Who's on Top? (6 page)

Disappointed? Yes. She had definitely seen a puzzling disappointment. In
her
. In the world at large. As if some ideal of Dominic's had been tarnished.

But the concept of an idealistic Dominic didn't fit with her image of a cutthroat man on the make furious that a woman had gotten in the way of his ambition.

For surely a man with ideals that could be disappointed was a man who was vulnerable. And Sayers didn't seem vulnerable in any way, shape or form.

Something else was niggling at her. Whereas she should be ecstatic about the possibility of a fat corporate contract with Zantyne, backed by Arianna, she felt uncomfortable with the idea instead.

Arianna had been so smooth. So…smug, almost. So sure of Jane's reaction to the offer and her instinctive response of gratitude. Arianna was playing her. She felt like an unwary insect that had just landed on the tongue of a Venus flytrap.

But that was ridiculous. She'd seen male hostility in this type of situation before. It was nothing new. And she'd seen her own brother blame countless bosses for his problems at work. Nobody liked to take responsibility for their part in a difficult relationship.
Human nature is firmly planted in self-interest and often blind to personal failings.

Shannon strolled to Jane's office door and stuck her head in. “Hiya. So how'd it go the other day?”

Jane realized that she was now tapping on her nose with the pen. She tossed it down. Hadn't she learned? “Hey, Shan. It went okay. Actually you could say it went really well.” So why couldn't
she
say that? “I talked with that female VP, the DuBose woman, and she'd like to see a presentation from us on some employee development training seminars. For the entire company—and it's big. International.”

“Fabulous! I smell actual salaries in the air if we get a contract like that.” Shannon threw her arms into the air and spun around on one foot.

“You know,” Jane told her, “if I did that, I'd look like a possessed flamingo. But you make it look hip.”

“That's 'cause I am so hip, it hurts.” Shannon shimmied her pelvis while managing to snake her bust around, too.

“What are you, part python?”

Shannon stopped and peered at her. “What the
hell
is that on your face, sweet cheeks? You got varicose veins on your nose?”

Jane ducked her head and muttered, “Go away.”

Shannon plucked the pen from Jane's blotter and examined the color. “Honey, you want to draw on your face, think Aveda, Trish McEvoy, even Cover Girl! Not Bic. And blue is definitely not your color.”

“I thought it was kinda retro chic,” Jane joked.

“No. No, no, no, and I repeat, no. Not on you.”

“We cannot all be goddesses of style, okay?”

Shannon sidled one of her perfect buns onto Jane's desk and leaned her weight on it. “There's nothing wrong with your style, Jane. I'm just teasing you—and, of course, suggesting that you use pencils for a while, until you break this nervous habit of scribbling on your face.”

“I've got a lot of habits I need to break,” muttered Jane. “But I'm better at helping other people break theirs.”

“Oh, I hear you. Now what's bothering you? Your appearance, the fact that Sayers is hot or the horrible news that we might make tons of money off Zantyne?”

“What's bothering me,” said Jane slowly, “is my instincts. This Sayers guy is difficult, no doubt. But he's sort of an honest difficult, if you know what I mean.”

“Okaaaay.” Shannon pursed her lips.

“And there's something a little off about the VP—the one hinting about all the business she can give us. I don't like it…and I'm not sure I like her.”

“But you don't seem to like him, either.”

Jane hesitated. “True.”

“And it's not a requirement that we like all the clients we work with. It's a little unrealistic to expect to adore every person we deal with professionally.”

“Yeah, I know. You're right.”

“So just do the job, fill out the evaluation on him. After all, you're not being asked to evaluate
her
. She's beside the point.”

“Not totally. Since she's sort of offering a bribe if she gets the results she wants from me.”

Shannon scooted off the desk and walked to the window, folding her arms across her chest. “Janey, I hate to say it, but that's the way the world works. You scratch her back, she'll scratch yours.” She let out a hard, cynical laugh. “That's the way the entire city of L.A. operates.”

Jane frowned. “God, you're so jaded.”

Shannon spun on her heel and stared her down. “I have reason to be, and you know it.”

“Well, first, this is not L.A., it's New England, hub of plainspoken Yankees. Second, I refuse to compromise my integrity—”

“Whoa, Jane. Step carefully, okay?”

Jane looked down at her hands, picked at her short, practical nails. “Shan, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way. And we both know that you didn't sleep with that director just to get the role. You were in love with the guy.”

“Was I? Or did I just convince myself of that because it was convenient? I'm not sure any longer, Jane. That's how bad L.A. can screw you up. That's why I left. I didn't even know who I was anymore.”

Shannon hunched her shoulders and blew out a breath while Jane observed her in silence. Shan had returned from California after six years of trying to make it as an actress. She'd come back a different woman, sad and burned out.

Jane stood up and hugged Shannon, refused to let go even when she stood there, rigid, not hugging back. It was classic body language: Shan didn't feel
she deserved the hug, didn't feel worthy of it, couldn't accept it.

“Listen to me, you stubborn wench,” Jane said. “I don't believe that for a second. And if you'll stop flogging yourself for one moment, you won't believe it, either. Even if you were tempted, you had the moxie to walk away from the role once you found out about him. So stop tormenting yourself and pretending that you have no heart. I know better.”

“Huh.” But Shannon actually leaned into her for a moment, patted her back before pulling away.

Jane knew it was a very small step but a step nonetheless. And she would help Shannon take others. Because her friend was far too beautiful and talented and loving to have such low self-esteem. The only thing she was right about was that L.A. had screwed her up.

“Shannon, it's L.A. that has no heart, not you. You're amazing and creative and you have a sense of style most women would kill for.”

“Stop it, you're embarrassing me.”

“Well, it's true, sweetie. And you're packing in executive clients who pay you to dress them and make them over. You're in demand.” Jane checked her watch. “I've got to go—I have a client, Mrs. Collins, coming now.”

“Okay.” Shannon got halfway to her office before turning around. “Hey, Jane?”

“Mmm?”

“Thanks.”

 

T
HAT
J
ANE'S CLIENT
, L
ISA
Collins, had no self-esteem was an understatement. Shoulders bowed, head down, she shuffled into the office and waited to be asked before sitting down. “Thanks for seeing me,” she mumbled.

“Of course. How can I help you?”

“Well, it's my, um, boss. She acts as if she's the queen of the universe and I'm her slave.”

“I see. Well, let me ask the most obvious question first. Have you thought about changing jobs?”

Lisa crossed her legs, then tugged at her skirt. Then she uncrossed and recrossed them. “Well, yeah. I've done that three times now. But this situation keeps happening. It's like I have a Kick Me sign on my back. I'm a good employee, I do exactly what I'm told, I'm never late, I work extra without complaining. I don't know why I get treated so poorly. Like I have no life of my own and have nothing better to do than serve. And
now
she wants me to work through the vacation I've had planned for a year!”

Jane made a sympathetic noise. “Have you tried saying no?”

Lisa swallowed. “I'm afraid I'll get fired.”

Jane leaned forward. “But, Lisa, you've found three jobs—easily, right?”

The girl nodded.

“So you've found yourself positions with no problem. If for some reason you
did
get fired, would it really be the end of the world?”

Lisa looked shocked. “But I'd get a bad reference!”

“You've got other ones, right? You wouldn't even have to use her. Besides, are you so sure your boss is that unreasonable?”

Lisa hesitated, then shook her head. “I think she just forgot about me being gone for those two weeks.”

“And when you reminded her?”

“She got irritated and said she really needed me then. She's preparing for a big sales pitch. But I have plane tickets! And cruise tickets. And a friend's going with me—it'll ruin her vacation, too, if I don't go.”

“Okay. You're going to have to stand up for yourself,” Jane said.

“I was afraid you were going to say that. How?”

“I'd suggest that you tell her firmly that you have long-standing plans. If she still resists or tries to make you feel guilty, then offer to call a temporary agency to get her some help while you're away. Do not give in.”

Lisa still looked uncertain.

“You're assuming you have no power in this situation, and you do,” Jane told her.

“I do?”

“Yes. Good, hardworking, intelligent assistants are hard to find these days. You're a precious resource, not a slave.”

“I never thought about it that way,” said the girl.

Jane nodded. “That's why she has all the power. She doesn't want to fire you, Lisa. She'd have to in
terview, decide on and train someone else. Most people dislike change.”

“You're right….”

“I think you'd benefit from the assertiveness seminar I teach,” Jane said. “It's inexpensive and will teach you how to communicate your needs and not get pushed around. Are you interested?”

“You bet,” said Lisa. “I'll sign up today.”

 

J
ANE'S NEXT APPOINTMENT WAS
with a middle-aged man named Barry Stall who wanted to take radical steps to improve his health but kept sabotaging himself.

The problem, she explained, was he tried to tackle too much at once. He couldn't quit smoking, lose forty pounds and become a triathlete in one day.

“It takes twenty-one days—and some studies say sixty—to make or break a habit, Barry. I'd advise cutting out the cigarettes first, maybe with a prescription to help you with the cravings.” She advised very small, realistic goals.

She also asked him to look at some of the underlying reasons in his life that caused him to treat his body so badly. By the time Barry left, he was feeling a lot more optimistic and had scheduled several more sessions.

Jane was glad they'd connected so well. Now if only
she
could go twenty-one days without eating a doughnut…. On that thought she left her office for the day and found Shannon again.

“Hey, where's Lilia? I think it's time for happy hour.”

Shannon looked at her watch and shrugged. “It's after six. I'm game.”

“Good.” Jane walked to her office door and craned her head out. “Lilia! Hey, Lilia. Drop the Miss Manners book, grab your Chanel bag and loan us some class. It's cosmopolitan time, dahling.”

“It's only six-fifteen!” called Lil in her lovely cultured voice. “I'm researching Japanese wedding customs for a client.”

Shannon strode to the door. “It's after midnight in London, doll, and we all need a break. Let's go.”

“She's waiting for an engraved invitation,” Jane teased.

“All right, all right…” Lilia appeared, coat in one hand and lipstick in the other. She applied it elegantly in the gilt-framed mirror by the door. “My hair's a mess.”

“Tousled is in, Lil. Let's motor!”

J
ANE WOKE THE NEXT MORNING
feeling anything but cosmopolitan.
Ugh.
How had the drink gotten its name? Most likely because a cosmopolitan hangover felt as if an entire city block had collapsed on your head. Along with a few taxis and buses.

She had vague memories of a group of four sales guys sending a round of drinks to their table. Yep, the Ford sales reps, in town for some conference.

Then the group of attorneys had followed suit, not to be bested.

Jane yawned. It was often very inexpensive to go out with Shannon—her voluptuous-blond-goddess stature inspired the most amazing generosity in the opposite sex. They had even gotten a plate of hors d'oeuvres on the house…both a compliment and a smart marketing move. If Shannon frequented the place, so would herds of men.

It would be so easy to hate Shannon, but Jane knew that the attention actually embarrassed and annoyed her. Short of gaining fifty pounds and shaving her head, however, there wasn't much she could do about it—if she wanted to have a life of any kind.

Jane got gingerly out of bed and staggered into the bathroom. Role-playing. She had to freakin'role play with Dominic freakin' Sayers today. This involved cute little “scripts” that they would act out with each other, with her reading the part of the difficult person that Dom had to “manage.” Then she'd essentially grade him on how he dealt with the situation. Hidden in the stack were three different scenarios that challenged how he worked with women.

Jane buzzed with a peculiar combination of anticipation and dread at seeing him again.

She should analyze that and get to the bottom of her feelings, but right now she would much rather analyze a s'more-flavored Pop-Tart and some hot coffee.

The s'mores Pop-Tarts were the legacy of her last boyfriend, Pete. Nice guy, Pete. Nothing wrong with him, except for his never-ending fascination for World War II movies and basketball. And the fact that he ate nothing but boxed or canned food.

There was nothing wrong with Pete, nothing at all. But there was nothing particularly right about him, either. Except his taste in Pop-Tarts, which she could buy on her own. Pete was no doubt watching his Flying Aces specials in some other woman's living room now—and stinking up
her
apartment with canned ravioli.

After starting the coffee, Jane hopped into the shower and mentally sidestepped the question of what Dominic Sayers might watch on TV.

 

“WWE
WRESTLING
, of course. And The Man Show. Spike TV.” Dom leaned back in his black leather chair and shot a look of amusement at Jane O'Toole, who was unresplendent in beige today but still somehow sexy. “Is that part of your psychological profile or just vulgar curiosity?”

Jane's lips tightened. “What gives you the idea that I'd be curious about you?”

“Your choice of major in college and your chosen profession, Jane. You're all about curiosity. You like to analyze what makes people tick. Oh—and the fact that you're not wearing your glasses again today.”

Jane pointedly ignored his last comment. “What makes you tick?”

“Now why would I make things so easy for you as to tell you?”

“Because you'd have a better chance of showing me your side of the situation here at Zantyne.”

“No.” He folded his arms across his chest and stared at her without blinking. “You don't take anything at face value. I told you exactly what was going on at our first meeting, but you chose not to believe me.”

Jane threw up her hands. “I have been told two very different versions of what is going on. The truth probably lies somewhere in the middle. Do you expect me not to analyze the situation? How can I evaluate it—or your personality—if I don't gather the facts?”

“Well, as long as it's just the facts, ma'am,” he said. He allowed his gaze to roam over her—the neat beige pantsuit buttoned over a small waist and won
derfully womanly hips. He suspected that Jane O'Toole had a figure like a young Marilyn Monroe. But this gentleman didn't prefer blondes. No, he liked Jane's dusky, messy curls. And he especially liked her lush, properly pale pink mouth. He wondered what shade that delicious bottom lip would turn if he…bit it. Sucked on it, long and hard and possessively.

Uh-oh.
Jane had been talking—words had issued from between those lips he'd been fantasizing about. Words in his own language, that he should have heard and understood. “Excuse me? I didn't catch what you said.”

“I repeat, then. I'd like to do some role-playing with you now.”

“Role-playing?” It sounded highly suspicious, not to mention silly.

“Yes. I have with me a series of scripts. I'll tell you who I am in each scenario and read my lines. You respond as you would if the vignette were a real business situation. Okay?”

Dom sighed and nodded. Just how much of his time was she going to waste today?

“By the way, I don't actually watch any of those shows I mentioned. What I do watch includes network news, a couple of true-crime shows and the odd sitcom.”

She nodded, made a couple of notes, then looked up and smiled. “I really couldn't picture you being a WWE fan.”

“Thank you,” he said. “Okay. Let's get on with the role-playing.” Actually, the more he thought about it, interesting possibilities popped into his head. For example, Jane could play the part of a skimpily clad French maid, imaginative and clever with a feather duster.

He'd be her demanding employer, the guy who forced her to bend over a lot. Hmm. Yep, he envisioned her in a very short, flouncy black skirt, tiny blouse and starched frilly apron. It tied provocatively in a bow above her bottom. And what better to clean house in than skyscraper heels and black fishnets?

On the other hand, Jane would make a most excellent schoolteacher, and when he was bad—quite often—could take down his pants to, uh, discipline him, the errant student. For that particular role, he saw her in glasses, hair piled on her head, clad in a doll-size sweater and a straight but still only barely decent skirt. Long enough to cover her cheeks, but short enough that they were immediately accessible. Oh, and this skirt should roll up like a window shade at a moment's notice.

This incarnation of Jane really called for sensible shoes, but Dom had never been a big fan of those. So he banished them and fit her with appropriate fantasy wear: CFM pumps and the sheerest of thigh-highs.

Jane might also make a good nurse, one who forced him to take
all
of his clothes off and then pushed him down on an examination table to give him a thorough checkup. Oh, yeah…in this role, she
wore a white garter belt and stockings, one of those cute old-fashioned hats and only scraps of other things.
Yeah, baby, grip me there and tell me to turn my head and cough!

“Sayers!”

“Huh?” Oh, shit. He'd missed whatever it was that she was actually saying again.

“Sayers, are you listening to me?”

“Oh, you had my full attention.”

She raised a brow.

“Really.”

“All right, then. In this scenario, I am a difficult employee who has barely met, and certainly not exceeded, expectations on the job. I am asking for a raise and a promotion. How do you handle the situation?”

He rolled his eyes. “I say that I will certainly consider you for the job and that you're a good candidate. Then I might mention that the pool of applicants for the position is very competitive and that a certain skill set is necessary to do the job. I ask if you feel you're strong in that area.”

“I feel that I'm exceptionally strong in that area. I feel that I'm being underutilized in my current position and definitely underpaid.”

Oh, honey, I sure could utilize you.
Dom forced himself back on track. “Then, if I want to keep you around, difficult employee, I stroke you and ask you to be patient and point out ways in which you can improve and impress the management team.”

Jane waited.

“And if I don't want you to stay, then I bluntly indicate that there are several aspects of your performance that need to be improved.”

Jane looked at her notes. “Suppose I don't take that well and create a scene in your office. I begin to cry and carry on.”

“I reply that all comments are meant to be constructive and should in no way be construed as personal attacks. I call Human Resources to step in.”

Jane nodded. “Okay. Let's look at another scenario.”

Okay, sure. You could be my waitress at some gin joint. You're dressed in one of those Minnie Mouse-does-Dallas cocktail getups and you lean far, far forward to take my drink order. I become lost in the mountainous terrain of your womanliness….

Dom burst out laughing, partly because his brain had sent the last words to him in a hideous parody of a French accent.

“I've obviously missed the joke,” said Jane in frosty tones. Then she added, “Please tell me I haven't drawn on my face with a pen again?”

“No, no,” gasped Dom. “Sorry. Please continue.”

“Fine. In the next vignette, I am a colleague at the same professional level as you but run a different department. I blame you publicly in a group meeting for causing me to miss a deadline. In other words, I imply that you bottlenecked a project. How do you handle this situation?”

Dominic let her know with his body language that
he was becoming bored, since he was beginning to run out of sexy fantasy roles for Jane. He pushed his chair back from his desk, crossed one leg over the other and began to drum his fingers on his knee. He yawned. “Well, you know. If I really hate the guy, I just hide in the bushes and jump him when he comes out of the building that night.”

At Jane's shocked expression, he laughed. “Kidding, Jane. I'm
kidding
. Bottom line, I will first point out publicly that if this is the way he feels, he should discuss the issue with me privately and not blindside me in a meeting. Second, I might explain that my staff had other priorities and that I was not consulted about the timeline for the project. Third, I could point out that our procedures are more complex than he has imagined. Et cetera, et cetera. I remain calm and do not lose my temper or fling accusations at anyone.”

Jane nodded. “Okay, good. Next scenario.” She hesitated for the briefest of moments, then took a deep breath. “I am an employee who is coming on to you. How do you respond?”

Dominic raised a brow. “Well, that depends,” he said with a grin. “Is she cute?”

“How do you know the employee is female?” Jane shot back.

“Uh. Good point. I just assumed…. Anyway, I was again kidding. In a case like that, I'd certainly refuse to acknowledge the overtures. I'd pretend they weren't there. I'd make sure to
never
be with that employee in my office with the door closed or alone
with the employee after hours. And if the behavior continued, I'd alert HR and make every effort to have the person transferred to a different department.”

Jane made some more dutiful notes, and though he was doing his best to take her seriously—really he was—several more fantasy scenarios popped into his head. Jane as harem girl (his harem, of course); Jane as cheerleader; Jane as cave woman, clad only in shreds of tiger skin. The possibilities for fantasies about Jane seemed endless…and this was without him even trying!

Jane as fire woman, handling his lengthy hose. Jane as police woman, cuffing him, telling him gruffly to “spread 'em” and throwing him into her squad car. Jane as defense attorney, visiting him in his cell and, er, debriefing him against the bars.

She was speaking again. He had to focus, damn it. He was getting irritated with himself. It wasn't like him to not be able to control his thoughts, but something about Jane rubbed him—and not the wrong way.

Dom felt suddenly trapped behind his desk, unable to get away from her and this disturbing power she seemed to have over him. Not that he was sure he wanted to get away from her…an idea that made him even angrier.

There she sat, making notes about him as if he were a lab rat, and all he could think about was her naked? Jane and her prim suit and pink mouth and clipboard, wielding the power to get him fired. Why in the hell was he putting up with this? Why didn't
he just slap his resignation on Arianna's desk and show her one of his best features—his ass?

The answer was simple: he refused to let her win. She wanted him out; therefore he'd stay in. And somehow, some way, he'd teach her that backstabbing, lying and cheating were not good ways to get ahead.

Jane was speaking again, sketching out another stupid vignette.

“What?” he snapped. “I didn't catch that.”

She stood up and slapped her clipboard on his desk, placing her palms on either side of it and glowering down at him. “You didn't catch that because you weren't paying attention. And I don't know what I've done to create the hostility that's pouring off of you in waves, but a, I'm tired of it and b, it's not doing you any favors with me. First you find ways to turn my questions into jokes, then you get angry and finally you're not paying any attention at all. What exactly are you trying to achieve with this behavior? Should I write up my evaluation this second? Because you're sure doing your best to look guilty as charged.”

Dom glowered at her and fought the insane urge to pull her right onto his desk and show her who was boss here. Man to woman.

Except the next image that popped into his head was of Jane straddling
him
. Who'd show whom? Christ. He rubbed a hand over his face and pushed back from the desk.

“I don't know what's wrong with me,” he mut
tered. He looked up, met her eyes and still saw, with something akin to astonishment, understanding there.

“Look, Jane. I'm sorry. You're right. I'm being hostile. But I feel that I've already been tried and condemned. I think you've come in here with a lot of preconceptions and an agenda of your own. It's extremely hard for me to fight against that, and it makes me mad.”