Beneath the Boss: Omnibus (The Complete Collection) (9 page)

“I’m sorry,” he said as he pounded into her, the desperation clear in his voice.

She didn’t respond, just clung to shoulders, her eyes closed.

He continued thrusting into her, trying to touch all of her at once, get some reaction, to no avail. Then he stilled, put a hand on her cheek.

“Look at me, Layla. Please,” he said when she didn’t comply.

She opened her eyes, and he saw nothing in them. He thrust gently, and reached down to strum her clit. He continued when he saw her chest begin to rise and fall in earnest, felt the pussy pulse around him.

“I love you.”

He saw the shock in her expression, then felt her cunt clamp down on him as she came, the action sending him over the precipice.

“I love you, too,” she said, and he heard the truth in her words. “But I can never be with a man who doesn’t respect me, a man who can lie to me.”

He heard the truth in those words too. She pushed at the wall of his chest, and after he slipped out of her and lowered her leg, she pulled up her pants and made her way out of the office.

She didn’t look back.

L
eighton looked up at knock on his door. For an instant his heart soared, but it soon came crashing down. She wouldn’t knock. She never knocked.

“Enter,” he bit out, his tone harsh even to his own ears.

The door opened slowly, tentatively, and his assistant Dawn came in. She stood silent for a moment, the fear on her face dampening his already terrible mood. Still, he couldn’t help himself, couldn’t restrain the thoughtless, selfish, cruel man recent events had proven him to be.

“Spit it out, Dawn!”

She jumped and begin speaking, her words a nervous tangle. “Ah, sorry to disturb you, sir, but security called, and Anson Smythe is downstairs asking to see you. He doesn’t have an appointment, so I didn’t know if you wanted me to refuse the visit.”

Leighton sat up, that hated name in his ear demanding some sort of reaction. Smythe. The man who’d destroyed his life. Bile burned at the back of his throat. He was tempted to accept the visit just to have an opportunity to be alone with the bastard, hopeful that punching him would relieve at least some of his pent-up frustration.

Beating up on old men now, Leighton
?

Her voice rang in his ears, the tone uniquely hers, chiding yet playful, a reprimand that also served as a caress. It was as clear as if she’d actually spoken words.

As if she wasn’t gone.

The thought drained him, and he leaned back, his focus returning to Dawn, who still stood there waiting for his response, eyes wide and terror on her face. He should probably apologize. He chuckled instead, the bitter sound barely resembling a laugh. Before
her
he wouldn’t have even considered such a thing.

“Uh, sorry, Dawn. And yes, please show Smythe in.”

Dawn nodded and left, and Leighton tried to pull himself together before Smythe arrived. After his initial impulse of violence passed, he was inclined to send the man away, but he curiosity was piqued. And maybe he’d even get a scrap or two about Layla.

Layla, the love of his life, his anchor, as much a part of him as his right arm. Layla, who’d left him because of Smythe’s interference. Leighton’s anger ran hot again at the thought, and he had only a moment to calm himself before Dawn knocked and entered with Smythe.

He was dressed smartly as always, but seemed older, more broken, than he had before. His appearance didn’t stoke any sympathy. Anson Smythe was a creature of the cutthroat business world, and any lumps he’d taken, some, but not nearly enough, delivered by Leighton, were well deserved.

Smythe walked across the office and settled in a chair, his face a pleasant blank that had undoubtedly served him well over the years. But Leighton was no slouch either and understood this whole interaction was a part of an unspoken but elaborate play. Leighton wanted to pepper Smythe with questions, find out everything he knew, but restrained himself because any hint of eagerness would be taken as weakness that Smythe wouldn’t hesitate to exploit.

So they sat, silent, but amiable, each waiting for the other to crack.

“Your father would be proud.”

Round one to Smythe.

“What would you know about it?” Leighton growled, his tone churlish and far too revealing.

Leighton prided himself on his self-control, at least when it came to business, and knew his icy detachment was one of the keys to his success. Still he hadn’t been expecting that, as Smythe certainly had known, and the words had thrown him off his game.

“More than you’d think, and more than I’d care to admit.”

“Is that why you destroyed him?”

“Who knows? It’s business. I saw an opportunity, and I took it. Can you honestly say you wouldn’t do, and haven’t already done, the same?”

“No. I can’t say I wouldn’t have.”

That knowledge stung.

“Don’t be down about it. It’s what we do, Leighton. We take and take and one day wake up and realize that, through some trick of fate, we have nothing. Nothing of value anyway. Did you know I have a son?”

Leighton nodded. “I’ve seen him around occasionally.”

Smythe let out a wistful sigh. “Me too. I may as well be dead for as much as I see him. And, truth be told, I can’t blame him. I ignored him when he was young and tried to use him when he was older. He got fed up and disgusted and pushed me away. This sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

“Your point, Smythe?” Leighton said, warning threading his tone.

“My point is I’ve watched you for more than a decade, and you’ve succeeded beyond anyone’s wildest imagination. But I see the path ahead for you, and it’s not pretty. Unless you want to be me in thirty years, dispensing advice to competitors because your child can’t stand you, facing your twilight years alone but for the people you pay to be around you, change. I heard that Ms. Grayson has left the company.”

“Ah, so now we get to it.” Leighton leaned back in his chair. “It’s your fault she’s gone, and you came here to gloat, and all under the guise of giving kindly advice.”

“It’s no guise, and this certainly doesn’t constitute gloating. I don’t know Ms. Grayson well, but I liked and respected her, and I suspect she’s independent. If she’s not here, it’s because she doesn’t want to be.”

Smythe leaned forward and placed his hands on Leighton’s desk, his blue gaze burning with a fierceness that was incongruous with the droll, disinterested facade he so often wore.

“And that’s my point. A person as loyal and competent as her wouldn’t jump ship without a good reason. As I said, I don’t know her well, but if you don’t patch things up with her, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.” He reclined, mask back in place. “Or not. I’m just an old man. What do I know?”

Smythe stood and turned on his heels.

“I’ll show myself out,” he said and exited the office.

Leighton jumped up walked over to the window, willing to concede that he’d been soundly on the losing side of that exchange, but more distracted with tossing Smythe’s words around in his head. He’d said nothing revelatory, and yet, the words had hit hard. Though she’d been gone just over two months, Leighton still thought of her absence as a temporary thing, was certain that one day things would go back to normal.

But what did “normal” even mean? She’d work for him and sleep with him? And what about when she wanted to move on, have a stable relationship or even a family? He scrubbed his hands down his face, an ineffective attempt to loosen the knots of dread in his stomach at the thought of Layla bearing someone else’s children.

That wasn’t an option.

He had to get her back, and when he did, he planned to keep her forever.

L
eighton pulled into the bakery parking lot, uncertain about what he planned to do, but committed to whatever it was. After his conversation with Smythe, Leighton knew he needed to get her back, but he was at a loss. He’d considered just going to her and spilling his guts, but something about that didn’t feel quite right, like he was missing some critical piece of information, so he’d hesitated and decided to focus on figuring out the best approach.

He knew her mother had died and recalled well the pain and turmoil of that period of her life. He also remembered an old family friend that Layla had talked about on occasion. She ran a bakery that had supplied pastries for a couple of the company’s events. He’d racked his brain trying to recall the name, but had come up blank. He’d even tried to enlist Dawn’s help, but the normally terrified woman had shown her inner pit bull and refused to give him any information. He’d cajoled, bribed, and even been a shade intimidating, but she’d said nothing. He respected that and had given her a well-earned twenty-percent raise.

In the end, he’d done it the old-fashioned way: printed out a list of bakeries in the Dallas-Fort Worth area and looked for something that sounded familiar. He could imagine Layla teasing him, but desperate times and all. It had been tedious, inefficient work that he could have pawned off any number of people, but it had given him something to focus on, and time to consider what he hoped for with Layla, the best way to get it, and more solemnly, how he’d go on if things didn’t work out. After about a week of searching, he’d found Marla’s, and now he was preparing to take what he hoped was the first step into the rest of his life.

He got out of the car and walked past a patio, several people busily typing, reading a book, or leisurely sipping coffee. He entered the bright, airy space and was hit with the delicious sent of baked goods greeting him. The place was relatively crowded for the afternoon, and the murmur of conversation gave it a lively, vibrant, relaxed feel. Leighton looked down at his suit and noted how no one seemed to notice or care how out of place he was. An older woman stood behind the register and, from his research, he recognized her as Marla. He approached, and she looked over, the welcome-customer smile plastered on her face dropping into a much more reserved expression when she saw it was him. Despite his wealth and brushes with the tabloids, Leighton was fairly anonymous on a day-to-day basis, but Marla’s expression left no doubt that she recognized, and took issue, with him.

“May I help you?” she asked, her even tone at odds with the icicles in her eyes.

“Yes, I’m Leighton Means,” he begin his introduction out of habit and felt a little silly when she slitted her eyes as if to say
Duh
, “uh, I was hoping I could speak with you for a moment.” He finished and waited, amused by how wholly unimpressed and disinterested she seemed.

“What, or should I say,
who
would
you
need to talk to
me
about?” Her emphasis and insinuation was clear.

“Layla.”

“And why would I talk to about Layla with you?”

He felt the weight of the question and decided to tackle it with his favorite approach: directness.

“Because I love her, and I think she loves me, and I need your help to get her back.”

She nodded, seemingly satisfied with his response.

“Cindy, come mind the register,” she called as she wiped her hands on her apron and walked around the counter.

“Follow me,” she said.

Leighton obediently followed her down the hall and through a door marked Employees Only. It looked to be a small break room and had the same cozy feel as the rest of place. She settled at a round table and indicated that he sit down next to her. He sat and prepared to speak, but she beat him to the punch.

“You’re here, so I assume you know how much I care about Layla.”

“I wouldn’t waste your time or mine otherwise,” he said.

“Well then you also know that I would do anything for her and anything to avoid causing her pain. And from what I’ve seen, Mr. Means, you have a very bad habit of causing Layla pain.”

“I’m working on it.”

“Well you’re doing a terrible job. And just so you know, though not that it matters, from my perspective you’re just some rich brat who thinks the world is your oyster and the people in it exist only to serve you. You say you love her, but I haven’t seen anything to suggest you even know what that is.”

Leighton tried to keep his cool, but could feel his frustration rising. Marla didn’t know anything about him, his feelings, or his relationship with Layla, and he didn’t appreciate her questioning him.

Her snort returned his attention to her.

“Layla said you were a surly fella. Don’t like being challenged, eh?”

“You’re a mind reader and a baker?” he couldn’t help but say, not bothering to try to keep the annoyance out of his tone.

That earned him a full-throated laugh.

“Nope, just a mother, and you have a terrible poker face.”

He released a half scoff, half chuckle.

“I haven’t had much use for one. People usually see the benefit of giving me what I want.”

Marla sobered. “Is she one of those people? Someone to give you what you want without regard to the cost to herself?”

Leighton leaned back and looked at Marla thoughtfully.

“No, not exactly. I’d never really considered it, but when she told me she was quitting and we, er”—he reconsidered his words—“the nature of our relationship changed, I realized there was something more.”

“That you didn’t want to lose, couldn’t countenance her acting without your approval?” Marla pinned him with her gaze.

“Maybe at first, but I know it’s more than that. I have feelings for her, and I need her back in my life.”

“And you want me to help with that?”

He nodded.

“And why would I? I heard about your feelings, but, frankly, I don’t care about you. So how does helping you help Layla?”

“Because I think you know she has feelings for me, too. You also know that she’s a wonderful, or trying, depending on the circumstances, mix of patience and stubbornness, and if I don’t take the first step, she never might.”

Marla considered his words for a moment, and he could clearly see her internal struggle.

“You don’t have much of a poker face either,” he said and smiled.