Chapter 5
5
I am only here to do my job. I would be stupid if I ignored an invitation to watch my suspects let down their guards in a much more natural habitat.
These are the lies I tell myself to explain my appearance at the bar tonight. When a sticky note with the name, address, and time of the traditional R&D team happy hour haunt appeared on my office door, I knew I couldn’t pass up this opportunity.
In spite of my skin crawling from so many strangers surrounding me, I slink to the bar to engage in covert surveillance. By the time I have a rum and cola in my hand to further my ruse of fitting in with the post-work crowd, my coworkers are either seated or standing around a small, high-top table in the center of the room. I take a sip as I observe them from a safe distance then promptly shudder.
This is what’s known as Coke for color. I restrain myself from recoiling at the burn of a higher ratio of rum to cola than I prefer. Then I straighten my shoulders and take another sip as I glance around.
It’s a nice place with warm lighting and warmer wood. An ornately carved mirror runs the length of the wall behind the bar. Neatly stocked metal scrollwork racks of the prettiest bottles of liquor line the marble topped shelf. The bar top itself is smooth and clean, no sticky residue or peanut shells littering the surface. This is definitely a classier bar than the kind Peter and I used to frequent as poor grad students. My surroundings make me feel like a real adult.
I focus on my subjects.
They appear to be all smiles and tapping pint glasses and laughter. Good natured pats on the back are exchanged, punctuated by words that I can’t hear from this distance.
They look and act like a cohesive team. I suppose that’s to be expected. The only difference is in the way the other bar patrons treat our fearsome leader.
I jerk on my barstool at the sight of Dr. Peter Carrington. He said he wouldn’t come. I should’ve known he was lying. Still. He’s my primary suspect for now, so I don’t hate his unexpected appearance here as much as I probably should. I squint as I observe him more carefully.
While the other men who make up my department enjoy each other’s company, several women attempt to engage Peter in conversation. From this distance, I can’t possibly overhear his responses.
I do have past, personal—regrettable—experience to draw from as a means to judge his lack of interest. Not once does he trail his fingertips over their arms. He never leans into their personal space to whisper in their ears. One confident, beautiful woman employs these intimate tactics. I’m shocked nearly senseless when Peter recoils and turns a scathing glare on her. His mouth moves with what appears to be a jumble of rapidly spoken words. I’m too far away to know what he’s saying.
She scampers away like a kicked dog.
Righteous indignation burns in the pit of my gut. He wears a three-piece suit now, and he acts like that makes him a god. Clearly, no one has yet taught him the lessons he taught me.
Witnessing his callous regard for other people makes me want to bring him down even more.
I dig in my heels and order another drink.
The team stays much longer than expected for a Wednesday evening. I drink many more rum and colas than I should on a work night when I’m on a stakeout.
By the time my vision is blurring from both alcohol and exhaustion, I nearly miss the double take Peter gives me when his gaze alights on me at the bar.
With narrowed eyes, I watch as he stalks toward me in a way that suggests he believes I am still the prey.
I bite my lip to keep from smiling.
I’m the predator now, Dr. Carrington. I can’t wait to give you your just desserts.
“Why did you come if you weren’t planning on joining us?” Peter asks as he slides an empty tumbler across the bar.
“You said you wouldn’t be here,” I croak then lick my lips and clear my throat. I didn’t anticipate making conversation with Peter this evening, so I blurt, “I didn’t want to sit with you. Not even to get to know my new coworkers.”
A muscle in his jaw ticks, but his voice is calm when he says, “They’re not sure how to act toward you anyway.”
“Toward me?” I lift an eyebrow in disbelief. “I’m harmless.”
I leave off the obvious, “Unlike you .”
He nods, his eyelids lowering as he continues to stare at me.
“Because they don’t respect women?” I guess.
It’s not so difficult to imagine. Peter probably ordered them to pretend to be nice to me. Inviting me out tonight was likely a way to convince me to let my guard down.
A soundless chuckle vibrates Peter’s chest. “Because you’re clearly BFFs with the Chet Goulding. The calculating CEO who has the power to detonate this little R&D endeavor that he so recently funded. No one wants to lose their jobs.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I protest, slurping down the last dredges of my drink. “I would never hold my friendship with Chet over anyone’s head. I’m not that unprofessional.”
Mentally, I once again think, “ Unlike you .”
Peter’s expression of disbelief only riles me further, so I add on, “Besides, Chet is an idiot.”
This gets a genuine laugh out of Peter that makes me grit my teeth. “Oh? Do tell.”
I shrug and wave wildly for the bartender. I need another drink if I’m going to engage in conversation with this man. I never imagined in a million years that I’d ever have to speak to him again, let alone in a dimly lit, intimate atmosphere while I’m secretly investigating him.
He subdues my arm. The touch sends sparks of awareness racing across my skin. “You don’t need another.”
“I do,” I argue, cradling my arm to my chest like it’s broken.
It might be. There’s no other explanation for Peter’s touch causing such a reaction in me.
“You’re already drunk,” he insists.
“So? I’m an adult. I planned to take an Uber back to my apartment.” I hate that I feel the need to defend myself to someone whose past actions toward me are utterly indefensible. Whose present actions may land him in prison.
He frowns. “I don’t like the idea of you getting an Uber so late at night while you’re drunk.”
I wave off his concerns. Typical Peter. Treating me like a female infant. I’m only a worthy adversary when it comes to challenges of the mind. Never of the body. Except when money’s on the line.
I repeat, “I’m an adult. I am perfectly capable of handling myself. ”
With a long-suffering sigh and a perfunctory eyeroll, Peter holds his hand in the air for the bartender.
Of course, the bartender responds to him immediately. Stupid hot nerd with glasses.
“She’ll have another.”
I cross both arms over my chest. Well, now I don’t want another. Just to spite him.
“I’m good actually, thanks,” I tell the barkeep.
The woman whose nametag reads Stacy glances between us with a suspicious narrowing of her eyes. Keeping her gaze fixed on Peter, she asks me, “You need a ride, sweetie?”
“No,” I say primly. “I’ve already arranged for safe, sober transportation. Thank you though.”
“How about an angel shot?” she asks, still studying Peter who drops his head between his shoulders on yet another sigh.
I am familiar with this covert code. An angel shot is an assurance of safety for a woman who is having difficulty with a man. It is a secret handshake of sorts. When uttered, these words will magically produce bouncers and a safe way home.
It is so utterly tempting to speed up the process of putting Peter in jail where he belongs. I don’t share his questionable ethics though. If his moral compass points south, then mine points north. I’ll make him pay the right way.
I strive to make my voice as confident as possible. “I am truly well. Thank you so very much for your concern. If I need anything at all, I’ll let you know.”
Stacy’s gaze swings to me with a new, different gleam in her eyes. She licks her lips. “Okay. I got you.”
She winks then sashays away.
From his position of his head continuing to hang between his shoulders, Peter chuckles. “Un-fucking-believable.”
“What is?” I roll a nearly melted ice cube into my mouth simply for something to do. “My friendship with Chet? Yes, I imagine it must be quite appalling for you to accept that I have male acquaintances who are not interested in sex with me.”
Damn. Peter was right. I do not need another drink. I would never have said such a scandalous thing if I were completely sober. Those words make me sound…bitter.
His gaze becomes more focused and laser-like than my previous glare. He presses, “Why is Chet an idiot?”
My heart thumps inside my chest, every beat filled with gratitude that Peter’s not questioning my inadvertent word vomit.
I do my best to seem unaffected by this conversation, shrugging and pulling another ice cube from my glass to suck on. “He allows his emotions to lead his decisions. The man wears a leash of his own making. It’s pathetic to be quite honest.”
Peter barks out a surprised laugh. “You think Chet Goulding is pathetic?”
“Yes,” I answer easily enough. “I would never ask for his advice about anything.”
He laughs harder. “Seriously? The man’s a genius!”
“True,” I concede. “However, I suspect he is a low-grade genius. Intelligent enough to think outside the box as it were, still human enough to allow his emotions to cloud his judgment.”
I almost, almost followed in his footsteps. I have the man sitting next to me to thank for a painful yet utterly effective lesson.
Peter’s laughter cuts off as he squints at some indistinct point in the air between us. “There are grades of genius?”
“Oh, yes.” I nod, having finished off my ice cubes. Physical movement should help me sober up a little quicker. “Everyone knows that.”
Peter continues to squint then adds blinking at nothing into the mix. “Explain why you think he’s a low-grade genius. ”
“I already told you,” I scoff. “He allows his emotions to dictate his actions.”
“Riiiiight,” Peter drags out the word. “Specifically, how does he wear his emotions like a leash?”
Before I can answer, Peter shakes his head and blows out a breath. “Oh, wait. You mean his wife and kid? Young CEOs typically don’t have those kinds of distractions from their plots to take over the world.”
“That’s part of it,” I admit.
Peter shakes his head then stares at the bar top. “Makes sense. The older I get and the more people I meet, I’m convinced more than ever that men are the more emotional sex. We fall in love deeper, harder, faster. When we know, we just…know. Women are much more selective.”
“Likely because women have more to lose when choosing a mate or a life partner. Men do not risk their very lives to further the human race.” I have spent many sleepless nights pondering this very subject. “Men can afford to be emotional because their biological primary directive is to spread their seed widely. A man can father innumerable children in a single year, and his life is never at stake. Women, however, bear the physical brunt of gestation and childbirth. Many women also bear the burden of rearing the offspring alone. A woman can only sustain a single pregnancy in a year, yet it is a lifetime commitment. Women cannot afford to be emotional. Our very lives are on the line.”
Peter stares at me as though he’s impressed by my observations that are purely logical. I don’t see what’s so impressive about basic logic.
Unfortunately, I’m also aware that any other man in Peter’s position would have simply gotten up and left instead of listening to my thoughts on the matter. I narrow my eyes at him. This is exactly how he hoodwinked me into believing he was different. That he was worth taking a chance on. If for nothing more than engaging, reciprocal intellectual stimulation.
He leans into my personal space, his gaze boring into me. “And yet a man will give up his entire kingdom, his very life, for the love of a woman.”
With a dejected scoff, I concede his valid point. My days of arguing with him for fun—to extend the night—are long gone. “True. Many examples exist throughout history of such a thing. Troy, being one of the most famous.”
He retreats with a bitter chuckle. “He’ll give up everything with no guarantee she’ll ever love him back.”
“Okay, okay.” I offer jazz hands in lieu of applause. I just want him to go away. “You made your point. You win this round.”
He shakes his head, rolls his eyes, then scoffs. “I haven’t won a damn thing.”
“You won a ton of money,” I mutter.
I don’t know exactly how much. All I saw were multiple bills being passed into his greedy clutches. I’m not sure if it makes it better or worse that I don’t know the amount.
Thankfully, Peter seems not to hear my second slip-up into past territory. He’s too busy studying me, his gaze roaming over my face, bouncing between my eyes, across the hair that falls around my shoulders.
He’s searching for something, and I don’t know what that something is.
I don’t know. Again.
My cheeks flame beneath his gaze, and my heart pounds an unsteady rhythm in my chest. We’re too close. The heat of his body pours inside my flimsy blouse, but my nipples harden like I’m standing in the freezing parking lot stark naked.
“You can’t drive me home,” I say to distract my traitorous body. To put up firm boundaries between us. To show him I know exactly how vile he is beneath his handsome, intelligent surface. “You’ve been drinking, too.”
He shakes his head, but his gaze never stops moving over me like an invisible caress. “I had one. Hours ago. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” I insist, but the words come out shamefully slurred. If it wasn’t for all the rum in my system, I might not have the courage to say, “You were mean to those women who were being so nice to you.”
His brow furrows slightly. His gaze never wavers. “Was I?”
I narrow my eyes at him. He can’t be serious.
Peter was many things in the past, but he was never so overtly cruel to a person’s face. Capable of the utmost betrayal behind their backs? Certainly. Possessed with enough confidence to cut them down while staring them in the eye? Not in my experience.
I’m familiar with the concept that everyone is the hero of their own story. Chet has been an excellent study of the topic. He’s cold and calculating and wary of anyone who attempts to get close to him. From his point of view, he’s protecting himself. Ensuring that he will never be a victim again. Because he absolutely was a victim in the past. To the people he uses and abuses along his warpath to power and security now, he’s a villain. They don’t know his past. They only know how he treats them.
“What happened to you?” I blurt.
Surely, there’s something in Peter’s past that has turned him into this deceitful, cruel man. Something else he never told me.
I’ve spent the year since graduate school believing he continued his life as his own hero.
The constantly frustrated, unhappy man that he shows himself to be doesn’t line up with my assumptions. Even if he’s acting for my benefit once again, I can’t think of a single logical reason for him to not behave like he’s the lord of his new kingdom .
After agonizing moments of silence pass between us, he abruptly twists on his barstool, then tugs my knees to face him.
The breath rushes out of my lungs at so much physical contact.
I stare at his legs bracketing my thighs as a sense of panic rises from the pit of my stomach to the top of my throat.
He sucks in a sharp breath then licks his lips before murmuring, “You really had no idea I’d be here? None at all?”
I shake my head. This is not the time nor the place for me to finally confront him. Not with our coworkers staring at us like the main act in the middle of a circus ring.
Self-restraint and maturity for the win.
I will not blow my super-secret spy cover tonight. No, sir.
“Tell me one good reason why you don’t want me to take you home,” he demands then softer, “And I’ll let you go.”
“You’re my boss now,” I whisper, the tainted memories of what he did when he took me home in the past threatening to drown my sense of reason. If not for his betrayal, I would remember his devotion so fondly. His caress. The warmth of his body, the steadiness of his hands. The absolute skill with which he wrung more pleasure from me than I ever imagined was possible. I shake off the montage. “It would be unprofessional for you to take me home.”
He frowns. Either a show of displeasure that he’s not getting what he wants this time, or he knows things are different now.
I throw a few twenties on the bar then abandon my stool without another word.
I’ve done enough damage for one day.