She sat down.
“Are you aware that there was a second set of accounting books?” Atticus dropped the bomb just as her butt touched the couch.
“Excuse me?” Of course she’d known. She’d never seen them, but the numbers hadn’t added up for months. How the hell did the man think ConFed was successful in their takeover bid? Or maybe he just thought they were so damn brilliant they couldn’t fail.
Atticus turned the laptop so that she could see the screen. “There was another set of books for Sunsoon. A set kept by your boss.”
Terrance Hoffar was a first-class prick, and Tori had been well aware that he’d been Victor Tourine’s yes-man. Had Finch discovered the evidence that Tori hadn’t been able to find? “Let me see that.”
Her heart sank when she noted the first page. Terrance must have used her program, her formulas, to keep the hidden set of books while feeding her bullshit for the public books. She rubbed her temples, resisting the urge to curl up on the couch and rock back and forth. Even though she’d known they were there, she hadn’t noted the amount of damage her boss had done. She also hadn’t realized he’d made an effort to implicate her.
“I take it you’ve never seen this before.” Atticus sounded skeptical.
Tori glared at him. “This is my program and my formulas, but there are several items I’m not familiar with.” She pointed to one line. “I don’t know what this is.”
Something that was labeled Coretech Research and seemed to have expenditures and income, all hidden from her. That bastard Terrance. She was going to kick his ass.
“You’ve never seen anything with this heading? No bills came in? No invoices?” Atticus’s voice was sharp.
Tori had had enough. “I’ve answered enough questions. If you think I did something wrong, I’ll get a fucking lawyer. Why don’t you let me ask you a few questions, Finch? What the hell happened last night, and why was I naked when I woke up?”
The man knew how to intimidate a person. He rose and towered over her, his dark eyes focused on her, his face seemingly etched in stone. “Last night, you drank too much. Let’s just say I thought my hotel room was better than yours since you would have been seen by your coworkers.”
“Right,” she said sarcastically. “You’re all heart. And the removal of my clothes?”
He raised one eyebrow. “Why don’t you ask me what you really want to know?”
Damn him. He got to the heart of the matter. Fine. “Did we fuck, Finch?” She had a shadowy memory of kissing him, of going to her knees.
Surprisingly, he stepped away from her. “Contrary to popular belief, Victoria, most men don’t find an inebriated woman attractive.” His voice was flat and his gaze unreadable.
She searched his face. Before she could censor herself, she snapped at him, “I was at a disadvantage last night, and you like to control other people. Especially me.”
His gaze swept over her, and she fought the desire to pull the hem of her dress down to cover herself better. “Why would I want to gain control over someone who cannot control themselves? There’s no real challenge in that.”
Ouch. Well, he was right, wasn’t he? Not only had she gotten drunk last night, but she’d hauled off and decked him in a fit of temper. What happened after that was vague and dreamlike. At least she hoped she hadn’t actually begged him to fuck her.
She squinted at him. “You’re not answering my question, Finch.”
“No, Victoria. I did not fuck you. Nor did I accept your tempting offer to dominate you,” he said as he sat down and calmly tapped on his laptop. “I’m not looking for a submissive of your type.”
Don’t ask him. Don’t ask him
. “What type is that?” Damn it, she shouldn’t have asked.
His direct and clear gaze met hers. “A brat. A submissive who wants to surrender but denies it.” He shrugged. “Some Dominants like that kind of a challenge. I prefer the type of submissive who knows herself.”
Why did the words he said in the tone he delivered them feel like blows to her solar plexus? She knew herself. With any other man, she was certain, confident. It was only with Finch that she felt off-kilter and out of control.
“Fine,” she said, trying to keep the hurt out of her voice by using anger. “We agree, then.” She rose and turned toward the door. His assessment did hurt. Not that he didn’t want her. That wasn’t a new sensation. Men rejected her on a regular basis. It was the hit at her submission, calling her a brat, inferring that she was a clueless nitwit. She hated being considered stupid.
“Victoria, sit down,” Atticus said in a firm tone.
Fuck you, you sadistic bastard
. She kept walking. He knew what she was, played on it. If he thought she was a brat, fine, she’d be a brat. “Fire me. I don’t care,” she said and was horrified to find that her throat was tight and she was close to tears.
“He cooked the books and made it look like you did it.” Atticus’s voice was cold and expressionless.
Slowly, she turned to face him. “So?” It took effort, but she kept the boiling anger and frustration the situation brought up out of her voice. How could she fight this? Her former boss had joined other Sunsoon officers in abandoning ship just as ConFed took over, leaving Tori with the unenviable task of negotiating for the company. With Reena Barrett as the only senior Sunsoon officer left as ConFed swept in, the job of protecting what was left of the company fell to Tori, Nell, and Reena. It also left them scrambling to fix the messes created by the men who didn’t care what happened to the people left behind. Despair washed through her, replacing the helpless rage. She was trapped, and he knew it.
Atticus rose and pointed to the couch. She gritted her teeth. She did not want to obey him. And yet, she did. God, did she ever. Despite the fact that he’d picked at her confidence, stomped on her self-worth, and now revealed that she was in deep shit.
Tori longed to be owned, to be wanted in that mysterious way that Dominants loved their subs. She’d never given any man her true self because, in her mind, they hadn’t earned it.
Here was a man who was as close to her fantasy as a man could get, and he didn’t want her. Typical. But she had to move, either to the door and walk out on her job, or to the couch, to accept Atticus’s admonitions.
It had all happened on her watch. Yet, she still didn’t buy it. Terrence was a prick but a careful one. Fucking with accounting books wasn’t his M.O. Still,
she
didn’t do it. And if Terrance didn’t steal the money, who did?
Not to mention she really couldn’t quit her job right now.
She sighed and sat down on the couch. “Terrence didn’t cook those books. I didn’t do it, but neither did he. He was an asshole, don’t get me wrong, but he wasn’t a smart guy.” She pointed to the computer screen. “He was old-school accounting. He did budgets and bills. I did the projections and the actual money handling. He hired someone for this, just like he hired me.”
“You’re going to help me track that someone down,” Atticus said. “Right now, you and I are going to go through every scrap of data and verify what’s been altered.”
Tori curled her hands into fists. “I don’t work weekends.” That was a lie, but Atticus wouldn’t know that.
“You will this weekend,” Atticus said as he rose. “In return for your services this weekend, I won’t write you up for striking me in public.”
She dropped her head in her hands and groaned. “Look, Finch, I didn’t mean to deck you, but—”
“It doesn’t matter. You did it.” His tone brooked no discussion. “Your choice is to work with me or find another job.” He retrieved a box from the corner of the room and set it down the couch. “Most employers wouldn’t give you that much.”
No, they wouldn’t. And the chances of finding another job while this cloud of creative accounting hung over her head were slim to none. Stiffly, she reached over and opened the box. “How far back do you want to go?”
* * * *
The next few hours were filled with spreadsheets and invoices. Atticus hadn’t expected to actually hurt her feelings. He studied Victoria surreptitiously. Once she’d decided to stay, she dove in, working on all cylinders. But he hadn’t missed the wince when he’d called her a brat. And he’d noted how her voice sounded tight when he berated her for lack of control.
His own feelings had gotten in the way. For months, she’d tormented him and didn’t know it. Last night, she’d left him raw and angry. Not because he’d been denied sexual satisfaction, but because the only time she admitted she wanted him as a man and a Dominant was when she was drunk.
When he’d lashed out at her, he hadn’t thought for a moment she’d be hurt by what he said. After all, he was Finch the Bastard. Now, he wasn’t sure if his opinion mattered to her or not. Their banter had always had an edge, but it was banter. Now there was only cold numbers and spreadsheets.
They sat on the same couch, studying the same files, but she might as well be on another planet for how close they were.
“What do you do on your days off, Victoria?” He asked the question, wanting some kind of response from her.
Her eyes narrowed as she studied him for a moment. “Why?”
“You’re very good with numbers, but you aren’t passionate about them,” he said as he shuffled some of the files. “I’m curious to know what you are passionate about.”
She tightened her lips. “Does it matter?” Her gaze slid away to stare at her computer screen.
“Maybe you aren’t aware of what it is,” he said, trying to goad her.
When she lifted her head and stared at him, he was stunned to see resigned bitterness there. “Right. A passionless, brat sub. That’s what you think?” She laughed, but it didn’t have any humor. “Maybe you’re right.”
Damn it. That wasn’t what he’d meant. “Victoria—”
“Drop it, Finch.” She focused on the computer screen. “Let’s just get this over with. I’d like to get some dinner at some point today.”
He slid across the couch and placed his hand on her chin. She tensed and tried to pull away. “I would never call you passionless. I have a bruise on my jaw to disprove that.” When he met her gaze, he was stunned to see a wounded, vulnerable expression. “Victoria, if I’ve hurt you, I apologize.”
For a split second, he thought she’d deny it, stick to her stubborn pride instead of being honest with him. But then, she surprised him. “Well, you did. Now let me go.”
Instead of complying, he gentled his touch and stroked her cheek. “I was angry with you.”
She blinked and took in a quick breath. “Because I hit you?”
No. He’d been angry because he wanted her, wanted her to want him. Instead, she fought him, defied him, acted as if he was a big joke. His interaction with women had been controlled, kept strictly on a friendly basis. She made him want something deeper.
“I was angry with you for getting drunk at a company event,” he lied.
Her eyes narrowed. “Bullshit. That’s not why you’re mad at me.” She jerked away from him. “I know when a man is lying to me.”
He yanked her closer. “Do you? Are you sure you want the truth?”
There was a mixture of hope and resignation on her face, but it was gone in a flash, and she was stone-faced when she extracted her arm. “It doesn’t matter what I want, does it?”
She scooted away from him and went back to work. He itched to demand her attention, to punish her for being disrespectful.
Instead, he moved away, well aware that he’d probably missed his chance with Victoria months ago. He should have cornered her and made her admit that she wanted him the minute he was aware of it.
But he hadn’t, knowing there was a fine line between force and seduction. He’d viewed his own desires as suspect and let his mind get in the way. Well, that was the way life was. There was no fixing it now. If he tried to convince her, she’d view it as some twisted form of punishment.
No, he’d have to wait until she made a move. At this point, he might be waiting forever.
* * * *
Four hours of receipts and invoices was enough to drive even the most enthusiastic accountant nuts. Atticus called a halt and phoned room service. He glanced at Victoria. Her blonde hair was askew from the many times she’d run an agitated hand through the strands. She’d changed into jeans and a T-shirt as soon as her luggage had arrived two hours earlier.
Their conversation had been about business only. He didn’t try to goad her again, sure that she would freeze him out worse than she already was. As the hours passed, he was doubly impressed by her skill. She was detail oriented, methodical, and caught the minutiae that might be missed by the less talented.
Numbers made sense to Atticus; people didn’t. It was evident that Victoria felt the same way. He noted her deep satisfaction when she tracked down the money that was being diverted, even though this discovery didn’t bode well for people she worked with. He understood it and wondered if she suffered as he did from the way others were disconcerted by her attitude toward numbers and facts.
It had been Mark who wanted a submissive secretary, enamored with the concept of combining work with sex. Atticus had thought the idea was crazy. He put things in their correct place. Work was work. Sex was sex. The two didn’t mingle.
Yet as he handed Victoria a napkin and passed her the salt for the rather bland vegetables, he had to admit the combination could be fascinating. After all, Atticus loved his work, and the opportunity to share it with someone else was tempting.
“Quit staring, Finch. You’re not going to figure me out,” she said with a crooked smile.
“Oh, I think I have you figured out,” he said and held her amused gaze.
She waved her hand. “I know. A brat sub with no self-control.”
“I may have…oversimplified my assessment.” He wasn’t going to admit he was wrong. Besides, she
was
a brat sub. And those had never appealed to him. Until now.
Victoria raised her eyebrows. “Oversimplified?” She took a bite of roast beef. “Yes, well, I’m willing to admit that I may be a brat sub.” She shrugged. “I’ve never had a chance to test it, so I guess you could be right.”
“You don’t seem like someone afraid to try new things,” he said, curious. “Why wouldn’t you explore something like that?”