Crossing Hathaway (4 page)

“But … he was expecting Cameron. He said so, right in his texts.”

“Uh, yeah, FYI. Nothing in this company slips by Mr. Hathaway. He knows everyone, where they live, who their parents are, when they’re taking vacation. For all I know, he has our bathroom schedules marked on a calendar somewhere. If he said something like that, then he’s messing with you.” He giggled, a silly peal of a sound like Sunday morning church bells. “I’m just happy it isn’t me for once.”

“Fantastic.” I took a deep breath and rolled my shoulders, pulled open the door, and stepped inside.

I expected another grilling from Mr. Asshat, but instead, I found the far door leading into his office already open. My shoulders slumped. Was I supposed to go in? Did he have his office booby-trapped and I’d end up falling into a pit full of spikes? Or lions? Or worse, him? I eyed the door behind me, even tried to push on it, but it wouldn’t budge.

I would not be afraid of him. He was just another man who thought he was all that and a lollypop.

Chin up, Eva.
My mom’s usual encouragement flitted through my thoughts.

After a cleansing breath, I entered his office, gripping the bag of cookies and holding the coffee away from my body. I didn’t want it to slosh and spill on his carpet or something equally fatal.

The projector in the ceiling cast a giant document onto the wall, something legal, judging by the bit of jargon at the top. Unsure if it was top secret-type stuff, I didn’t dare look at it too closely and end up with a mental photograph of it.

“Mr. Hathaway?” My voice echoed in the dim room. Eerie shadows danced along the walls as clouds drifted across the sun beyond the blinds. My pulse took up at a run.

What now? Should I just leave the coffee and bolt?

The door slammed shut right behind me. I jumped and whirled around.

“What are you doing here?” a deep voice demanded.

I squealed. My fingers clamped around the coffee so hard the lid popped off, spilling the scalding liquid over my hand and all over Mr. Hathaway’s crisp, white shirt.

“Oh, fuckballs!”

I managed to rush to the computer desk and set the cup down before any more spilled, clutched my hand to my chest and groaned through the agony.

“You clumsy fool!” Mr. Hathaway growled. “Look at the carpet! And this is a brand-new shirt.”

I scowled, still cradling my hand. “What did you think was going to happen, Mr. Genius, sneaking up on me? And screw your carpet, I burned my hand.” When I realized what I’d said, my heart lodged in my throat, and I could barely swallow around it. Who the hell did he think he was, treating me that way? Somehow I swallowed my anger down like a black hurricane into my guts. Although apologizing went against every instinct in my body, I didn’t want Cameron to suffer because of me. “I’m sorry I yelled, but you scared the bejesus out of me.”

Hathaway kept me pinned under his glare as he unbuttoned his shirt.

“What are you doing?” I averted my eyes and started for the door.

“Where are you going?”

To pack up my stuff? To collect my pink slip from HR?
Hell, anywhere but there would be just fine by me. I stopped but kept my focus on the door. “Uh … back to my office?”

His sigh came out heavy with frustration. “Let me see it.”

My brows crowded my eyes as I angled myself toward him, gaze cast to the stain on his once-pristine carpet. “See what?”

“Your burn.” Annoyance raised his tone. “Let me see your burn.”

“Why?”

“So I don’t end up with a worker’s comp form on my desk this afternoon.” When I hesitated, his voice fell into a lower octave. “Come here, Ms. Ross.”

It took a moment for my spinning mind to realize he’d called me by the correct name.
Is he sick?
I walked toward him with tentative steps, inspecting his polished black shoes as I went.

“Give me your hand.” His voice held the unmistakable ring of a command.

With a galloping pulse, I extended my burned hand toward him, half expecting him to break it or rip it off in a fit of rage. He yanked me closer, and I almost stumbled into him, the heat of his large hand radiating up my arm. His cologne swirled around me, a delicious, spicy aroma that begged me to inhale his essence. I couldn’t stop my gaze from traveling upward. His bare chest caught my attention through his open shirt. Wow, nice. He must have waxed it recently, because it was completely hairless, smooth and oh, so toned.

Warmth crawled up my flesh as I surveyed the hills and valleys of his six-pack, moved upward over the smooth swell above. The fingers of my undamaged hand tingled, wanted to reach out and touch to see if the wall of muscle felt as amazing as it looked. My gaze traveled up farther. His dark hair curled a little, some falling across his brow, other pieces flipping out beneath his ears. Intense green eyes inspected my hand, and for a moment, I couldn’t remember why he’d asked to see it. Everything below my bellybutton tightened. My mind went blank, frozen by the beautiful face I found before me.

Our gazes locked for a moment while I was in midgape, my chin halfway to the floor.

I yanked my hand back and looked down, chest heaving. “I’m fine,” I said. “I’ll … uh … I’ll just go now.”

And find a very deep hole to crawl into for the rest of my life.

I’d assumed he didn’t want anyone staring at him because of a deformity, or because he’d fallen face first out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. I didn’t expect him to be a big slab of beefcake with a face right out of a Calvin Klein ad with cut cheeks and symmetry I could stare at for hours. Men had never affected me that way, and certainly not pompous asses like him. Maybe I hadn’t really woken up yet and I was at home sleeping in my bed. Yeah, I wished.

He stood like a statue for a long time, so long I squirmed and started for the door again before he could go off on me for looking at him.

“When will Cameron return?” Mr. Hathaway asked from behind me.

Like he didn’t already know. I swallowed and licked my dry lips. “He called me at home last night. He said he’d be back on Wednesday.”

Mr. Hathaway made a sound that could have been a curse by the sharp edges on the word. “I can’t wait that long.”

I’d have given up my left arm to escape Mr. Hathaway’s office at that moment, but my pride wouldn’t allow it. Cameron sent me there to do a job, and dammit, I’d get it done. “I can do anything Cameron can.”

Hathaway uttered a bitter laugh. “Don’t be absurd.”

“Excuse me?” I tried to glare at him, but had to avert my eyes when they did their best to devour his magnificence again. I considered telling him to put a shirt on, but I didn't want to risk him asking me why.
Your yummy landscape is making me hot, Mr. Hathaway. Would you mind getting dressed?
Yeah, that’d go over well. “Is this a gender thing? Because I’m a woman, you assume I’m an idiot?”

He leaned back against the computer desk and folded his arms over his thick chest. “What’s your IQ?”

My—what the blue blazes did that have to do with anything?

“I don’t know, high enough to do my job. I mean, it’s not as if you’re doing rocket science in here.” I threw up my hands and commenced fidgeting with the bottom of my shirt.

“Curb the attitude, Ms. Ross. It’s enough you’ve robbed me of my coffee, ruined my shirt and my carpet. I won’t tolerate insubordination on top of it.”

I grimaced at the floor, clenched and unclenched the fingers of my unscalded hand. With tremendous effort, I talked myself out of screaming at him and forced my voice into a calm, even tone. “I’m sorry about your shirt and the carpet. Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Hathaway, or do you want me to leave?”

I risked a glance at him.

He stroked his fingers along the smoothly shaven edge of his jaw, his striking eyes lost in thought. “You say you can do the work. Prove it. Submit to testing and I’ll consider allowing you on my private network.”

My mouth dropped open and I snapped it shut before he caught me. Seriously? He wanted me to interview for a job I’d been doing for a freakin’ year? I was pretty sure the test had already begun. If I said no, I’d be lazy and a coward, confirming his theory of my uselessness. If I said yes and failed the test, same result. I had to prove myself once and for all, or my career hopes at Hathaway Pharmaceuticals might very well be over.

I nodded. “Okay, fine, you’re on. What kind of test?”

Mr. Hathaway sat at the desk beneath the projector and opened an Internet browser. “Turn around, Ms. Ross. Your test will begin momentarily.”

“Uh … why do I need to turn around?” And why did I keep uh-ing and ah-ing around him like a teenaged groupie?

Is he going to clock me over the head with the keyboard and plaster me into the wall?

“Do it, or fail.”

In a huff, I turned and stared at the glowing exit sign above the door, fantasizing about the moment I could walk out of his office and never come back. My burned hand continued to throb, though not as badly as before. I had a fleeting thought that he could at least have kissed it better before I smacked myself in the forehead.

His fingers clacked against the keys faster than I imagined he’d be capable of. “Study the photo carefully. You have five seconds, after which I’ll question you about what you saw.”

I smiled, shoulders slumping with relief. I didn’t have the heart to tell him about my photographic memory. I discovered the ability when Dad decided to humiliate me at Trivial Pursuit when I was seven. For weeks afterward, I’d studied the question cards and every bit of trivia I could find in books. I’d destroyed him in the very next game. We never played again.

If Hathaway intended to battle me every step of the way, I’d play along. He’d lose. I’d gloat. “What does this have to do with IT, Mr. Hathaway?” I resisted the urge to whirl around long enough to see the expression on his face.

He grunted, a clearly unhappy sound. “Must you question everything? I need an employee who considers detail as I do. Prove to me you’re observant, and you may work for me in Cameron’s place.”

I rolled my eyes. “Fine.”
Bring it.

“Begin.”

I turned to face the giant photo on the wall: A woman stood on a busy street, peering into a store window. Two beagle pups, a black lab, and an English bulldog stared back at her with grinning expressions and lolling tongues. My eyes absorbed even the smallest detail, from the crystal blue color of the sky, the cracks in the pavement, the names on the buildings, and even the clothing each person wore.

The picture disappeared.

Mr. Hathaway stood from the desk and paced in the dim light. “Are you ready?”

I pressed my lips together. I’d do my victory dance later. Saluting, I said, “Yes, sir.”

“How many years separated the two Los Angeles Olympics?”

My stomach tied itself into a knot. “What? That’s not in the picture!”

“I need to know you can retain what you saw while processing other information. Answer the question.”

Huh. Wasn’t I lucky Dad was a jerk? Provided Mr. Hathaway asked me questions I’d seen before, I could pull it off. If he didn’t, I was so screwed. I closed my eyes and drew up the image of the Internet site I’d read that one from. I could see the words in my head as if I had the page in front of me. “Fifty-two.” Grinning, I stared at him.

Mr. Hathaway stopped and glowered at me.

I inspected my fingernails.
Told you I’m not an idiot.
“That’s right, isn’t it? Fifty-two years?”

“In which European city is the Calouste Gulbenkian Museum?”

A grin twitched on my lips. I knew that one without trying. “Lisbon.”

His voice grew taut, a wire about to snap. “Which architect designed the Woolworth Building in New York city?”

I paused for effect, catching another glimpse of the naked strip of flesh visible through his open shirt before I forced my gaze up to his shadow-filled eyes. “Gilbert Cass.”

He wiped a hand down his face, though the action did nothing to wipe away the scowl that rearranged his features into something as close to ugly as an Adonis like him could get.

The questions came in a steady stream until almost eleven, at which time my gut grouched about my having ignored snack time. I ended up cross-legged on the floor, lounging back against my elbows while he continued to pace the whole time, cursing to himself. My luck held. He must have looked up the trivia online, because I’d seen all of the questions before on one website or another.

“Are you going to ask me about the picture now, Mr. Hathaway?” I asked out of sheer pique.

He bent over the desk and propped himself up on his arms, head hanging forward as if exhaustion had smashed into him. “What was written on the English Bulldog’s tag?”

Without so much as a second’s hesitation, I said, “Daisy. Anything else?”

He slammed his hand on the desk and whirled around. I scrambled to my feet, choking on my pulse.

“Where did you train?” An accusing finger jabbed in my direction.

“Train? You mean, like high school?”

“No, Ms. Ross. College. Where did you go to college?”

“I-I didn’t. After high school I studied on my own and wrote the exams to get all of my Microsoft certifications.”

“Ridiculous.” His fingers traveled through his curls with disgust as if he’d found them in disarray. “You’re uneducated. You must have cheated.”

I narrowed my eyes at him, tried to kill him with my glare—pity that it didn’t work—and pressed my curled fists against my hips. “Excuse me? I’m not uneducated, thank you very much, Mr. Hoity Toity, and I didn’t cheat. How could I have? You watched me the whole time. You asked and I answered, fair and square.”

“Tell me how you knew the answers. Nobody knows all the answers.” He straightened and tipped his face up to look at the ceiling.

My cheeks burned, and a growl rumbled low in my throat. “So you set me up to fail. Why? Do you really believe I’m worthless because I happen to have tits? God, what’s the matter with you?” I glared at the floor, my mind off on its own little rampage.
How dare he?
I was so sick of the good ole boys club. It wasn’t my fault I wasn’t born with a dick. Christ.