Читать книгу Masked Innocence - Alessandra Torre, Alessandra Torre - Страница 8

Three

“Julia, can I borrow you for a moment?” Broward’s voice floated through the open doorway into my office, four hours later. He had politely used the office phone system for the first three weeks of my internship, but had abandoned that practice and now simply yelled for me, like I was his puppy roaming somewhere in the house, looking for a place to pee. I sighed, sliding back from my desk and working my bare feet into heels and standing. I was in his doorway a moment later, barely in time to stop another interoffice yell, his mouth already opening in preparation.

“Yes, Mr. Broward?” I asked politely.

“Come in, Julia, and please shut the door.”

I cringed, stepping forward and grabbing the handle, pulling it closed behind me. Broward seemed to have this misconception that “closing his door” actually afforded him some measure of privacy. While the heavy, oak door probably did have excellent sound-deafening qualities, the one-inch gap that ran along the bottom allowed almost every word to come through in crystal-clear quality. This had to be about Brad, and thanks to this poorly hung door, someone was bound to walk by and hear the entire conversation.

“I’d like to extend your internship, assuming you are interested.”

My jaw literally dropped, an involuntary relaxation of muscles that I struggled to contain. Okay—guess this isn’t about Brad. “Extend?” I said dumbly.

“Yes. I’ve been very impressed with you so far, and would like to expand your duties here, maybe bring you to court, let you see more than just the inside of a file.” He grinned at me, a worthless exercise of muscles, because as soon as he had said that word, everything else had disappeared.

Court. The word hung, in gold glittery letters, above my head, blinking on and off like a Vegas sign advertising half-priced buffets. I tried not to lick my lips but could feel saliva pooling, and my jaw started itching to do that damn dropping motion again. “That would be wonderful, but I—um...I just need to check my class schedule for next semester.”

He shrugged at my response, picking up his phone and cradling it to his ear. “Check your schedule and let me know. I’ll speak to H.R., see if we could take you on part-time, give you some hourly rate that would make it worth your while.”

Monetary compensation? Court time? I smiled at him and turned quickly, wanting to get the hell out of there before slobber shot in all directions out of my mouth. I fled his office and collapsed into my chair, an expression somewhere between a grin and a grimace contorting my face. My excitement over the job prospect fought with the predicament it would cause. Court. Money. Brad. Broward. Certain disaster. Court. Ugh. I laid my head on my desk and groaned.

* * *

IT WAS 4:00 p.m. before I thought to check my personal email, remembering that Rebecca was going to send me something. I had one new email, from Rebecca Cray, titled INFO. I opened the email, and read the one-line message.

When you get a chance, please complete the attached and scan it back to me. Thx—Rebecca

I opened the attachment, an Excel spreadsheet, and scanned it quickly, my eyes narrowing the further down the document I read. No fucking way. Then I printed it, closed out the email and picked up the office phone, dialing Brad’s extension and waiting.

He answered in a way that expressed he was not alone. That was fine. I had aspirations for my bitch-out session, and the minimum requirement was that it be in person. “Dinner, tonight? The bistro on Sixty-ninth at six. Okay?”

“Do I have a choice?” His voice held a hint of wariness.

Damn. I had wanted to blindside him with my tantrum. More dramatic that way. “Not really.”

“The bistro is fine, at six, but be aware that I don’t do subservient very well.”

His voice was almost dangerous in its authority, and my feminine side swooned a little despite my best efforts to project more of a dominatrix side.

I tried to come up with a witty response, but struck out. “Whatever,” I finally snapped, hanging the phone up glumly, feeling, as I often did with him, that I had been outmatched.

Then I stood, going to ask the other dictator in my life if I could run out for thirty minutes at six. I really needed to do something to get the men in my life under better control.