Ruthless Page 8

  Why the hell doesn’t that surprise me?

  My jaw clenches. “Who are they? I want to know who they belong to.”

  She cradles the gift she brought me in her palm. “Marcy Clover.”

  More information would be helpful, but Isabella isn’t offering it, so I roll a hand in the air. “Who is that? Your friend? A relative?”

  Her mouth thins. “Marcy Clover runs Empire Soaks.”

  And Garent Industries owns Empire Soaks. It was another acquisition from Duke’s era that is bleeding money. Unless something changes dramatically, their doors will close permanently before year’s end.

  “Marcy Clover needs to make new childcare arrangements for every second Thursday.” I scrub a hand over the back of my neck.

  Her head shakes defiantly. “No.”

  “No?” I question back. “We’re not running a daycare here. Tell their mother to find someone else to take care of them.”

  She slides back on her chair. “I can’t do that.”

  “You will do that.” I keep my gaze focused on her face. “You work for me, not her. Simple.”

  “It’s not simple.” That draws her to her feet in a huff. “If you’d just give me a chance to explain.”

  “The topic isn’t open for discussion.” Glancing at my watch, I get up from my chair. “I have a meeting in ten minutes.”

  She drops her gift on my desk. “Marcy thought you might appreciate this. It’s Empire Soak’s body wash for men.”

  I pick up the plastic bottle that’s shaped like a baseball. I crack open the lid to the smell of a muddy swamp.

  “What the fuck?” I recoil, clamping the lid shut before I shove the bottle back in her hand. “Get rid of that.”

  An audile gasp escapes my assistant. “Marcy worked hard on developing this. Duke loved it. He bought it by the case.”

  Duke’s lack of taste in furniture can only be matched by his absent sense of smell. I swear to fuck I’m lightheaded after getting a whiff of whatever the hell was in that bottle.

  Empire Soaks just shot to the top of my list of Garent subsidiaries that need to be shutdown.

  “Keep children out of the office, Isabella.” I wait for a beat before I go on, “You’re free to leave at six.”

  She glances at the bottle in her hand before she offers a snappy reply. “Fine.”

  Chapter 19

  Bella

  Ignoring Barrett on Friday was easy because he left New York City. The only warning I got that he wouldn’t be in his office was a text message from him late Thursday night. It was brief and to the point telling me that he was called away to Illinois.

  He sent me an email right after he landed in Chicago. I opened it to find a list of twenty-six tasks that he wanted completed before I could step into my weekend.

  I finished everything on the list by noon, so I forwarded the office number to my cell and took Max out to lunch at Calvetti’s.

  Marti made baked tortellini for us. To repay her, I took her to a movie on Saturday afternoon. My grandma loves romantic comedies and she can pack popcorn away like no one I’ve ever known.

  We ended the day back at the restaurant enjoying a big bowl of minestrone while she told me stories about my dad when he was my age.

  Santo Calvetti is my hero. He’s also Marti’s youngest son.

  Daydreaming about my weekend stops as soon as I hear the elevator ding its arrival on this floor. I sat down at eight a.m. sharp. It’s almost eleven, and Barrett still hasn’t made an appearance.

  I suppose I could have texted him to make sure he’s still alive, but the crossword puzzle I’ve been working on won’t finish itself.

  I slide it under a file folder on my desk as I hear heavy footsteps approach.

  Glancing up, I see my boss staring at me.

  Woah. Just woah.

  Unshaven, disheveled Barrett Adler is enough to make any woman forget her name. He’s wearing a pair of jeans, a wrinkled light blue T-shirt, and shiny black shoes. A weathered dark duffel bag is slung over his shoulder.

  “I’m on my way home,” he says before I can ask what’s going on. “I need you to arrange a meeting for me with Darien Penrew at noon.”

  Darien Penrew, the man who heads accounting at Garent Industries, is on medical leave. He had open heart surgery two months ago.

  “Mr. Penrew isn’t…”

  “Shit,” Barrett hisses, interrupting me. “He’s got that heart thing going on.”

  At least he has a heart.

  Those words linger on my tongue, but I don’t say them, even though I want to.

  I had to explain to Marcy Clover that I couldn’t watch over Ansel and Elara every second Thursday anymore. I didn’t bring up the fact that my new boss is a jerk who insulted her best selling product while he flat out refused to listen to me.

  A mass email I sent to the employees of Garent Industries on Saturday morning asking for help taking over my spot with Marcy’s kids resulted in a huge outpouring of support. Ansel and Elara will spend a few hours every second Thursday with the wife of one of the doormen who work in the lobby of this building.

  “Clara Boyman is running the accounting department at the moment.” I sigh. “I’ll arrange for you to meet her at Crispy Biscuit at noon.”

  “My office at noon,” he snaps.

  “Clara likes to eat and work.” I pull up her contact information on my laptop. “The fried green tomato sandwich at Crispy Biscuit is her favorite.”

  He pushes a hand through his already messy hair. “What is that? A restaurant? A food truck? I have no idea where the hell it is.”

  “I’ll draw you a map.” I try not to stare at his bulging bicep when he moves his arm. “I’ll jot down where to catch the subway and where to get off.”

  “No need. I’ll call my driver.” His jaw flexes. “I’m heading up for a shower and change of clothes. I’ll be back down here in fifteen minutes. I expect the most recent sales numbers for Rusten’s Reads on my desk when I return.”

  Wait? What?

  “What do you mean you’re heading up for a shower and change of clothes?” I ask, knowing I shouldn’t. “I thought you said you were going home.”

  A sly smile slides over his sinfully sexy mouth. I see satisfaction dancing in his eyes. “I knew you were curious about where I live.”

  Nervous laughter bubbles out of me. “No, I’m not.”

  “You are.” He stares into my eyes. “I live in one of the penthouses on the top floor of this building, Isabella.”

  I scratch my chin, trying not to let on that I had no idea that there is an actual penthouse or penthouses above us. I assumed that floor was undeveloped since that’s what Duke told me when I asked him about it after I pointed out the button labeled PH on the control panel in the elevator.

  “I need a shower.” Barrett’s gaze slides over my black blouse. “I’ll be back in ten.”

  “I’ll be here,” I say quietly.

  I watch him walk to the elevator looking like he slept in his clothes. I know there’s a story there, but it’s not my place to ask. It’s not my place to daydream about my boss in the shower either, so I shake off the thought of what he looks like naked and I get to work printing out the sales numbers for Rusten’s Reads so that bookstore deal can finally be signed and sealed just the way Duke wanted.

  Chapter 20

  Barrett

  I swing open the door of my penthouse to find a familiar face standing in front of me with a case of beer in one hand and a wilting potted plant in the other.

  “Happy fucking housewarming.” Dylan Colt brushes past me. “Thanks for skipping town with no warning this weekend.”

  My Monday has been the stuff of nightmares. My lunch meeting with Clara Boyman ran over two hours and then I had to put out three fires that Duke set before he left. He made reckless promises to a handful of Garent staff members that I have no intention of keeping.

  I was banking on a quiet night at home staring at the television screen in noth
ing but boxer briefs, but Dylan called fifteen minutes ago to tell me he was on his way over.

  I put on a pair of black sweatpants and a matching T-shirt, called the doorman and told him to send the smug bastard up once he arrived.

  Dylan takes in the massive open space that I now call home. “Nice digs. I take it you were in Chicago playing hide-and-seek with Mommy Dearest?”

  Dylan knows my story. We’ve been friends since we were kids. He’s had a front-row seat to the circus that is my family for years.

  “You know it.” I reach for the beer. “Took me a couple of days and a bunch of calls but I tracked her down.”

  Dylan drops the plant on the round marble coffee table. “How’s Monica?”

  Monica Adler is a retired struggling actress. She never made it professionally so all that wasted talent has fueled her role as my mother.

  I’m her only child and the oldest of my father’s four kids.

  One of my half-siblings was born while he was still wearing the gold ring my mom slipped on his finger at their wedding.

  “She’s fine.” I take the simple route because my weekend wore me out. “How’s Eden?”

  “Beautiful.” His hand leaps to his chest. “She’s working late so she told me to give you this.”

  He leans in and plants a kiss on my right cheek.

  I shove him back with a playful punch to his shoulder. “Tell your fiancée I’d prefer if the kisses come from her.”

  “Duly noted,” he responds, straightening his tie.

  Dylan’s a divorce attorney. Eden works for the prosecutor’s office. I don’t know how the hell they balance all that with their relationship, but they make it work.

  I’ve never seen two people more devoted to each other than they are.

  Dylan yanks two bottles of beer from the case, handing me one. “So you’re actually going to live here?”

  I unscrew the cap and take a swig from the bottle. “Yep.”

  He gives the room another full glance. “You like this?”

  I get where the question is coming from. I lived in a one-bedroom, eight hundred square foot walk-up in Chicago. It wasn’t in the best neighborhood. It could have used a few coats of paint on the walls, and the oven didn’t work, but it was home.

  I saved for the down payment. I negotiated the mortgage. I owned the place.

  I still do. I’ll hand the keys to a friend in real estate the next time I’m back in the Windy City so he can list it. Manhattan is home now.

  “It’s rent free,” I point out with a lift of my bottle in the air. “And it’s close to the office.”

  Dylan huffs out a laugh. “You’re two minutes away from your office. You can’t beat that in this city.”

  My gaze wanders to the plant on the table. “You can take that with you when you leave.”

  “I found it in the lobby.” He shakes his head. “You need to fire whoever is in charge of keeping plants alive in this building.”

  “My assistant will handle it.”

  “Your assistant,” he repeats my words with a cock of his dark brows. “You always called Julia by name, so I take it she didn’t want to drop everything in Chicago to move here with you?”

  I tried. Jesus did I try to convince my executive assistant to pick up her life and follow me to Manhattan. She wasn’t buying what I was selling. That included a substantial raise, a moving allowance, and tickets to every goddamn Broadway musical that’s playing.

  I thought the show tunes she hummed every day were a clue to her weakness. It turns out I don’t know shit about music because it’s the opera that owns her heart.

  She took early retirement and jetted off to London with her husband of thirty years for a performance at the Royal Opera House. I doubt like hell she’ll be back anytime soon.

  “I have a new assistant.” I take a seat on one of the uncomfortable white leather armchairs that flank the hard-as-hell black leather sofa in the room. “Isabella Calvetti.”

  Dylan drops onto the sofa. “For fuck’s sake, I think I broke my ass.”

  Comfort takes a back seat to stylish design when you’re Ivan Garent. He picked out, personally approved, and paid for everything in this place right down to the gold utensils in the kitchen drawer.

  When he offered me the keys I snatched them up without a second thought.

  “Calvetti?” Dylan mumbles Isabella’s surname. “Like the Italian restaurant?”

  I nod. “She’s the owner’s granddaughter.”

  “Wait.” He cocks his head to the side. “Are you talking about Bella Calvetti?”

  “She’s my executive assistant. You know her?”

  The concept is foreign to me, but it shouldn’t be. Dylan has lived in Manhattan for years. Isabella must know hundreds, if not thousands, of people on this island.

  “She took me for five hundred bucks.” He holds up two fingers. “Twice.”

  That’s a story that I want to hear. “Details, Colt. I want details.”

  He tugs his phone from his pocket when it chimes. “Give me two minutes. I ordered a pizza. It’s here.”

  I’m in. It’s nearing nine p.m. and the last time I ate was shortly after noon at Crispy Biscuit.

  Dylan slides to his feet. “The security guard in the lobby is sending the delivery guy up. Crack open another couple of beers, and I’ll tell you everything I know about your new assistant.”

  Chapter 21

  Bella

  Another day. Another round of brutal cuts by Barrett Adler.

  My boss is heartless.

  That’s putting it mildly.

  There are a lot of other words I could use to describe him, but it boils down to the simple fact that he doesn’t have an ounce of compassion in his body.

  He does have a lean frame and muscular arms.

  I saw that yesterday when he was wearing a T-shirt and jeans. Today, he’s back to a dark blue suit paired with a white dress shirt and a deep purple tie.

  “What can I do for you, Isabella?” He calls from behind his desk.

  Dammit. I was staring again.

  I pluck a piece of lint from the front of my red skirt. “Nothing.”

  I hear the creak of his chair as he gets up. I know he’s headed in my direction. The rhythmic beat of his shoes on the concrete floor is a dead giveaway.

  I finally look up when I sense him standing next to me. “What can I do for you, Mr. Adler?”

  His lips curve up in a satisfied smile. “It’s Barrett, but I’m glad to see you finally mastered the pronunciation of my surname.”

  I twist my lips in a scowl. “No problem.”

  I knew when I arrived at the office this morning at ten seconds to eight that he would be firing more people today.

  He sent me an email last night with a list of the names of twenty-five employees of Garent Industries and three simple words: Prepare Termination Documents.

  I didn’t respond because I couldn’t say what I really wanted to.

  I’d lose my job if I called him an arrogant asshole to his face or in an email.

  I bite my lip to ward off the temptation to share my true feelings. This job is the ticket to my future, so I need to hold onto it.

  “I found out last night that we share a mutual friend.”

  My stomach knots at that announcement. He’s going to tell me that he’s dating someone I went to high school with or one of my cousins. Please don’t let that be it. I loathe him, but I don’t want anyone I know to sleep with him.

  Guilt would consume me since I’ve been thinking about Barrett’s body at night when I’m in bed alone.

  I look up into his blue eyes. “Who?”

  He traces a path over my lips with his gaze. “Dylan Colt.”

  I straighten my shoulders. I may have had a crush on Dylan for a hot minute the first time we met two years ago. It was at my cousin’s apartment. Rocco Jones is the eldest of Marti’s grandchildren. He’s also a retired professional poker player.

  Rocco taught me ho
w to play cards using peppermints for chips.

  Once he felt I was ready, he invited me to one of his monthly poker nights. A handful of his friends were there.

  I emptied every wallet in the place, including Dylan’s. I did the same three months later.

  “You know Dylan?” I ask. “How?”

  “We went to high school together in Chicago.” He leans forward. “We’ve been friends for a long time.”

  “That’s surprising,” I blurt out without thinking.

  His eyes widen. “Surprising? How so?”

  From what I remember, Dylan is charming and funny. He hugged Rocco when he arrived and ordered pizza for everyone at the table. It’s hard to imagine that he has anything in common with my boss.

  I shrug a shoulder. “You two seem different.”

  He looks to the elevator when it dings. “We are different. I’m nothing like him.”

  “You can say that again,” I whisper under my breath.

  “What was that, Isabella?” He tilts his head, cupping his hand over his ear. “I didn’t catch that.”

  I turn my attention to the approaching footsteps. It’s Linus Adamsen, the Assistant Director of Quality Control for Garent and the first name on the list that Barrett sent me last night.

  I look down when Linus raises his hand in a friendly greeting. He’s on top of the world right now, but when he steps back on that elevator, his life will be forever different because of my boss.

  ***

  I’m waiting around until Barrett’s office door opens because I know he has something he wants to say to me.

  I’m not a mind reader. I am very diligent about reading every last word of the emails my boss sends to me. The last one sent ten minutes ago at six-fifteen p.m., told me to stay in place until he was done with the call he’s on.

  He has to be talking on his cell because the office line is free and clear. I know that because I tried to connect him with a woman who heads development for one of the country’s biggest beverage companies, but he didn’t pick up.