Who's on Top? (2 page)

“Crystal,” she said. “So now that you've told me what you're
not,
how about telling me what you
are?
”

“I'm a red-blooded American guy who doesn't enjoy being manipulated by a power-hungry bitch.”

Her jaw dropped open and he heard her teeth click together as she shut it.
Gotcha.

“Mr. Sayers, I've been called a lot of things during the course of my career, but that is a first.”

“I meant Arianna DuBose, not you!”

“I'm relieved to hear it. So tell me more about your working relationship with Ms. DuBose.”

A nice open-ended question. Gave him lots of rope to hang himself. Well, what the hell. He already had. “Ms. DuBose is an ambitious sociopath, and I happened to get in her way.”

“I see.”

“No, I don't think you do. I was in line for a promotion and should have been a shoo-in. Suddenly the other regional managers were eyeing me uneasily, and Arianna got the job. Now she's got it in for me. She wants me gone.”

Jane O'Toole took a careful sip of coffee and set her cup down on a side table. She uncrossed and recrossed her legs, unconsciously exhibiting lean, muscular calves. “So you're battling a certain resentment that Ms. DuBose was promoted ahead of you. I can see how that would make you angry.”

She didn't believe him. Of course she didn't. It all sounded like sour grapes to his own ears. And paranoid, to boot. Dom felt tension growing in every muscle, fresh anger seeping through his veins. Arianna had him just where she wanted him: by the short and curlies. But by God, he wasn't going to let her win. He had to get through to this O'Toole woman.

Charm. Where had his charm gone hiding? He almost growled out loud. Due to the sheer injustice of the situation, his charm had been squished beneath his heel like an old piece of gum. But he'd better figure out how to scrape some off and resurrect it into a nice big pink bubble, or Jane would unwittingly help Arianna destroy his career.

Ugh.
The harder Dom thought about charm, the more it eluded him. He
was
mad, damn it. Justifiably so. And worse, he was embarrassed. How dare Arianna send him to this woman, like a rowdy child in need of a paddling?

He got up out of his chair and paced Jane's office a couple of times. She just watched him out of those brown eyes, schooled carefully to be dispassionate. But he could sense her judgment, and it wounded his pride.

“Ms. O'Toole, it's very clear to me that you think I'm a swine.”

The lashes fluttered over those baby browns and she bit her lip. “No, of course not.”

He snorted, walked back to the chair he'd been sitting in and pounded the back of it with his fist. “Come off it. You think I'm a pig.”

She raised a brow. “Your choice of words, not mine.”

Dom bared his teeth at her. “And you're right. I am angry. But not for the reasons you think. However, I'm too irate to discuss all of this with you at the moment, so I'm going to put an end to our session.” He turned on his heel, walked to the door and opened it.

Jane sat in her chair and made a couple of notes. Then she got up and followed him to where he was standing gazing down at the catalogue she'd tossed on the sofa by the door. He was unable to look away from the tiny silk G-strings available in hot-pink or midnight-black, the ones with the—

He heard the click as she clutched at her necklace. Turned to see the red flash into her cheeks once again. He raised a brow, knowing that he shouldn't voice the words even as he said them. “It's always best…not to dangle pearls before swine, Ms. O'Toole.”

 

J
ANE REACHED HER LIMIT WITH
this comment. She banished the blush from her cheeks and removed her hand from her necklace. “No one dangled anything in front of you, Mr. Sayers. You rooted out the mud all by yourself. And it's clear to me that you're trying to knock me off balance so that I'll let you run away.”

He froze. The faint devilry and arrogance that had risen with his mocking eyebrows disappeared, and his lips flattened. “Run away?”

She nodded and continued on the offensive. “As fast as you can get your snout out the door.” It was
the only way to get him back into her office and address the issues at hand.

Sayers's shoulders seemed to grow wider and a definite glint shone in his eye. “I don't run from anything, Jane O'Toole. Not sociopathic bosses and not smug little psych majors with an ambition to fix what
ain't broke
. Understand?”

Oh, but I
will
fix you, Mr. Attitude. You just don't know it yet. All men need to be fixed!
“Yes, Dominic Sayers, I believe I do. Now, since we've established that you're not running away, let's step back into my office—shall we?”
Ha! I've got you now.

His eyes narrowed. He couldn't walk out the door and still retain any self-respect. And he knew it. She restrained a smile. Was it her imagination or did every faint pinstripe on the man's suit indicate a bullet trajectory—all of them aimed right at her?

Jane smiled at his back as he stalked once again toward her office. Hostility and annoyance buzzed around them like a thousand angry horseflies.

She dropped into her chair and made a couple more notes. This made her look official and professional and gave her a moment to think.
Continue on the offensive,
she told herself.
Just take the bull by the horns. Maybe that way he'll smash some excellent psychological china….

“So, Mr. Sayers. How long
have
you entertained hostile thoughts toward women? Does this date back to your childhood?”

He fixed her with an extremely black, dangerous
stare—and then he began to curse. She ignored the actual words and just let him vent. But in the meantime she couldn't help but admire the way he filled out his suit, the jump of the muscles in his stern jaw as he got pithy with her and the truly miraculous bone structure of his face. The man had cheekbones that would make a sculptor weep.

When he finally stopped with an insult to her profession, she said graciously, “I'm so glad we've had this time together,” and opened her appointment book. “I'd like to visit you at the office on Monday, all right? Nine-ish, shall we say?”

Sayers appeared to choke on that breath he was taking. “Lady, are you out of your mind?”

“No, I'm certainly not. Let's identify what just happened here. Since you were too proud to walk out that door, when I asked you a question you resented, you exhibited enough hostility that you hoped I'd be horrified and back out of working with you. I'm not going to do that. Of course, again it's your choice. You can retreat from the battlefield and refuse to work with
me.
” She watched him carefully for a moment. “But then I'll have to log that in my evaluation. And if what you say about the, uh,
sociopathic
Ms. DuBose is true, then won't you just be playing into her hands?”

B
Y THE TIME
D
OMINIC
S
AYERS
left her office, Jane was smug in the knowledge that she'd won the round. Oh, yes indeed—he was down for the count, with her high heel firmly planted between his handsome shoulder blades. It was a darn good feeling—but she couldn't help questioning how long it would last. Dominic would be armed and dangerous next time they met. She had to prepare herself. And she had to get him to talk to her.

Besides being angry, who was this man? She didn't have many clues. And if she couldn't figure out who he was, how was she going to figure out how to fix him?

She stared at the obnoxious, broad, dark back of Sayers as he walked to his hunter-green Jaguar and unlocked it. The guy didn't saunter exactly. He just walked casually, with confidence radiating off what she had to admit were exceptionally nice shoulders. She wondered fleetingly what he looked like in a snug T-shirt before her gaze dropped to his backside, which was so fine that she could watch it like a tele
vision. She wouldn't be at all surprised if strange women pinched it on the street….

That's when he caught her, acknowledging her stare with one of his own.

Annoyed at herself, she turned on her heel, only to have her gaze fall on the glossy Vicky's Secret catalogue that had launched some of the trouble between them. Because there
was
trouble between them, no doubt about it—layers of disturbance that had to do not only with a battle of wits but also with an underlying resistance to each other. Jane didn't like this one bit. Because the flip side of resistance was…
attraction
.

How could she be attracted to a foul-mouthed self-professed swine? Well, truth to tell, he was more of a grizzly bear.

Jane had always loved a good fight. And she usually won—just as she had today. But she
was
attracted to Sayers, God help her.

Ugh.
There it was, lying out in the open for her to deal with. But how?

She snatched the offending lingerie catalogue off the sofa and stuffed it into the nearest circular file.

The planet was littered with Vicky's Secret catalogues. Bombarded with bras, plastered with panties. She was so used to seeing them, modeled by half-naked nymphets, that she hadn't thought to hide the damned catalogue in the depths of the cleaning closet.

And out of all the possible selections in such a catalogue, Mr. Sayers had to have caught her looking at
that
one. Jane clutched the pearls at her neck and let her fingers slide along the smooth orbs, trying not to imagine how they might feel slithering into dark, sensual crevices. She shifted from one foot to the other, feeling heat blossom on her skin at an unbidden image of Sayers trailing his fingers after them….

Then she slapped herself in the forehead. What was
wrong
with her? Jane stuck her foot in the wastebasket and stomped on the damn catalogue just to make herself feel better.

Shannon's door opened behind her. “Now
that's
a good look for you, O'Toole.”

With dignity, Jane removed her foot from the container.

“Almost as good a look as the beet-red on your face an hour ago.”

Jane shot her a look that communicated two words:
bite me.

“So what's up with him, and why do you look like you just ate a nail sandwich?”

Jane sighed. “He doesn't want to be here. Remember how thrilled I was to hear from that female VP? The one from Zantyne?”

Shannon nodded.

“Well, she's the one who sent Mr. Sunshine this morning. And he
does
seem to have an attitude problem. He's going to be a tough client.”

“Not to mention a hot one!”

Jane ignored the comment completely, as well as the smirk on her friend's face.

“But if you do well with him,” Shannon guessed, “we could get a lot more business from Zantyne—business that we need if we want to break even this year, service the business loans and hire a receptionist.”

“Exactly.”

Shannon tapped a long fingernail against her teeth. The fingernail was purple. Yesterday it had been blue.

“Hey, Shan? Your nails aren't going to be green tomorrow, are they? I mean, we—”

“Have a corporate image to uphold, yes, I know. Trust me, once I have my first clients in here next week, the claws will be short and neutral. But until then I'm a free spirit, honey. And green's not a bad idea…MAC has a new metallic mint color out. Thanks for reminding me.”

Jane looked down at Shannon's toes, which gleamed—alternately striped and polka-dotted with silver and purple. She shook her head. “Where do you find the time?”

“Exactly where you find the time to run on your treadmill like a gerbil on a wheel. Back to this hunky guy with the eyebrows. Convince him that he can use you for his own purposes, and then he'll relax.”

Jane nodded slowly, trying to ignore the dirtier connotations of being used for Sayers's own purposes.
Stop that! He's a client.

Shannon might have a few nuts in her center, but she was often unexpectedly brilliant. “I think you're
right,” Jane said in her best crisp and professional tones. “He's not the kind of personality who will accept help. He needs to be in control.”

Shannon smirked. “Hmm. Kind of like some other people I know…”

“Hey, it's not my fault I'm a Virgo. I was born that way.”

“No, I think you dictated the exact date and time you exited the womb. You also took notes, cc-ing the doctor and your parents.”

Jane was smart enough to check the door this time for roving clients before shooting the finger at Shannon. Oh, yes, she had Finesse.

 

S
HE WAS DRAWN BACK INTO HER
office by the ringing phone and she could still smell Dominic Sayers's scent as she picked up the receiver. “Jane O'Toole.”

“Hi, honey.”

Her heart turned over at the sound of her father's voice, monotone and depressed, as he was most of the time. She worried about him constantly. “Hey, Dad. What's up?”

“Gilbey got himself fired again. Don't know what to do with that boy.”

Jane plopped into her leather chair, squishing all the air out of the seat cushion in an indelicate
whoosh
. She slipped off one brown leather pump and rubbed the arch of her bare foot against the toe of the other. “What happened this time?”

“Some BS about how the foreman doesn't like him, wrote him up for being a minute late, yada yada.”

She'd heard it all before—many times—which was probably why she was allergic to the blame game. Her brother Gilbey, just like Dominic Sayers today, always had a boss who was out to get him. And conveniently for Gilbey, the boss always did. Then Gil didn't have to work while he “searched” for his next job. It was all very convenient. Jane sighed.

“Dad, he's not going to grow up if you don't kick him out of the house. He's going to remain mentally seventeen forever—and he's twice that age!”

Her father muttered something.

“You know I'm right. Do you want me to talk to him again?”

“Can't hurt. And maybe you can help line him up some other prospects.”

“No.” Her voice was firm. “I can't recommend him to anyone when I know what he's like.”

“He's your brother, Janey.”

“Yes! He's my brother, and therefore my own reputation is on the line when I put in a good word for him. It's embarrassing when he gets fired.”

“Just promise me you'll think about it.”

I am thinking about it. That's why I'm slowly going insane.
“So how are you doing, Dad? Are you cheering up a little?”

“Well, you know. Darn weeds keep growing in the walkway, no matter what I put on 'em. Got moles in
the front lawn. And the Jets are gonna get the snot kicked out of them tonight, you mark my words.”

“I'll bet the hardware store has something to take care of the weeds and moles. I can't help you much with your team, though. You just might have to pick a different one.”

“I'm no fair-weather fan, Janey. I stick with my boys!”

I know, and your loyalty is one of the things I love most about you. But judging by their current stats, that means you're going to be depressed until basketball season starts up.

She didn't say it aloud. “Why don't you get out into the sunshine and take a walk, Dad? It'll make you feel better.”
And how about some nice Prozac?

“Unnh.”

“Really.”

“Unnh.”

Well, this is progress.
“What would you like me to bring for dinner on Sunday?”

“Unnh.”

“Meat loaf? With mashed potatoes and peas?”

“Unnh.”

Jane decided he'd answered in the affirmative. “Okay, then. I'll see you Sunday.”

She placed the receiver back in its cradle, and her thoughts returned to Dominic Sayers. Unfortunately the thoughts were not of a professional nature: he was shirtless, displaying a tan, six-pack abs and a wicked grin. He was also beckoning her to come sit on his
lap—which she did very happily, disengaging his buckle, pulling off his belt and using the leather to strap him to the chair he sat in. Then she—

Jane O'Toole, get a grip on yourself! You've obviously been working too hard and are in desperate need of a date.

She tried to remember how long it had been and then decided she didn't want to think about that.

Wiping her mind clean, she opened a new file on her laptop and stared at the blinking cursor for a moment before typing in his name. Under it she wrote:

Jane stared at the computer screen. Now where had number six come from? She needed to remember that Sayers was not a nice guy. He had likened
himself
to a pig.

That scent of his wasn't at all porcine, though—woodsy, male, a hint of clove—and it still hung in her office. Jane spun in her chair to face the credenza, from which she pulled a can of Lysol. She depressed the nozzle and walked it around the room on full blast.

Take that, Sayers. I'll figure you out. And then I'll fix you like a bad habit.

 

S
UNDAY DINNER WAS ITS USUAL
barrel of laughs. How could you love two people so much and be so frustrated by them? Jane reminded herself that even a graduate degree in psychology couldn't answer a question like that.

“The potatoes are dry,” her dad muttered. Gilbey said nothing as he helped himself to a slab of meat loaf, placing it in the center of a lake of ketchup on his plate.

Jane contemplated what this said about her brother as she methodically scraped her father's portion of mashed potatoes back into the serving bowl and added butter and cream. As she reached into a
cabinet for the electric beaters, her dad said, “Now don't make 'em too fattening, Janey.”

She plugged the beaters in. “Adding water won't make them taste very good.” The noise drowned out any possible response from her dour dad. When she was done, Jane scooped a healthy portion of mashed potatoes back onto his plate and watched with satisfaction as he began to eat them with obvious enjoyment—not that he could allow himself to acknowledge it.

“Probably'll gain five pounds,” he groused between bites.

She just smiled. He was on the skinny side and had abnormally low cholesterol. She wasn't worried.

Her gaze returned to Gilbey, who was now turning his plate to make sure the meat loaf was truly centered in the ketchup. “Perfect,” he announced to nobody in particular.

Did he want a compliment for his skill? “You know, Gil, most people put the meat loaf on the plate first and then the ketchup on top.”

“I'm not most people.”

Truer words had never been spoken.

“Why do you do it that way?”

“Because it works better.”

Jane shook her head, but as she watched him eat, she was struck by the fact that it
did
work better—at least for him. Gil had a hard time with accepted structure. He was always questioning traditional ways of doing things. She'd called him stubborn and exasperating many times. But maybe he was just creative.

Gilbey, in his own way, was as unique as Shannon. But if Shannon marched to an alternate orchestra, Gil shambled along to an alternate grunge band.

Jane stuck a piece of meat loaf into her own mouth and tried to catch her brother's gaze, but he wouldn't look at her. He was ashamed at the loss of another job. Well, he should be, darn it!

“Your critical side is not your most attractive side,” she heard her mother say in her head. Jane all but rolled her eyes.
Yeah, but you can't be blind to people's faults, either.

She fought against her judgmental side, she really did. She used it to
help
people, to fix their problems. She was good at that. She'd founded a company to do it. Her critical side would end up being her most lucrative side. Most companies steadily lost money for the first three years they were in business. Thanks to her, Finesse was close to breaking even in nine months.