughts and refute this.

She sighs again. But this sigh is different, there’s an evil smirk behind it like she’s been anxiously waiting to spew hate and degradation. “They’re all sharing a bedroom. Kira was dressed like a vagrant clown last weekend. Rory is talking like an insane person. Kai is withdrawn and angry. You have them enrolled in
public
school—”

I cut her off because I can’t listen to this. She’s clearly only worried about her own image, not the kids’ well-being. I still don’t know what to say because
fuck you
still isn’t an option, so instead I repeat a bewildered, “What?”

She continues as if I haven’t spoken, “And physically you’re not fit to parent. And we both know that will only get worse.”

That’s where I lose it. “
Fuck you
. I’m perfectly capable of raising my children.”

“
Our
children,” she corrects. “And no, you’re not.”

“
My
children,” I correct through gritted teeth.

“Are you threatening me?” Her tone tells me the classic, evil smirk is still in place. She’s not insulted; she’s enjoying this.
 

“No, I’m stating a fact.”

“You’ll hear from my attorney.” It’s final. The line goes dead.

Of course, she got the last word. And of course, it was,
You’ll hear from my attorney
. It almost wouldn’t feel right ending a conversation without hearing it. Some people say goodbye. Miranda says,
You’ll hear from my attorney
.

The passage of time changes people, many different influences come into play. They combine to perpetuate and escalate the enrichment, or erosion, of our ideals and personal code of ethics. Dominion and power have elevated Miranda, in her mind, to untouchable status. A place where decency is exempt and treating others like shit is her norm. It’s ruined her. And I have a feeling it’s going to ruin us all before she’s done.

You might need your own sign

present

Miranda is in town again.
 

She has my kids until Sunday morning, exactly twenty-four hours from now. I didn’t want to let her take them because the nauseous feeling that started in my stomach seemed to bleed through my veins until it filled me, making me burn with the very real possibility that she may make some kind of screwed up play and take them back to Seattle with her. So, to quiet my fears, I followed her to the Hilton a few miles away. I considered parking my car on the other side of the lot and staying there to monitor her, but then figured that was probably a bit extreme and decided to leave and wait it out.

I drove straight to the beach and sat in the same spot on the sand until the sun went down. The water has always had a soothing effect on me. I don’t know if it’s the sound of waves crashing, or the sight of waves crashing that does it, but it’s the reason I’ll always live near the water. That and it makes me feel closer to my mom.

By the time I drive home, I feel like I’ve taken a sedative. I’m relaxed for the first time in ages.

I hear the buzzy exhaust of Faith’s scooter pull up outside her apartment just as I hit the W…E mat. Stupid unwelcome mat. My hand is in my pocket searching for my keys. I don’t know why but my heartbeat is beginning to gallop. Like it’s in a race. Or trying to escape.

“Are you avoiding me, Seamus?” Faith yells, as she kills the engine on her scooter. I know she’s yelling because I hear it loud and clear and she’s a story below me.

The gallop holds steady at her words, but I don’t answer.
Where are my damn keys?
 

“Well?” That’s closer, she’s moving.

I hear footfalls on the stairs.

I stop searching my pockets, and my heart rate begins to slow as if someone’s pulling the reins hard against the gallop. I stand and wait, but I don’t turn around.

There’s a hand on the center of my back. The touch is apprehensive and apologetic, so is her whisper. “I’m sorry if my gift offended you.”

Normally, I would be quick to accept an apology. I’m the type of person who will accept an apology despite the genuineness of either the apology or of my acceptance of it. I’d say,
It’s okay
, to get past the moment, even if it was
far
from okay. But, I’m still feeling some of the peace from the beach even though my racing heart interrupted it. It’s enough peace to deliver honesty, not cruel, unfiltered honesty, but unguarded, truthful honesty. “I don’t want to use it.”