Page 1 of My Office Rival (Keep Your Enemy Closer #2)

CYNTHIA

H ell was drinks with a client on a cold winter evening, when you just wanted to be home with a glass of wine and a bad movie.

Particularly when your insufferable opposing counsel was right across the bar.

Some women might forgive Jason Elliott for his annoyingly detailed comments or his general unwillingness to compromise once they got an eyeful of those broad shoulders and that sharp jaw.

But me? No way. He’d spent the last four months making my life difficult, and he was the absolute last person I wanted to see tonight.

And he shouldn’t even be here. I glared at him across the panoramic rooftop bar, even though he couldn’t see me.

That impossibly golden hair glimmered in the light from the modern chandeliers, and I narrowed my eyes.

How was it possible to look like a Calvin Klein model and also win the award for world’s most frustrating man?

Tonight was the first time I’d actually seen him in person, instead of on a computer screen.

He had his back to me while he chatted with his client, but I could picture the tic in his jaw and his cold gaze.

He was taller and broader than he appeared on video, even from this distance.

I hurried to where Gerald sat with our client, checking my email as I strode across the plush carpet in my stilettos.

Never mind the fact that I had checked not ten minutes ago in the cab, and twenty minutes before that, when I had raced down the hall, making the sign of the cross as I passed Gerald’s office.

Gerald, one of my many bosses and a senior partner at the law firm where I worked, was ensconced with our clients in the corner. I spied a head of dark brown hair in their little group and gritted my teeth. Brett.

Jason might be a relentless negotiator and general pain, but Brett was bad news.

He’d joined just a few weeks ago, and he was dumb.

Dumb and mean. A friend of a friend had confirmed that he had a nice big chip on his shoulder from being fired for cause from his last firm.

He wanted to be the top counsel at our firm, and he made it known.

I inhaled deeply, willing myself to be patient, calm. It was going to be a long night.

Closing drinks were a relic of the past, along with briefcases and the little acrylic tombstones they gave out to commemorate big deals.

I hated the forced socialization they entailed.

Closing events consisted primarily of back-slapping, guzzling clear liquor, and dodging thinly veiled insults.

As much as I hated them, I still went, because I was a dutiful minion who couldn’t bear to disappoint her superiors.

It was a complete coincidence that Jason was here too, since opposing counsel was never invited to mingle with us and our clients.

“Here she is!” Gerald proclaimed. Oh no.

He was at least two martinis deep, based on the flush of his cheeks, more of a NARS Orgasm blush than a full-blown cherry red.

His unusual enthusiasm could be credited to the alcohol.

I was not his favorite associate. I was too opinionated, too pushy.

He preferred someone who would tell him what he wanted to hear.

My best friend, Margo, excelled at playing that game with him, and then doing exactly what she wanted anyway.

Brett, however, Gerald seemed to like. I gave horrible Brett a brief nod and greeted our clients.

I could do this. Because I had to. Going to these stupid events was part of the game.

You showed up early, left late, billed like crazy, and went to closing dinners and marketing events where you had to apologize for the senior partner’s asinine behavior or some drunken first year’s sexist comments.

I gritted my teeth, pasted on a fake smile, and ordered what would likely be one of many martinis that evening.

“Glad you could make it, Cynthia,” Brett grated, his nasally voice smug, like he was the host of this little gathering and I was late.

“I was finishing up something at the office. You know how it is,” I said breezily. Always pretend to be busy. That was my motto.

“Oh, on the Preston deal? I can’t believe they have you on that.” He gave a small laugh. “I told Ann there was no way I’d work on it. At least they found…someone to staff.” His pause told me what he thought of that someone, and I ground my teeth together.

We didn’t have to be competitors. There was plenty of work to go around at the firm.

But Brett must have assumed I wanted to make partner, and he presumably did as well.

Taylor, Jones and Roberts LLP made about one partner per year, so Brett was right to think that only one of us could be elevated to the partnership.

He was, however, dead wrong if he thought I wanted that life.

Margo was welcome to it. The reward for working hard and making partner seemed to be more work, and I was not interested.

Brett’s barbs still landed, though, and I was not about to be pushed out of favor with the partners by a sniveling newcomer, and particularly not a man. So I gritted my teeth and gave as good as I got.

Three hours later, I blew out a breath as Brett and Gerald said goodbye by the elevator.

I was hiding near the bathroom, purse in hand, after pretending to leave twenty minutes ago.

I wanted just five minutes alone. When would these jerks get moving?

With a hearty laugh into his prodigious mustache, Gerald finally trundled into the elevator.

I breathed a sigh of relief and made my way to the gleaming wooden bar in the center of the room.

I was settled and trying to get the bartender’s attention when I heard, “This seat taken?”

I looked up into the cold blue eyes of Jason Elliott and grimaced.

Jason, in addition to having a last name that sounded like a first name, was a grade A psychopath.

He didn’t smile (at least not to me). He always responded to emails, even late at night.

He showed up at every meeting, even over video conference, in a full suit and used the same anal retentive writing style for his comments on every deal.

We’d been opposing counsel against each other exactly three times, and the only crack I could see in his perfect facade was that his jaw clenched hard enough to break a tooth when he was frustrated.

His beautiful face was nearly enough to make me overlook all of his annoying, starched perfection.

It was lean and angular, with a hint of golden stubble, and framed by high cheekbones, a serious mouth, and square jaw.

He hadn’t gelled his hair today, and its slight wave practically begged for me to run my hands through the shining strands.

But best of all were his eyes. They were deep blue, thickly lashed, and underscored by just a hint of crows’ feet and blueish under-eye circles.

He had a manic intensity to him that drew me in.

His eyes said, “I’m a workaholic and will fuck you over.

” Some women might hate it. But me? I was a fellow workaholic, and it was hot as hell.

I had idly wondered once if he were short and stooped, and then rapidly decided it was unlikely.

He carried himself with tall guy energy.

I looked back at him, where he was carefully moving my purse off the chair and folding his lean frame into it. Yup, he was six foot two, maybe three.

“It’s taken,” I said shortly and went back to staring at the bartender.

He snorted a laugh at my obvious distaste and signaled the bartender in that annoying way confident men did.

“What type of martini did you want?” he asked.

I bristled at his tone. Exactly the one he used on conference calls. Cool, collected, like it was a foregone conclusion that he was right. “How do you know I was going to order a martini? I take them dirty, vodka, with olives.” I frowned at his strong profile, but he was looking at the bartender.

“I saw you drinking it from across the room.” He kept his eyes on the bartender. Huh. Jason Elliott had been paying attention to me.

He finally turned to me when we had our cocktails. Those electric blue eyes met mine. “Were your drinks as uncomfortable as mine were? ”

“That depends, I guess. Did your opposing counsel show up and sit down next to you when you just needed some alone time?”

He huffed a laugh and sipped his drink. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not. Why are you over here, anyway? Don’t you have a junior associate to torment tonight?”

He smirked at my annoyed tone. “My favorite victim is right here.” He paused. “Actually, I just needed someone to commiserate with. I hate closing drinks. I’d rather be home doing something boring. Probably why I’ll never make partner.”

“Me neither.” We shared a half smile, and I felt a little frisson of something go through me at the way our gazes held, at the tilt of his mouth and his straight nose.

Margo and I had giggled about his perfect face and broad shoulders countless times (since that was all we could see on video calls).

I surreptitiously scanned the rest of him.

Navy suit pulling over long legs, Italian loafers, shirt unbuttoned to show the hollow of his throat.

I looked up and reddened. He was looking at me knowingly.

“Like what you see?” he asked, with an arch of his brow.

“Just checking to see where you hide the cloven hooves and tail,” I said sweetly.

He burst out laughing, white teeth flashing and eyes crinkling. Holy crap. He was crazy handsome when he smiled. I quickly turned back to my drink.

“Was I that bad?”

“You know you were,” I said shortly, signaling for another martini. He’d fixed all my typos (in track changes so everyone could see them), refused to give on some key provisions our client had requested, had cut me off on conference calls, and had generally tried to make us look bad.

“Are you going to murder me behind the bar later?”

I smiled despite myself. “No. It’s life. I just hope we aren’t facing each other anytime soon.”

“I like to win, Cynthia. I think you know that. And I think you like to win too.” He said the last part quietly, and I glanced over at him.

The alcohol was buzzing through me, making me warm and bold.

His cold eyes even looked inviting under the influence of a few martinis.

The blond strands of his hair glinted, and I refocused on his perfect face.

Those full lips, that stubble. I had a brief, insane urge to run my finger over his jaw. No more martinis tonight.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“It’s there. In your snappy responses on our calls, in the tone you take in your emails, hell, even in your markups.” He held my gaze. “I can tell it’s you holding the pen, not a junior. You really give a shit.” He casually sipped his drink, like he hadn’t just seen right to the heart of me.

“Thanks? I think?” I played it off, but my heart pounded.

“It’s a compliment. Believe me.” He stood up.

“Anyway, I’ll let you get back to your drink.

” He dropped a hundred-dollar bill on the bar and strode off.

I watched his retreating form, wondering briefly what those shoulders would feel like under my hands, if the brief flash of skin I’d seen would be smooth.

What did his body look like under that suit?

I shook my head. Time to go . Before I did something insane, like run him down and ask him to go home with me.

I made my way to the elevator, feeling surprisingly okay on my heels.

I wasn’t drunk, which meant I wanted Jason Elliott.

Ugh. That was embarrassing. Maybe it was time to get on the apps again and find someone to take the edge off.

I didn’t date. Keeping my head above water at the firm took enough of my time, and frankly, what I’d seen of men didn’t make me want to get involved with one.

But when the elevator doors opened, he was there.

“It’s you.” He quirked a smile from where he leaned against the wall.

“I thought you left,” I said, as I stepped inside.

“I went to check out the view from the roof deck.”

“It’s freezing cold out there.” I frowned. In fact, I could feel the cold coming off him in waves. It felt refreshing against my heated cheeks.

“The cold doesn’t bother me,” he murmured.

At least the inside matches the outside , I didn’t say.

I leaned back against the elevator wall.

Ignore him . The air warmed, the scent of his cologne wrapping around me.

Tension sat thick between us. Or maybe that was just the alcohol making my head swim?

What would happen if I kissed him? I tapped my hand against the wall, wanting out of this elevator and wanting to climb him at the same time.

A warm palm over mine stilled my tapping, and I started.

“Do I make you nervous?” he asked.

“No,” I retorted. “Not at all.”

“Then why all the anxious energy?” He ran a thumb slowly over the back of my hand, and my focus arrowed to the contact.

He turned to me. Like this, we were closer than I’d thought. Just a scant six inches between our bodies, though he was roughly the height of a giant, and my nose came to his chest.

“You’re freakishly tall,” I muttered, ignoring his comment.

Those blue eyes laughed at me, that sinfully lush mouth tilted up.

“And you’re shorter than I thought,” he replied.

“Still tall enough to make you work for it,” I replied, and reddened. His gaze sharpened on mine and my stomach flipped. “I, ah, meant on the deal.”

“Did you?” he asked, holding my gaze. I could drown in those eyes. I wanted to touch his jaw, press my lips right to the crease of his throat. He’d probably smell amazing right there.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he muttered.

His gaze had gone languid, his mouth slightly slack.

I swayed forward slightly and his hand landed on my hip.

A small, embarrassing noise fell from my lips.

Worry about that later . Tomorrow, I could be embarrassed.

Right now, I was a ball of need, my pulse racing, heaviness building between my legs.

I let my palm land on the fine wool breast of his suit and finally gave in.