If I Were You(Inside Out 01)

Chapter Six

Description: butterfly

I walk into Rebecca’s office and the scent of roses flares in my nostrils. Searching the room, I find a small candle on the shiny cherry wood desk that while not burning, seems the logical source of the sweet floral perfume. The little personal touch I assume to be Rebecca’s reminds me that I am here to find her, and punches me in the gut when it should be encouraging, a sign of her return. Searching for more of that encouragement I should be feeling, I glance at the two bookshelves to my right, where various art books are displayed on stands and a dozen or so others are shelved, and find nothing to cling to.
“If you hit the red button on your phone, you’ll reach the intercom to my desk,” Amanda murmurs.
“Great,” I say, stepping behind the desk and stuffing my purse into a drawer. I can’t seem to get myself to sit down in the red leather chair. In her chair. “What’s my extension?” I ask because I’m trying to buy time to snap out of the uneasy feeling tingling through my nerve endings.
“Four,” Amanda replies.
My gaze lifts and my breath hitches at the sight of the painting on the wall directly in front of me. I think Amanda says something else but I don’t know what. I am riveted by the fine strokes of brilliance done by none other than the famous American painter Georgia O’Nay. I now know why there had been a key pad for a password to enter the back offices and the candle suddenly has more significance because this glorious oil on canvas features red and white roses. It must be worth a cool thirty thousand and I can’t imagine it’s not real to be here in the gallery. It is spectacular, and it is on the wall I will be staring at every day. The same wall that Rebecca had stared at each day she’d been here.
“From Mark’s personal collection,” Amanda informs me, clearly noting the way I’m gaping. “He has a piece in every office.”
I jerk my attention in her direction to find her leaning on the doorframe. “His personal collection?”
She gives a nod. “His family owns a number of art galleries and an auction house in New York called ‘Riptide’,” she explains. “He changes out the pieces every few months from what I understand. We actually have customers who schedule appointments to see what he brings next.” Stunned at this news, I am again in a rare state of speechlessness at the mention of the most elite auction houses in existence, selling everything from celebrity property to fine art.
She laughs without humor, a hint of unease in its depths. “Everyone wants a piece of that man.”
I tilt my head to study her, noting the emphasis on everyone. “You included, Amanda?”
With a wave of her hand she dismisses that idea. “I am so beneath him and most of the customers who come in here.”
Her insecurity washes over me, stirring old feelings I don’t like but I can identify with. “That’s not true. You are not beneath him, or anyone, for that matter.”
“I appreciate that but after this summer, I’ve decided that geology and dig sites are where I belong. A little dust and sun will do me better than champagne and fine art.”
“Don’t make that decision because you feel beneath Mark.”
Her expression turns solemn. “I’m not. I…” She seems to consider her words, and decides against them, instead motioning over her shoulder. “Why don’t I show you the break room. I need to get some coffee started and there’s some paperwork for you to fill out. I can explain while I make it.”
A few minutes later, Amanda has shown me the exact measure of coffee that Mark wants used if I’m ever the first one to arrive, and I’m sitting at a small wooden table across from her as she fills two ceramic cups. No Styrofoam like in the teacher’s lounge for this place.
“How long has Rebecca been gone?” I ask.
Amanda sits down across from me. “Well,” she ponders thoughtfully, pouring sugar into her coffee, as I opt for straight powder creamer. “I started two months ago and she was already gone, so at least that long.”
“She must have something pretty serious going on.”
“No one has ever said, at least not to me, and I’m just glad Mark looked at the summer schedule and decided to hire.” She slides a piece of paper my direction. “That’s the summer schedule.”
I glance over a calendar with growing excitement as I note weekly wine tastings, several exciting artists that will be visiting, and a number of private parties. This is the world I have longed to live in for, well, ever.
“It’s a busy schedule, right?” Amanda asked, seeking my agreement.
“Very, but that’s a good thing.”
“Not when Rebecca was at the helm of most of it and even knowing this Mark has interviewed at least fifteen people and hired no one until you. Thank goodness you did whatever you did to win him over because I’ve been helping and I’m way over my head.”
Whatever I did to win him over, I repeat in my mind. I did nothing and he hired me without so much as a question. Why? Because I asked about Rebecca? Because I pretended to know her. Oh crap. I told Mark that I had a sister. This is why I hate lies. They always come back to haunt you. My heart begins to thunder in my chest at the idea of being cornered and busted in this one. I’m still contemplating how to best make this right, what my story will be, when Amanda slides a folder across the table.
“This is the new hire paperwork and some test Mark said you need to take.”
“Test?”
“Yes. Test. Do you have a problem with that Ms. McMillan?”
Mark’s voice, dark and commanding, draws my gaze, and I barely stop myself from sucking in a breath at just how striking my new boss really is. He is wearing a light gray suit that enhances the unique silvery quality of his eyes that are more pale blue than gray as I had first thought. His features are finely carved, his bottom lip full, his jaw strong. He is tall, and athletic, his blonde hair neatly styled. He is…beautiful.
“I’m a school teacher, Mr. Compton,” I finally manage to say. “I love a good test. I’m simply curious as to what kind of testing?”
“We’ll start with basics and I’ll decide where we go from there,” he says, cutting a quick look at Amanda. “I’ll finish up the paperwork with Ms. McMillan, Amanda.” He is curt, authoritative. Intimidating. Intimidatingly sexy.
“Oh yes,” she says, popping to her feet like a jack-in-the-box who’s just had her handle cranked. She wasn’t kidding about being intimidated by the man, and with him present, I am not without understanding of how she feels.
“Coffee is ready, by the way,” she announces to him, and I can feel her angst, her plea for his approval that she doesn’t get. She grabs her cup and heads toward him and he steps aside to allow her to exit, but his eyes are locked on me, impassive, unreadable. That insecure part of me that Michael played on flares its ugly head inside me, that part of me so like Amanda. Heat lashes through my veins and I will it away. I could so easily want to please this man and it terrifies me that I still have that in me.
You are not the same person you were with Michael, I tell myself. I’m not naive. I’m not inexperienced. I will not be captivated by this man’s power, his presence, even if I am not blind to his appeal. I am in control. Besides, he is my boss, not my lover.
He saunters to the coffee pot and fills a cup, and without asking, refills my cup. His eyes meet mine before he moves away, and I see the steel there, I see the dominance in the otherwise polite act. He didn’t ask if I wanted more coffee. He simply decided I did and thus I do. I need to establish parameters with this man and do so now. I am not going to touch that cup.
In an instant, he’s claimed the seat across from me, and the entire room along with it, and I am staring into those silvery grey eyes and I do not dare look away. I tell myself it’s my show of strength, but deep down, I know I am captivated, commanded, to hold his stare.
“I wasn’t sure you’d show up today,” he finally says.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
Several seconds tick by before his lips quirk slightly and he reaches into the folder and passes me a piece of paper and a pencil. “I hired you without so much as a reference check, on pure instinct. My instincts, Ms. McMillan, are very good. I’d like you to prove that an accurate statement.” He reaches for the powdered creamer.
I glance down at the paper and see ten questions, and quickly determine they are all related to medieval art.
“Begin,” he orders softly.
I glance up at him to find him settling back into his seat, clearly intending to watch me write the test. He wants to intimidate me and I do not want to let him. My jaw sets and I reach for the pencil. I can feel him watching me and I am flustered to realize my hand shakes ever-so-slightly. Men like him do not miss such details. He knows it’s shaking. He knows he’s affecting me.
I forcefully clear the haze from my mind and focus on the questions which are quite advanced, but well within my expertise. I finish them quickly and flip the paper around for his review.
He’s still leaning back in his chair, deceptively casual, watching me, his gaze hooded, his expression once again impassive. He doesn’t reach for the test, but instead, his attention flicks to my cup.
“You aren’t drinking your coffee, Ms. McMillan.”
“I’m over my limit for the day.”
“Limits are meant to be pushed.”
“Too much caffeine makes me shaky.” The words, the lie, is out before I can stop it. Where are all these lies coming from?
He leans forward and I can smell his clean, spicy male scent. “Sharing a cup of coffee,” he says, “is a bit like celebrating a new partnership, don’t you think?”
The challenge he has just issued crackles in the air, along with some other, unnamed electricity, that had my throat thick, and my heart racing. It’s just a cup of coffee but yet I sense that this is about so much more, that this is another test that has nothing to do with skill, but rather, him. Me. And I don’t know why I want to comply, to please him. Of course I do, I tell myself. He’s the kind of man who expects those around him to follow his lead. I cannot fight his will and be here. I tell myself that is why I comply, why I do as I wish. I tell myself I am not weak, and he is in control of the job, not me. I reach for the coffee.