That dire state of affairs was why the new CEO with his reputation as a ruthless negotiator with a razor-sharp mind had been brought on board. Rumor was the powers that be had been so desperate to secure his services they’d given him a chunk of the tightly held company as part of his pay package.
Of course, those shares would be worthless if he didn’t manage the herculean task of hauling Saxon & Archer out of its death spiral—and Charlotte couldn’t think about that, about the possibility of losing her job, without breaking into a cold sweat, so she shoved that line of thinking aside to focus on the here and now.
Right now it made no sense that someone would want to steal data on a floundering company. And there was nothing else here to steal. Unless this was one very aggressive recruiter who planned to poach Saxon & Archer personnel and was laying the groundwork. Yes, that was going to happen. Not.
It had likely just been files falling to the floor, or a door moving because of a draft generated by an air-conditioning vent, or—
Screaming as she saw the shape of a very big, very muscular man move out from inside the records room, she threw the stapler.
He caught it in one big hand, stared at it with steel-gray eyes, then at her. A single raised eyebrow. “Perhaps you’d better answer that.”
Charlotte realized he was talking about her phone. Her fingers had a death grip on it, and she could hear Molly yelling her name even from this distance. Bringing it to her ear as her face flushed to a no doubt horrific shade of red, she said, “I’m fine” to her best friend.
“I’m glad to hear that.” With those words, the dark-haired and very familiar man across from Charlotte held out the stapler. “You might be needing this… Ms.?”
“Baird,” she said in a croak of a tone. Coughing, she managed to clear it to a rasp. “Charlotte Baird.” She held the phone against her chest and forced herself to meet the penetrating gaze of the six-feet-five, broad-shouldered, and dangerously gorgeous man she’d recognized a split second after she threw the stapler.
There were few people in the country who wouldn’t recognize Gabriel Bishop, former pro rugby player, decorated captain of the national team, and holder of on-field records unbroken in the seven years since he’d been forced to retire because of a severe Achilles tendon injury. “Thank you… sir.”
A nod, his hair glinting blue-black in the overhead light. He was gone a second later, a legal file held in his hand.
Walking back to her cubicle on shaky legs, Charlotte collapsed in her chair and buried her face in one hand, elbow braced on her desk. “I just met my new boss,” she groaned into the phone. “Or more specifically, I threw an industrial-strength stapler at his head.”
Molly laughed in open relief.
“Oh God, Molly, what if he fires me?” Charlotte didn’t know how she’d find a new job. Interviewing for this one would’ve left her a nervous wreck if the human resources manager at the time hadn’t been an older man on the verge of retirement who’d reminded her of her father.
“He’s not going to fire you,” Molly said. “You were in the office being a diligent employee, remember?”
“Right, that’s right. I—”
“Ms. Baird.”
Jerking around at the sound of that deep male voice, Charlotte said, “Yes.” It came out a squeak.
“Have you been here all day?” Gabriel Bishop’s eyes—cold, hard, incisive—pinned her to the spot, his big body blocking out the light.
She nodded, her voice having deserted her totally by this point. The man was a wall of pure muscle, like some Greek god carved by an adoring artist.
“In that case,” he said, “I’m sure you’re hungry. We’ll go to a bistro I know nearby for dinner.” It wasn’t an invitation but an order. “You can bring me up to speed on certain issues.” His eyes went to the phone in her hand. “Five minutes.”
Waiting until his footsteps disappeared, Charlotte repeated his order into the phone, her stomach in knots. Even condemned prisoners got a last meal. Maybe Gabriel Bishop did the same for employees he was about to fire?
“Go,” Molly said. “And order the most expensive thing on the menu.”
“I’ll probably throw it up.” Her nerves twisted, then twisted again and decided to tie themselves into knots for good measure. “I better go—he said five minutes.”
Molly wished her good luck and they hung up. Tidying herself up by redoing the ponytail in which she wore her barely shoulder-length blond hair, the strands so fine they tended to escape and curl around her face, she got up and slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder. Picking up her warm but shapelessly blocky brown coat afterward, she slid her feet into her abandoned shoes, then walked to the elevator.
She had a feeling her new boss intended for them to go to a particular upmarket bistro—the gossip pages liked to spy on him, though he didn’t court the attention, and he’d been photographed there a number of times. Mostly with business associates. Every so often with a stunning model or pro sportswoman or heart surgeon. Once, he’d been seen with an up-and-coming member of Parliament. That had sent the gossip into the stratosphere.
His only “type” appeared to be tall and beautiful.
This would be the first time with a short, glasses-wearing blonde dressed in a badly fitting sweater.
At least she didn’t have to worry a journalist looking for a scoop would snap a picture, Charlotte consoled herself. The fact she wasn’t a date couldn’t be clearer if she’d painted it on her forehead. Another piece of good news was that the bistro was only a two-minute walk away, so she didn’t have to put on her coat; carrying the heavy brown mass gave her a way to hide her hands, which kept fisting and locking together when they weren’t trembling.