Ruined (Ethan Frost 1)

And to be honest, that’s the real reason I haven’t fought back today. That’s the real reason I’ve taken all the abuse they can heap on me. Because while I am definitely not sleeping my way to a better position—the thought has never crossed my mind to do so—Rick and the others aren’t wrong when they imply that I only got to do the Trifecta merger research because Ethan likes me. Because he wants me.

I have no problem fighting back against bullies, but I do have problems telling them they’re full of shit when they aren’t. Rick has every right to be upset at being pulled off the project for someone with one day’s worth of experience—we’re all fighting for the best projects to pad our résumés and the best chance to show off our stuff so that we can actually get a job here at Frost Industries or somewhere like it.

Frustrated, annoyed, and more hurt than I want to admit, even to myself, I turn the tap off. Dry my face. Then run the towel under my eyes to catch the remnants of mascara that pooled there when I washed my face. Which obviously wasn’t such a great idea now that I think about it. I learned to use makeup as a shield years ago, to hide my emotions as surely as my bruises. Standing here without it now, I feel vulnerable. Defenseless.

It’s a feeling I like even less than being bullied.

I reach into my purse, pull out the pot of rose-tinted lip balm that I go through like water. I switched purses for my new job yesterday and in my urgency to get out the door and be on time, I forgot to drop in my usual makeup kit. I’d meant to add it last night, but then the great strawberry debacle had distracted me. And when I left the house this morning I was too exhausted to remember my own name let alone anything else.

Which, I realize, is just another thing I can blame Ethan for.

Since I can’t do anything about the makeup, I spend the last five minutes of my break doing the next best thing—trying to tame my mile of red curls into some kind of bun. In the end, I twist it up, securing it with two rubber bands and three pencils that I use like Chinese chopsticks. It’s not the most glamorous style in the world, but I’m not going for glamour. I’m going for control. And since there’s not a hair out of place, I think I’ve actually managed it.

I ride out the rest of the afternoon at my desk, speaking to no one and asking no questions—though I have about a billion on the best way to utilize the legal databases. Instead I blunder around a little, figuring things out on my own as I dig into the first case on the research list, one that doesn’t have anything to do with biomedical technology per se, but that does deal with issues of similar tech patents upon the merging of two companies.

It’s a huge case with thousands of pages of documentation, and the attorneys have prepared a list of thirty-five questions they want answered from this case alone. And while I manage to answer three questions in the two hours I have left in the workday, I know I have to learn to work the search engines better or I’m going to end up drowning in the crazy workload. I don’t mind that, but I don’t want to fall behind and look like a total idiot. Which is why, when I find an interesting interpretation of the case I’m working on, I add it to the pre-notes I’m making for myself and keep going. I don’t want to forget it—the case has some fascinating nuances about who owns what during a merger—but it doesn’t deal specifically with any of the questions on my list, so I don’t want to waste time on it right now, either. Not when there’s so much else to do.

Five o’clock comes and goes, but I keep working for about an hour after the other interns leave. I’m in the legal department, so I have plenty of company—the attorneys in a number of the offices around me are working late as well. But sometime around six-thirty my stomach starts to growl and I decide to call it a day. If I’m lucky, Tori will be up for making her famous strawberry margaritas tonight. God knows I could use about three of them after the day I’ve had.

But as I’m walking to my car I pass the main building—the one with Ethan’s office—and my indignation comes back all over again. Before I can change my mind, I walk straight into the building, check in with evening security, who I’m pretty sure think I’m going to the cafeteria to catch dinner, and then grab an elevator to the fifth floor. No more stairwells for me.

Ethan’s probably not even in, but I’ll spend all night dwelling on my complete and total pissed-offness if I don’t at least try to confront him.

When the elevator finally opens on the fifth floor, I expect to find the reception area dark and empty. Instead, the dragon receptionist is still there, working on her computer. She looks as surprised to see me as I am to see her, and I grind my teeth together in annoyance. It never occurred to me that she would still be here, working, so I haven’t bothered to come up with an excuse. I obviously should have.

I brace myself for an argument with her, because if Ethan is here, I am not leaving without seeing him. But unlike when she barked at me this morning, this time she’s all sweetness and light when I approach her. Which only makes me angrier.

“Good evening, Ms. Girard. Just let me call ahead and let him know you’re here and then you can go right in. ”

“I thought I needed an appointment. ”

“Most people do,” she says with a benign smile. “But Mr. Frost was very clear on the fact that you’re to be allowed access to him whenever you need it. ”

Unaware that I am now fuming, she picks up the phone and dials two numbers. Seconds later, I can hear Ethan’s voice over the telephone. Then she’s pointing me in the direction of his office with a smile.

“Have a good evening, Ms. Girard. ”

“Thank you, Mrs. ”—I glance down at her nameplate, which holds a position of honor in the center of her pristine desk—“Lawrence. ”

“Call me Dorothy, dear. Everyone else does. ”

I’m not sure my heart can handle the shock of calling the dragon lady by her first name, no matter how charming she is right now. So instead of answering, I just nod weakly and then head to where she’d directed me to go.

I end up walking through another reception area, with another desk that obviously belongs to Ethan’s personal assistant, at least judging by the nameplate on the desk. Though he’s nowhere around—he must have left at five o’clock like a normal person—his desk is about a million times messier than Mrs. Lawrence’s.

Right past the reception area is the door to a huge office, one whose lush furnishings make both reception areas look tiny and ill-styled. Certain that this is Ethan’s office, I push the half-closed door open without bothering to knock. After all, it’s not like he isn’t expecting me.

Except once I get in there, I realize he’s in the middle of a business call. Though he’s leaning against the front of his desk instead of sitting behind it, his conversation makes it very obvious that I’ve interrupted some major deal brokering. On Trifecta, I wonder, or something else entirely?

Either way, I start to step back out—an intern has no business being in on any of these calls. But he stops me with a wave and a smile, gestures for me to sit anywhere I’d like. I know he expects me to pick one of the chairs immediately opposite his desk, but both are a little close to his long, Armani-clad legs for my comfort.

So I choose the indigo couch that’s toward the back of the room, grouped with a couple of chairs into a relaxing sitting area. As I settle onto the cushions, it occurs to me that I probably should have taken one of the chairs, since it sends a different message.

It’s too late now, though, so I stay where I am. I don’t settle back, though. No need to look like I’m getting comfortable in here. Not that there’s any chance of that, to be honest. This office, while incredibly appealing in its own way, is designed to intimidate much more than to welcome. Even the colors—cool blues and grays—while soothing in some small way, scream power and privilege and unemotional calculation.

I’m prepared for a long wait. Though I’m doing my best not to eavesdrop, it’s hard not to hear some of the discussion, and it sounds very important. In my opinion, it’s definitely got something to do with the merger I’ve been assigned to research. I think about leaving and coming back tomorrow, after I’ve had time to plot out my words better and he’s no longer on the phone, lounging against his desk looking like a cover model for the Armani summer fashion campaign.

But to my surprise, he wraps his conversation up within a couple of minutes, telling whoever is on the line that “something’s come up. ”