Finding courage from the intense, painful frustration inside her, she said, “No.” And though her skin was hot and her breath shallow, her pulse in her mouth, she rose from her crouch. “It’s probably only the building security guard doing an unscheduled round,” she added in an attempt to convince herself there was no reason to fear, “but could you stay on the phone with me while I go check it out?”
“I’m right here.”
Grabbing a large stapler from the cubicle opposite where she’d been hiding, Charlotte slipped out of her low-heeled slides and padded down the beige of the carpet, trying to calm herself with rational thoughts. There was no reason for an intruder to break in to commit industrial espionage—everyone knew Saxon & Archer was in trouble; trouble so bad that even the sharks who usually circled dying companies had declared them of no interest.
That dire state of affairs was why the new CEO with his reputation as a ruthless negotiator with a razor-sharp mind had been brought on board. Rumor was the powers that be had been so desperate to secure his services they’d given him a chunk of the tightly held company as part of his pay package.
Of course, those shares would be worthless if he didn’t manage the herculean task of hauling Saxon & Archer out of its death spiral—and Charlotte couldn’t think about that, about the possibility of losing her job, without breaking into a cold sweat, so she shoved that line of thinking aside to focus on the here and now.
Right now it made no sense that someone would want to steal data on a floundering company. And there was nothing else here to steal. Unless this was one very aggressive recruiter who planned to poach Saxon & Archer personnel and was laying the groundwork. Yes, that was going to happen. Not.
It had likely just been files falling to the floor, or a door moving because of a draft generated by an air-conditioning vent, or—
Screaming as she saw the shape of a very big, very muscular man move out from inside the records room, she threw the stapler.
He caught it in one big hand, stared at it with steel-gray eyes, then at her. A single raised eyebrow. “Perhaps you’d better answer that.”
Charlotte realized he was talking about her phone. Her fingers had a death grip on it, and she could hear Molly yelling her name even from this distance. Bringing it to her ear as her face flushed to a no doubt horrific shade of red, she said, “I’m fine” to her best friend.
“I’m glad to hear that.” With those words, the dark-haired and very familiar man across from Charlotte held out the stapler. “You might be needing this… Ms.?”
“Baird,” she said in a croak of a tone. Coughing, she managed to clear it to a rasp. “Charlotte Baird.” She held the phone against her chest and forced herself to meet the penetrating gaze of the six-feet-five, broad-shouldered, and dangerously gorgeous man she’d recognized a split second after she threw the stapler.
There were few people in the country who wouldn’t recognize Gabriel Bishop, former pro rugby player, decorated captain of the national team, and holder of on-field records unbroken in the seven years since he’d been forced to retire because of a severe Achilles tendon injury. “Thank you… sir.”
A nod, his hair glinting blue-black in the overhead light. He was gone a second later, a legal file held in his hand.
Walking back to her cubicle on shaky legs, Charlotte collapsed in her chair and buried her face in one hand, elbow braced on her desk. “I just met my new boss,” she groaned into the phone. “Or more specifically, I threw an industrial-strength stapler at his head.”
Molly laughed in open relief.
“Oh God, Molly, what if he fires me?” Charlotte didn’t know how she’d find a new job. Interviewing for this one would’ve left her a nervous wreck if the human resources manager at the time hadn’t been an older man on the verge of retirement who’d reminded her of her father.
“He’s not going to fire you,” Molly said. “You were in the office being a diligent employee, remember?”
“Right, that’s right. I—”
“Ms. Baird.”
Jerking around at the sound of that deep male voice, Charlotte said, “Yes.” It came out a squeak.
“Have you been here all day?” Gabriel Bishop’s eyes—cold, hard, incisive—pinned her to the spot, his big body blocking out the light.
She nodded, her voice having deserted her totally by this point. The man was a wall of pure muscle, like some Greek god carved by an adoring artist.
“In that case,” he said, “I’m sure you’re hungry. We’ll go to a bistro I know nearby for dinner.” It wasn’t an invitation but an order. “You can bring me up to speed on certain issues.” His eyes went to the phone in her hand. “Five minutes.”