Page 12 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy

She gives a minuscule nod and returns her attention to her screen.

I take a seat.

Now the waiting begins.

4

Christopher

Let her wait.

It’s a petty move. A standard negotiation tactic pulled straight from the Mark Blackwell playbook of corporate dick-swinging. Establish dominance from the outset. Make them sweat. Make them feel small before they even open their mouths. I fucking hate that I resort to it but it works. Usually.

I stand at the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office watching the city sprawl beneath me. Gray buildings reaching for a gray sky. I pick out all of the ones I own. A kingdom built on concrete and ambition. My kingdom. Won through logic and strategy and sixteen hour days fueled by a burning need to carve my own name into the skyline separate from the suffocating weight of my father’s.

I check the platinum watch on my wrist. Almost an hour. Lucy Hammond has been cooling her undoubtedly expensive heels in my waiting area for fifty seven minutes. Long enough.

I touch the comm panel built into my desk. “Tatiana. Send Ms. Hammond in.”

“Yes Mr. Blackwell.”

I move to sit behind my desk and arrange my hands deliberately on the cool surface. Projecting calm control. Boredom even. Let her think this is just another Wednesday afternoon annoyance for me. Which it should be.

But it isn’t.

Fuck me it isn’t.

The memory of her at the expo keeps flickering at the edges of my thoughts. That spark in her eyes when she challenged me. The surprising steel beneath the business chic polish. The way she didn’t back down even when faced with the full force of my reputation and implied threat. It was unexpected. Irritatingly intriguing. And her curves...

My father’s grating voice echoes in my mind.Don’t let that girl distract you.

Easy for him to say. His idea of dealing with an obstacle is to run it over with a bulldozer. My methods are supposed to be smarter. More surgical. Yet my reaction to Lucy Hammond felt distinctly primal. An unwelcome jolt of awareness that had fuck all to do with synergy calculations or market share.

The double doors open silently and Lucy Hammond walks in.

And fuck. She looks even better today. Less flustered than when a robot dog was violating my trousers, anyway.

She’s extremely well put together. Expensive-looking tailored navy dress that manages to be both professional and subtly feminine. Her honey blonde hair is styled perfectly. Her makeup is flawless. But I see the faint tension around her eyes. The slightrigidity in her posture. The way her knuckles are white where she grips the strap of her briefcase.

She waited an hour. She knows exactly what game I was playing. And she’s pissed. Good. Anger is easier to handle than tears or pleas.

She stops a precise ten feet from my desk. Head held high. Trying damn hard not to look intimidated by the thirty floors of glass and steel beneath her feet or the man sitting behind the ridiculously large desk.

“Mr. Blackwell,” she says. Her voice is steady. Impressively steady. Maybe a touch too bright.

“Ms. Hammond. Please sit.” I gesture towards one of the chairs opposite me. They’re uncomfortable by design. Another petty power play courtesy of dear old Dad’s influence which I despise even as I use it.

She sits, settling her briefcase beside her. She doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t look around the room too much. Just meets my gaze directly. Those damn blue eyes.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet me,” she starts. “Before we begin, I really must apologize again for what happened at the expo yesterday. My friend can be an idiot, his sense of humor is… questionable, and I am truly sorry about the disruption, and, well… your trousers.” Her cheeks redden slightly.

I allow myself a small, dry smile. Let her squirm a little. “Don’t worry about it, Ms. Hammond. Consider it… memorable.” I pause, letting the word hang, then I lean forward slightly, my tone shifting back to pure business. “Now, my schedule is demanding. I trust you have something more substantive to discuss beyond the rather… eventful… introduction?” I keep my tone cool. Let’s cut the crap.

Her chin lifts slightly. “I believe astrategic partnership offers significantly more long term value for both Hammond & Co. and Blackwell Innovations than a hostile takeover and liquidation.”

“Hostile takeover.” I let a small dry smile touch my lips. “Such loaded terminology. I prefer to think of it as a strategic acquisition. A necessary restructuring of undervalued assets hampered by ineffective legacy management.” Harsh. But true. And designed to sting.

Her eyes flash. There’s that fire again. “My father built Hammond & Co. from nothing, Mr. Blackwell. It has a history. A reputation—”