On the Move (3 page)

She told herself not to think about it as she rode the subway into work the Monday after Brandon’s race, her oversize purse slung over one shoulder. The train from Brooklyn was, as usual, packed with wall-to-wall people.

After she got off the train, she walked to the offices of SSI which were located on Manhattan’s east side. The building where she worked loomed over her as she darted out of the way of a taxicab.

Maybe I should have stayed at home.

Scott didn’t need to see her to fire her, right? She could have stayed in bed, read a book, eaten a box of chocolates.

Go on, Vicky. No sense in delaying the inevitable.

She reluctantly entered the building and took the elevator to the twelfth floor. The double doors that led to the office’s hallowed halls displayed the company’s logo, the SSI letters jutting out like the
S
on a Superman T-shirt. She’d been impressed when she’d first spotted the massive front desk with its half-round front and marble top three months ago when she’d started the job. Behind a harried-looking receptionist was a wall with a door to the left of it. Behind the glass, executive assistants, office clerks and junior agents moved between shoulder-high cubicle walls. Senior agents sat in offices that were set around the perimeter wall, the glass fronts allowing the assistants to see their bosses, and sunlight to filter in from outside. Vicky headed to the far right corner and her own cubicle just outside of Scott’s spacious office.

Scott, her erstwhile boss, was busy tossing a basketball into a miniature hoop attached to a bookshelf across from his desk. He’d removed his silk jacket; Vicky could see it hanging off the back of his chair. His lips moved nonstop, the headset on his head glowing red, which told Vicky he was on the phone.

There was a yellow Post-it note on her desk.

See me.

She sank into her office chair.

Damn.

Her eyes skated around the beige-colored cubicle. Her gaze focused on the picture of her parents she’d pinned to the fabric-covered walls. She stared at the stern countenance of her mom and dad. Mom, with her stunning good looks, her collagen-enhanced lips trying to smile. Dad, with his perfectly coiffed gray head held high and solemn expression. The photo had been taken at a posh Manhattan restaurant, right after she’d told her mom and dad that she didn’t want to join VanCleef & VanCleef. She wanted to do something fun with her degree. Something different.

They hadn’t approved.

Her thoughts were interrupted by her phone beeping. Scott’s gravelly voice all but roared over the intercom. “Vicky, front and center.”

Two weeks ago Vicky would have complied tacitly. Today she snapped, “Aye aye, Captain,” without missing a beat. Maybe dealing with Brandon had taught her to be more aggressive. Or maybe, like any condemned prisoner, she recognized she had nothing to lose by talking back.

She slid her purse off her shoulder, straightened her suit, slipped off the tennis shoes she wore while commuting and slid on the heels she wore around the office.

“You wanted to see me?” she asked, entering Scott’s office.

“Sit down,” Scott said, his bright blue gaze eyeing her up and down, manicured hands drumming on his dark oak desk. He always scoped her out. At first Vicky had thought he was coming on to her, but she’d quickly learned he was merely giving her the once-over. Scott put great stock in appearances. When she’d come to work one day in casual pants and a cotton shirt, his ocular scan had been followed by a lip-curling grimace of distaste. She’d taken the hint.

“Brandon called me this weekend,” he said without preamble.

“Oh, yeah?” Vicky asked, her ribs vibrating beneath the assault of her heart.

Scott nodded, then leaned back in his chair. The thing creaked in protest. Vicky had a mental image of it tipping over backward, Scott’s loafers thrust skyward as he tumbled over into the credenza behind him.

“Good work.”

Huh?

Scott smiled now, his arms lifting as he hooked his hands behind his neck. “Hiding his bike. Genius. I laughed my ass off.”

Vicky blinked, thinking for an instant that she couldn’t have heard him correctly.

“Brandon gave me an earful,” he continued, the smile turning into a smirk. “The jerk wanted me to fire you.”

“But you’re not?” she asked in a weak voice.

“Hell, no,” he said, leaning forward so suddenly the wheels of his chair slapped the plastic carpet protector. “You got him to change his mind about racing.”

“I did?”

Scott didn’t say anything for a moment. “You mean, you didn’t know?”

She shook her head. “After throwing the key to the lock at him, I pretty much walked away.”

“You
locked
the bathroom
door?
” Scott asked, chuckling.

She nodded again. Vicky was still reeling with the realization that she’d somehow managed to get through to Brandon.

“No wonder he was so pissed off.” Scott picked up a pen off his desk, signing his name with a flourish at the bottom of a sheet of paper. “Here,” he said, sliding the page across his desk. “Take this to accounting.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“It’s a cash advance approval form. You’re going to need some money and a company credit card.”

“Uh, why?”

“For managing Brandon,” he said. That was the thing about Scott. He always assumed she could read his mind. It drove her nuts.

“And how, exactly, will I be managing Brandon?”

He glanced up at her, giving her a look that made her feel stupid. That was the other thing about Scott. He couldn’t be bothered to explain things.

“You’re going down to North Carolina,” he said, each word pronounced succinctly, as if Vicky were hard of hearing. “And keeping an eye on him.”

“North Carolina?”

He shook his head, looked toward the heavens as if seeking help from above. Vicky felt sorry for his girlfriend—the one whose picture sat on the credenza behind him. The woman must be a saint to put up with Scott.

“You’ll be staying in North Carolina for the next few weeks. You’ve gotten a promotion, Vicky. You’re a junior agent, and your first client, your
only
client, is Brandon Burke.”

“I should have told him to find his own way to the damn meeting,” he muttered.

And he would have, too, except something about Scott’s tone warned Brandon that his chauffeur services weren’t so much a request as they were a command performance. At least the digs were nice, Brandon thought, doing a slow sweep of the hotel lobby. He stood in an atrium, one that rose up at least twenty stories high. Fancy, wrought iron railings rimmed the interior. Each room had its own balcony, one that overlooked the center of the hotel. A waterfall tinkled in the distance. Plush trees and carefully placed potted palms shielded guests from other visitors’ views. It felt and smelled like a rain forest, the air thick with moisture and the scent of fresh earth.

“There you are.”

Maybe all that carbon monoxide had affected his brain because that sure sounded like…

“You ready? Let’s go. We’re late. Took me forever to get to the lobby.”

Brandon’s brain refused to reconcile what his eyes observed. Standing before him, looking as calm and cool as the lawyer Scott professed her to be, was Vicky VanCleef in a dark blue skirt suit, hair smoothly slicked back.

“What are
you
doing here?” Brandon asked.

“Surprise,” she said, the brown briefcase that she held brushing her knee-length skirt. “Scott sent me to handle this meeting.”

“Excuse me?”

She wore thick-rimmed glasses today, the kind that were supposed to make her look stylish and elegant. All they succeeded in doing was to make her look more like a bookworm.

“I’m supposed to accompany you to your meeting with Mr. Knight,” she responded.

“But…I thought Scott said he was firing you.”

She scooted closer to him. Hell, she even leaned in and peered up. “’Fraid not, Brandon,” she said, a smile spreading across her face, one that wasn’t the least bit amused. “Not for your lack of trying, however.”

Actually, he hadn’t mentioned firing her to Scott at all. It was his agent who’d suggested the idea after Brandon had called to complain about the bike-stealing debacle. Once Brandon had calmed down he’d realized Vicky might have a point, and in the end he’d decided not to race. He was still pissed that she’d dared to touch his bike, but he’d changed his mind about getting her canned.

“So you
haven’t
been fired?”

“Nope,” she said quickly. “In fact, I got a promotion.”

Why did he have a feeling he wasn’t going to like what was coming next?

“I’m your new agent. Well,” she quickly amended, “I’m technically a junior agent. Scott was so impressed with the way I handled you in South Carolina that he thought I should do it from here on out—you know, manage you as if you were my client.”

“No way.”

“Yes, Brandon.” She looked so damned smug about it, Brandon felt his cheek begin to twitch. What was it about her that always managed to do that to him?

“Scott’s my agent,” he snapped. “I signed with
him.
You can’t be my agent.”

“Oh, he’s still representing you. But after what happened in South Carolina he thinks you need a little extra—” she pursed her lips, tipped her head side to side “—push to behave, and so I’m it.”

Brandon reached for his cell phone.

“Don’t bother. He’ll just ignore you.”

“Then I’ll leave a message.”

“He’ll ignore those, too.”

“You’re not my agent.”

“Junior agent.”

“Whatever.”

“And I’m afraid you have no choice. It’s in your contract with SSI. Paragraph 22, section A. Agent can, if Agent so desires, appoint a Junior Agent to handle Client if the Agent deems it necessary.” She lifted a brow. “Or did you not read that, either?”

“I read it. Of course I read it. I read every page of my contract.” In a way. He’d just fallen asleep after the first page. “But just because I read it doesn’t mean I have to agree to it.”

She released a laugh that was damn near a snort. “Yes, Brandon, it does. You
signed
that contract, thereby agreeing to every word. But if you don’t like it, fire Scott.”

That robbed him of speech for a moment. “Excuse me?”

“Look,” she said, “I don’t want to work with
you
any more than you want to work with
me.
If you fire Scott, then you’d be doing me a favor. We wouldn’t have to work together and I wouldn’t be at fault so I could keep my job.”

She didn’t want to work with him?

“Then what was all that crap about never finding another agent?” Brandon asked.

“I lied,” she said. “In my briefcase I have a list of agencies who might be willing to work with you. I’ll give it to you if you want.”

“You’re a piece of work,” he said.

“I’m just trying to make it easy on us both.”

“No,” he said. “I’m not firing Scott. You’re stuck with me.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” he said, although damned if he knew why.

“Fine. Let’s go.”

He didn’t follow.

“Or not,” she said. “I can do this alone. I have a feeling whatever Mr. Knight has to say won’t be pleasant. But don’t worry, I can take it on the chin for you. That’s my job.”

“You’re not seriously going without me.”

“Yes, Brandon, I am.”

Had she really told Brandon to fire Scott?

She had. But to be honest, she was tired of it all. Scott was such a tyrant. And Brandon appeared to be no better. And now she was forced to do Scott’s dirty work. Rumor had it Mr. Knight had asked his lawyers to join him at this meeting with Brandon, probably because they, too, could see the handwriting on the wall. Brandon needed to be brought under control, and with Vicky’s boss being as slimy as he was, she wouldn’t doubt that Scott had known about the meeting before giving her Brandon as a client. More than likely Scott hadn’t wanted to deal with the matter and so he’d sent her in to take the rap.

“You trying to get a job with Knight Enterprises?” the cabdriver asked.

“Actually, no,” she said, glancing out at the landscape.

“You a reporter or something?”

Who was this guy? The FBI? “Actually, no,” she said, hoping that he’d get the message that she didn’t want to talk. She should probably take another look at Brandon’s contract with KEM. She’d pretty much memorized its various clauses on the way down to Charlotte, but it never hurt to take a second look.

“Not much of a KEM fan, myself,” the cabdriver said. George was his name, at least according to the Operator’s Permit that hung on the dashboard.

The snaps of Vicky’s brand-new briefcase flicked open too fast and caught her thumb. She gasped in pain, instantly sucking it into her mouth.

Ow, ow, ow.

“I think Todd Peters is a jerk,” George continued. “And that new guy they hired, Brandon Burke, he’s even worse.”

“I know,” Vicky murmured. Boy, did she ever know. She pulled out a legal-sized document, one that was at least twenty pages long.

“Don’t know what Mr. Knight was thinking hiring that jerk. I heard he mouthed off to some of the drivers last season.”

“Yeah?” she said, her eyes skimming the first page. Terms, indemnity and termination. Those were the clauses on the first page.

“Yeah,” the man said. “Apparently he called—”

Vicky’s seat belt slammed into her shoulder.

“What the hell?” her driver yelled, braking as if a herd of elephants blocked him. “What does that jerk think he’s doing?”

Vicky looked up, just in time to see a foreign-looking car swerve in front of the cab to the shoulder of the road. The cabdriver did the same out of self-defense. Both vehicles ended up sliding onto the gravel easement.

“Was he trying to avoid hitting something?” Vicky asked, turning to peer behind them.

“No—”

Vicky heard the man gasp.

“I don’t believe it,” George said.

“I know,” Vicky said, facing forward again. “The way people drive always amazes me, too. But this is nothing. You should see New York.”

George didn’t reply. Vicky wondered if he was having heart problems or something—shock could do that to a person. She glanced out the front window, and the reason for George’s speechlessness became immediately apparent.

Brandon Burke walked toward the cab.

“Oh, crap,” she muttered. “What the heck does
he
want?”

“You know him?” George asked.

“Unfortunately, yes,” she said, watching as Brandon crossed to her side of the car.

He opened the door. “I need to talk to you,” Brandon said.

“So you
ran
my
cab
off the side of the road?”

“I wanted to talk to you right away.”

“And you couldn’t call my cell phone?”

“I don’t have it.”

Oh. That’s right.

“You could have waited until we arrived at KEM.”

His shoulders slumped. It was strange, because Vicky could see the fight just drain right out of him.

“I’m sorry.” He said the words quickly. It was as if he had to get them out fast before he lost the ability to say them. “I should have just waited until we arrived at KEM. I’ll just meet you there…”

He turned away and Vicky found herself calling, “No wait,” before she could think better of it. He looked so much like a remorseful schoolboy that she couldn’t resist asking, “What did you want to talk to me about?”

He didn’t answer right away. She waited. Out on the road a car whizzed by. She watched as the wind from its passing caused a lock of his hair to fall over one eye. He flicked it away impatiently.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I have this horrible temper. I need to learn to control it better. It’s not your fault Scott switched things up. I shouldn’t have snapped like that.”

Vicky glanced at the cabdriver. The guy’s eyes were glued to his rearview mirror, as if he were watching daytime TV.

“Hang on,” she said, slipping out of the car. They’d stopped near a wooded area, Vicky’s heels sinking into gravel and the wet earth as she moved a safe distance away from the side of the road. Brandon followed. When she turned back to him, she crossed her arms in front of her.

“I think you’re right,” she said. “I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

“We did,” he said with a nod. “I’m not the easiest person to work with. I know that. It’s just that Scott switching things up without even calling me really made me mad. I’m sorry I took it out on you.”

Vicky released a breath that was pure relief. “Well, if it’s any consolation, Scott’s pretty good at stepping on toes.”

“I can see that.”

She looked away. To be honest, she had to shift her gaze to somewhere else because Brandon with kindness in his eyes was a Brandon that made her legs turn into spaghetti noodles. “Apology accepted.”

His gaze settled on the cab. “You sure you don’t want to ride with me to KEM?” he asked. “No sense in wasting a cab fare.”

She didn’t want to ride with him. That meant sharing a car. Being close to him. Having a
conversation
with him.

“That’s okay,” she said quickly.

“You sure?” he asked. “Seems kind of silly to take two cars when mine’s right there.”

She glanced at his car. It was bright red, low-slung and it looked more as if it belonged on the Autobahn than city streets. White racing stripes intersected its middle—like a giant, white equal sign. Probably an expensive import of some sort.

She jerked upright.

“Hey,” she said. “You’re not supposed to be driving foreign cars.”

“Relax,” he said. “It’s a GT made by my sponsored manufacturer. I’m legal.”

“Oh,” she said, and for some reason, she had a hard time meeting his gaze.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll give you a ride.”

“No, no. That’s okay.”

“I insist,” he said, his big hand cupping her back.

Vicky just about jerked away. She looked up at him in shock, but only for a moment because she couldn’t look him in the eye…again.

Curse it all, she thought, she couldn’t
possibly
find him attractive still? No
way.

But she did.

It didn’t matter that five minutes ago she’d been muttering expletives that included his name. It didn’t matter that he’d tried to get her fired. A rush of purely irrational and completely unexpected lust caused her body to tingle in places it had
no
business tingling, heat that radiated out from the very spot where his palm rested against the small of her back.

Which just went to show how completely illogical the human brain could be where sexual attraction was concerned.

“Come on,” he said. “We’ll go tell the cabdriver his services aren’t needed anymore.”

She didn’t want to tell the cabdriver anything. She wanted to get in the yellow car and take off. The sooner the better.

But she knew if she kept on protesting, it would seem odd. Just as she knew there was a part of her—a tiny part—that wanted to be alone with Brandon. Even if it was for the fifteen-minute drive to KEM’s headquarters.

“We won’t be needing your services anymore,” Brandon said to the driver, taking his hand away from the small of Vicky’s back so he could reach for his wallet. “Here, let me get you some money.”

“Actually, that’s really not necessary, Mr. Burke,” the cabbie said. “Really. We’ve only gone a few miles.”

“Yeah, but you would have gone a whole lot farther if I haven’t stopped you. Here,” he repeated, handing George a twenty-dollar bill. “I insist.”

“Thanks, Mr. Burke.”

Brandon had just found himself a new fan, Vicky thought, using her briefcase as a shield in front of her. The cabdriver even went so far as to call out, “Good luck at the race this weekend.”

Unbelievable.

He placed his hand in the small of her back again. Vicky just about closed her eyes.

You have the hots for him.

“Come on,” he said, and when Vicky looked up at his smiling face, Vicky knew it was true. She very
definitely
had the hots for him. “You’re going to love my car.”

He opened the passenger-side door, the smell of new car filling the air, and then he touched her again, helping her into the car with a guiding hand.

Oh, lord.

She noticed then that he had creases that branched out from the edges of his eyes. And that he had rock-star hair—the strands swept back from his head and left long and curly around the nape of his neck. And that he had a way of looking at her that made her feel exposed and vulnerable.

And that, miraculously, she’d started to like him.