My nostrils flared at the jab. "Excuse me?"
"Your university accolades are commendable, but this isn’t a job for most likely to work herself into an early grave," he said, his tone as frosty as the air that flowed from the vents. "You are aware that the position you are applying for is the research aide? Getter of Starbucks? Mistress of Google?"
"Y-Yes," I said, my cheeks going hot again.
"A position you are extraordinarily overqualified for?"
"Yes," I said slowly, taking a step forward. "But I believe that-"
"Perhaps you believe that this could be a-" he raised his massive hands and made quotation marks with his fingers. "-starter job. Something to whet your appetite until something juicier comes along."
Juicier. That word combined with the things he'd done with those fingers made lust flare between my legs. It would have been easy to cross my legs and relieve the pressure if I’d made it to the seat in front of the conference table, but they'd attacked with one of my feet out the door.
"As flattered as I am that you would choose Whitmore and Creighton to pop your cherry, as it were, I have no interest in wasting time training you only to lose it whenever you inevitably leave us."
His words were like a slap across the face, but I pushed away the hurt and indignation for the moment. I'd learned enough about reading people, listening for inflections in their voices, decoding body language and using it, to know that when he glanced at a clock ticking away behind me that I was losing him. When he leaned in to whisper something to Mrs. Delacourt, I knew it was now or never.
I took a step forward. "Clearly you hold this position in high esteem, Mr. Whitmore." He opened his mouth but I blazed through, not letting him derail me. "Why else would the boss sit in on the interview of a lowly research aide?" I said a prayer as I strutted to the seat in front of the table and let out a silent sigh of relief when I didn't stagger or fall on my face. The surprise in those intense eyes emboldened me. Good. I had his attention.
"I know I'm over qualified, Mr. Whitmore. But I’m a perfect fit for this company--you're the best at what you do, and as far back as I can remember, I was the best. I am the best."
I captured his gaze and held onto it for dear life. "I'm applying for the research aide position because it was the only opening you had. I'm passionate about publicity and if I have to scrub toilets to work at the most progressive, tenacious firms in the world, so be it. Because I can't stop, I won't stop until I get exactly what I want." I stopped to catch my breath and saw he was watching me intently. Measuring me. "I'll work nights, weekends-"
He cleared his throat, cutting me off. "That's not necessary. The aide position is Monday through Friday, 8am to 5pm."
Does that mean..."I've got the job?" I looked at Mrs. Delacourt and she turned to look at him, just as surprised as I was.
He rose to his feet, buttoning his jacket. "Maria, expedite her paperwork. I want this one in tomorrow morning."
I leapt to my feet and stepped in his path, jutting out my hand. "Thank you so much, Mr. Whitmore! You won't regret this."
He strode past, not even giving me a second look. I couldn't let him leave without knowing how much this opportunity meant to me, even if a niggling part of me worried that our rendezvous might have something to do with it.
"Mr. Whitmore," I said behind him, trying to keep my voice low. "If I could just get a minute of your time to talk about before-"
He slammed to a stop and I took another step, reaching out toward him. The ice in his voice made my hand hang in the air and my words caught in my throat.
"Give us a moment, Maria."
My interviewer rose from the table without another word. Every inch of her was business in her tailored suit as she strut from the room. The door clicked shut with an ominous thud before silence rushed in.
He pivoted to face me, his features hardened to stone. "I thought you had something to say, Miss Montgomery."
The formal tone in his voice was a blow to my ego, but I didn't show it. Fear would be blood in the water...and he'd eat me alive.
"I just wanted to say thank you for giving me a chance." He perked a brow, not oblivious to the meat of why I really wanted a moment. "And about before-"
"There was no before.” He cut deep when he shrugged a shoulder. "If that's all-"
"It most certainly isn't," I interjected. My voice was doing that thing where each word was louder than the last and my frustration hung on each syllable but I kept going. He pretending it was nothing, that I was nothing was more than I could bear. "You marched me downstairs like some petulant child and practically forced yourself on me!"
He let out a cruel laugh. "Oh please, spare me the damsel in distress bit. You wanted it." His eyes dropped to my lips as he took a step forward and god help me but I wouldn't have shoved him away if he kissed me.
"T-That doesn't matter," I said, taking a step backward. "What matters is-"
"It happened," he said savagely, his voice building in candor until it filled the room. "It won't happen again. And that’s the end of it!"
I licked my chapped lips, just needing more. Needing something. "But Jacob-"
"You will address me as Mr. Whitmore,” he growled over his shoulder. “And we're done."
I watched him go, throwing open the door and stomping away in a huff. I wanted to yell after him. Lay it all out and screw the consequences. Jesus--five minutes in his arms and I was ready to throw it all away.
But Mrs. Delacourt came in and gave me a look that gave me pause. It was one of sympathy, and it opened a box of worms I wasn't prepared for. How many women found themselves alone with him, laid bare and tossed out like trash?
She cleared her throat and held the door for me, wisely changing the subject before either of us could dwell on what was behind her stormy gray eyes. "Come--let's get you squared away."
****
I paused to take a breath, glad that I'd opted for flats for my first day instead of the pumps that Mom kept trying to force onto my feet.
They'll elongate your legs, she insisted. And they're slimming!
Considering the manager of the research division must have been Wile E. the Coyote in a past life, tennis shoes would have been one better. I'd run the circuit around the expansive research and lead development office so many times I was surprised I hadn't worn in the fibers. And then there were coffee orders and breakfast bagels and dashing in and out of the Whitmore building. Going up and down in an elevator should have been less work but I huffed and puffed like I took the stairs.