The vice presidential offices at Bond-Worthington were old-school. Mahogany paneling, the requisite trophy wall littered with degrees, and padded leather chairs that both rocked and rolled. A VP at B-W wouldn’t be caught dead with an art print or a family photo, or any bit of evidence to indicate you didn’t eat, breath, sleep and ruminate solely for the firm. There were rules on Wall Street, and Jamie had learned early on to follow them to the tenth decimal place.
“Afternoon, Walter,” she said, shooting for cheerful and confident. She seated herself in front of his desk with one tiny rock of her chair to convey the necessary arrogance.
Walter harrumphed. You could judge his emotional well-being by the way he cleared his throat. Low and guttural was bad. Clenched teeth and a tick meant the coast was clear. Today’s forecast was afternoon storms. He peered out over silver-framed rims, just as a vice president of Financial Opportunities should.
“You let me down, McNamara. Failed me. I needed you to go out and hit a long ball, instead you stood at the plate while Newhouse threw you three breaking balls. Some other execs, you might have been able to stare them down, but Newhouse is one tough cookie.”
“I know, Walter. I’m working to get on his calendar again.”
“But when, McNamara? When?” He got up and stood at the window, pointing to the view of the Statue of Liberty. “See that? That’s New York. Priciest real estate in the continental U.S. And do you know how we can afford a view like this? Performance, performance, performance. Our team is the best, Jamie. We deliver every time we step up to the plate. Every time. You’re at the plate. You need to deliver.”
Jamie cleared her throat, low and guttural. “Got it, boss. The power outage—”
“Admit it. You got caught with your pants down.”
She jerked forward, her conscience working overtime. How could he possibly…Then she relaxed. Of course he didn’t know that it wasn’t her fine Italian wool pants that had been down, exposing the tightest butt her hands had ever explored.
Instinctively, her hips rolled forward.
No, no, no.
“We must prepare for all contingencies,” Walter continued. “Do you know how many times the power has gone down in the city? Two point three annually since 1970. Two contributing factors. Weather and construction. Look at that April sky! Not a cloud in it, but hear those jackhammers pounding away?”
Jamie nodded, mainly to humor him. On the thirty-eighth floor, they heard nothing but the occasional whistling of the wind. It wasn’t time for semantics.
“Construction. Why do you think we keep a backup generator in this building? Our clients count on us; they expect us to be here day in, day out. 24/7. At Bond-Worthington, we anticipate a market movement before it happens. Before it happens.”
“Yes, sir. I understand, sir.” Jamie swallowed and continued to nod, trying to listen, needing to listen, but instead little scraps of memory played in her head.
Andrew.
There was such uncontrolled heat, such—wickedness in their lovemaking. She felt a giggle rise in her throat. It was like a soap opera or something. Jamie had neat, orderly sex, not wild monkey sex.
Primly she crossed her legs tighter.
But that didn’t stop the tingles.
“Don’t let it happen again, McNamara.”
Guilty as charged.
Jamie looked up and met Walter’s paternal gaze. She was his protégée, his pet, and a morning mambo in a Hummer wasn’t going to do anything to advance her career. Hell, at thirty-two, she was well past the optimal dating age, well past the morning mambo age, too. No, her path was well-defined and well-trod. She wouldn’t disappoint. She placed her feet firmly on the floor and stood up, ramrod straight.
“It’s not going to happen again, sir.”
He gave one curt nod. “Knock him dead, McNamara.”
And with that, Jamie walked out, leaving all the tingles behind her.
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