Sleeping With My Boss: A Standalone Novel (An Alpha Billionaire Romance Love Story) (A Dirty Office Romance) (59 page)

"Miss Frost,
I'm sure by now you already understand the nature of our work at TriCorp,"
he said without looking up. "I'm entrusting you with my notes and I expect
that you will keep everything you read and see completely confidential."

"Yes,
sir," I replied as I waited to see if he would speak again.

"Very well,
as long as we are clear on that," he said looking up at me. "I will
be entrusting many things to you, and I would hate for my trust to have been
misplaced."

"No,
sir," I said shaking my head. "I understand completely."

He nodded at the
desk as he returned to his papers and I silently exited the room. Looking back,
I realized this was the defining moment in my relationship with my boss. He'd
extended trust that I had not yet earned, and I'd spent every hour on the job
making sure that he'd not been wrong in his assessment of me. He wasn't warm or
even particularly friendly, and we never had any heart-to-heart talks about who
we were or where we'd come from. He never asked me where I went during the
holidays I took, and I never asked about his family or whether he'd been in the
military, though I was often sorely tempted.

However,
underneath the lack of overt personal information, I came to understand that my
boss was someone who had an enormous capacity for doing the right thing. His
meetings with various heads of state or major corporations were usually focused
on solving some type of problem for those in need, but he never accepted an
invitation to do an interview with anyone who would put his story out into the
public realm. If it focused on the people doing the work, he'd pawn it off, but
if the reporter wanted to talk about Alan Powell, he simply said no.

During the years I
worked for him, I'd learned most of his idiosyncrasies and knew exactly when to
push and when to back off. I knew how to protect his flank and how to win the
war rather than the battle. I was his right-hand woman, and I'd proven time and
time again that when he'd chosen to trust me, he'd made a wise decision. And
although our relationship had been strictly work-based, never veering into the
personal, I knew that he cared about my well-being when he raised my salary to
a level that covered both my rent and tuition without saying a word. When I
graduated with honors from the NYU computer science program, he was there on
the dais as a gust of the university's President, and he shook my hand as I
walked across the stage.

Alan Powell was a
close to a father as I'd ever had, and now he was dead. I rested my cheek
against the cold tile wall as I tried in vain to choke back the sobs that
threatened to pull me under. I couldn't break, not even now. I pulled my knees
up to my chest and wrapped my arms around them as I fought to contain the
emotions welling up inside me. I heard the bathroom door open and I swallowed
hard to try and maintain silence.

"It's okay,
Echo," Ruth said quietly speaking through the stall door.
 
"I've put the janitor's cleaning sign in
front of the door. No one will bother you. It's okay."

"Tha...Tha...Thank
you," I choked out before I slapped my hand over my mouth.

"If you need
me, you know where I am," Ruth said as she softly pulled the door shut
behind her.

It took me another
hour to pull myself back from the brink of emotional chaos, and when I did, I
found that Ruth had left a small care package for me on my desk. It contained
tissues, makeup remover wipes, a roll of Lifesavers, and a small bottle of
vodka with a note taped to it that read, "For home." A small crooked
smile spread across my lips as I tidied up the office and gathered my things.

I stood at the
door and looked around the office knowing that today was the day when
everything had completely changed, and yet again, I wondered what the changes
would bring.

CHAPTER
THREE

Ryan

Two
days later I was ordered to report to the office of Commander Harold Marks. I
assumed that he wanted to hear the details regarding the mission and find out
why it had resulted in the deaths of five of our men. I wasn't sure I had the
answers he wanted to hear, but in the days after the mission I'd spent a lot of
time going over what had happened in my mind as I tried to decide whether
Opie's death was my fault. In my estimation, I'd been responsible for him and
his death was the result of my inability to do my job properly. I was here to
take responsibility for my failure.

I had arrived on
schedule and been told to wait in the outer office while the Commander wrapped
up a phone call that had taken longer than expected. I sat down in one of the
vinyl-coated chairs and focused on trying to keep from sweating through my
uniform. The air temperature had soared into the high nineties and there was no
breeze, so the fans that had been placed in strategic locations around the room
were doing little more than moving hot air between them. It was brutal, but as
a SEAL I was used to far worse conditions.

I thought back to
the rescue mission and tried to focus on how to explain what had happened to
Opie. It had been a rookie mistake on his part, but since my job had been to
protect him, I would be held accountable for failing to do so. It didn't seem
fair to have to suffer any more than I already had, but I understood the need
to hold people accountable for their actions and as a result, I was ready to
accept the punishment for failing to keep my charge safe. That was one thing I
appreciated about the military, there were always consequences for one's
actions.

I breathed deeply
as I focused my attention on the Commander's door and waited to be called in.
Fifteen minutes later the door opened and I was waved into the office by the
Commander's assistant. I marched in and stood at attention in front of
Commander Marks' desk waiting.

"At ease,
Lieutenant," he said without looking up from the papers that were spread
across his desk. I relaxed my stance and continued to wait. Finally, he looked
up and said, "Why don't you have a seat, son."

As I took a seat
in the chair across from his desk, the Commander removed his glasses and rubbed
his eyes. Replacing them, he looked at me and asked, "Son, do you know why
I called you here?"

"Yes,
sir," I replied. "I'm here to report on the rescue mission we
undertook, sir. And I'm here to receive the punishment for failing to
successfully carry out the mission, sir."

"Is that what
you think, Lieutenant?" he asked. He seemed surprised by my answer to his
question.

"Yes,
sir," I said. "I was in charge of the mission and I failed to bring
everyone home alive. There will be consequences for my actions."

"Lieutenant
Powell, how long have you been in the Navy?" the Commander asked.

"Twelve
years, sir," I replied uncertain where this line of questioning was
heading. Suddenly it occurred to me that perhaps the punishment would be a
dishonorable discharge, and I felt a twisting sense of dread wash over me.

"And how many
of those years have you been a Navy SEAL, Lieutenant?" he asked.

"Seven,
sir," I replied before swallowing hard and waiting for his next question.

"And in all
this time have you ever seen someone disciplined for leading his men into a
fight in which he was asked to do the impossible?" he asked.

"I'm sorry,
sir?" I replied bewildered by the direction this conversation was taking.

"Don't be a
jackass, Lieutenant," the Commander said. "I'm not going to punish
you for doing your best to carry out a mission that had, at best, a ten percent
chance of succeeding."

"Then why am
I here, sir?" I asked.

"I've got the
unpleasant task of delivering bad news, Lieutenant," he said as he stood
up and walked around the desk and sat down in the chair next to mine. My heart
sank as I wondered how bad news had to be for a Commander to deliver it this
way. "Son, I'm sorry to tell you that your father passed away two days
ago."

"Wait,
what?" I said confused. "I'm not being discharged?"

"No, why the
hell would you be discharged, Powell?" he said as he looked at me.
"Is there something you haven't told me about the mission?"

"No,
sir!" I replied. "I was just..."

"Lieutenant,
do you understand that I am telling you that your father died?" the
Commander asked.

"Yes,
sir," I nodded. "I understand. How?"

"What?"

"How did he
die?" I asked.

"They told me
it was a heart attack," the Commander said. "He died in his private
car on his way to work."

"I see,"
I said.

"Lieutenant,
are you all right?" he asked looking very concerned.

"I'm fine,
sir," I nodded.

 
"Then you also understand that you will
be shipped stateside in the morning, don't you?" he asked.
"Representatives of your father's estate have asked that you be sent back,
and I'm sure you'll want to plan a funeral and see your family."

"No,
sir," I said. "I have no family except for my father, and he wouldn't
have wanted his death made into a public event. I'll go back and deal with his
business and then return to the team, sir."

"Lieutenant,
are you okay?" Commander Marks asked in a concerned tone. I could see the
look of worry on his face and knew it wasn't only because I was reacting so
calmly to being told that my only living relative was now dead, but also because
I didn't seem to be too terribly broken up about it.

"I'm fine,
sir," I assured him. I thought about explaining, but then thought better
of it. There were some things that were better left unsaid. "Thank you,
sir."

"Son, is
there anything you need? Is there any way I can help?" he asked in a
quieter voice. He looked weary; his face deeply etched with lines caused by
bearing the weight of responsibility for the men under his command. We all
carried such a weight, and while I appreciated his care and concern, there was
nothing he, or anyone else, could do to help me now. I was going to have to
return to the states and deal with this entirely on my own.

"No,
sir," I shook my head. "My father and I had a...difficult
relationship, but I'll go back and make sure his last wishes are carried out
and that his business is taken care of before I return to the team, sir."

"Take all the
time you need, Powell. I'm not going to expect you back for sometime," he
said as he clapped my shoulder. "And if you find yourself in need of
anything, anything at all, don't hesitate to contact me and ask. Do you
understand?"

"Yes,
sir," I nodded. "I understand, sir."

"And
Lieutenant Powell?"

"Sir?"

"Lieutenant
Morgan's death was not your fault," he said quietly. "I shouldn't
have approved him to join the team, but every day I have to make close calls on
things I'd rather not have to and this one was a mistake. He was too green. His
death is on my shoulders."

"Yes,
sir," I said knowing better than to counter his admission.

"You are
dismissed, Lieutenant," he said.

"Hoo-yah,
sir," I said standing and saluting him before making a sharp turn and
marching out of the office.

#

Twenty
-four
hours later, as my plane touched down at JFK International, I thought about how
I hadn't been entirely honest with Commander Marks. My father's second wife,
the woman he'd chosen to replace my mother, lived in the apartment my father
had bought after my mother had died. I steeled myself as I hailed a cab and
told the driver to take me to 820 Park Avenue.

At the curb, I
pulled my duffle bag over my shoulder and looked up at the monstrosity of a
building. I'd always hated this place, but my father had loved it because he
loved Eva and he'd wanted to prove himself worthy of her. I had always believed
that she was after his money, but my father had insisted that it was a true
love match.
 

Eva Grant had blow
into his life at a charity function thrown by Claire Baines, Julian's
wife.
 
At this point, my father had been
a widower for more than ten years and after I joined the Navy and left home, he
got lonely. I didn't blame him for wanting company, but Eva was a bad choice
—or at least that's what I always thought. He waited two years to propose, but
when he did, it was a big deal and he agreed to a huge wedding since it was
Eva's first (not counting the elopement with a Russian prince, when she was
eighteen, that had lasted all of three months before she realized he'd lied and
that he was only after her money).

She was in her
late thirties when they met, two decades younger than my father, and she came
from a line of rich socialites who did little except lunch with each other and
spend the rest of their time trying to bring their body fat as close to zero as
possible. She was an exquisite beauty, without doubt, but her beauty was cold
and brittle; the kind one looked at but did not ever touch. I couldn't
understand what my father saw in her since she was nothing like my mother, but
then maybe that was the point.

At first she tried
to be nice to me and win me over, but I thought she was frivolous and silly,
and I didn't do a very good job of hiding my resentment.
 
The relationship soon plateaued in a grudging
tolerance on both sides. A large part of the problem was that my father didn't
see any need to try and help bridge the gap. He was a retired Marine who was
good at strategic planning, but not so good at the human side of the plans.

My mother had been
the one who had bridged the gap between my father and I making sure that we
never drifted too far outside each other's orbits. She would pull us back
toward one another by teasing my father into taking us for a drive or on a
picnic. He adored her and did everything she asked.

I was their only
child. A son to follow in my father's footsteps, but he was never terribly
interested in me or my activities. My mother told me it was because he was a
man with a lot on his mind, but I knew better. It was because he saw me as
weak. I didn't play sports as well as he did nor did I develop a large circle
of friends, preferring instead to immerse myself in a book or spend hours
walking the streets of New York City observing the people and making up stories
about who they were and where they were coming from or headed to. My mother
loved my stories and she'd often seek me out after dinner to have me recount
the observations I'd made during the day. It got to be a ritual for the two of
us; so much so that I began to carry a notebook in my pocket and outline the
story I'd tell her as the day passed.

My father was not
interested in my stories. He was a man of numbers and results, and my tales of
the city did not contain either of those. The dinner table was the place where
I'd report exam scores, paper grades and be drilled on spelling words or
mathematical formulas for the next day's tests. I endured it only because I
knew that once I'd passed my father's grilling, I'd be able to curl up on the
couch next to my mother and weave colorful stories about the places I'd visited
and the people I'd seen. It was my reward for performing well.

When I was nine,
my mother had been taken to the hospital after she'd fainted on the bathroom
floor and cut her head open. I remember the blood that pooled under the edge of
the cabinet where she'd fallen. And I remembered mopping it up with a paper
towel wondering if my mother was still alive. I'd asked my father when he
returned from the hospital, and he'd given me a funny look before assuring me
that my mother was fine and that she'd be home in the morning.

"I don't know
where you get all of your wild ideas," he said shaking his head. "But
you need to learn to keep those thoughts to yourself, Ryan. Decent people don't
want to hear your crazy theories or made-up stories."

"Yes,
sir," I said looking down at the carpet.

"Chin up,
son," he ordered. "No man in this house lowers his eyes to the floor.
Chin up, back straight and eyes straight ahead."

"Yes,
sir!" I said as I adopted an at-attention pose the best I could. I waited
until he left the room before I went to my bedroom, crawled into the back
corner of my closet and pulled the door shut behind me. There I let my
frightened tears flow and thought about how much I wanted my mother to come
home.
 

Two days later, my
father took me to see her in the hospital. She looked small and very pale
laying in the hospital bed, but she flashed me a brilliant smile as I ran
across the room and threw my arms around her.

"Careful,
honey," she winced as she loosened my hold on around her waist. I pulled
back and looked up at her.