The Rebel Tycoon's Outrageous Proposal. Abby Gaines

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      Somehow the blue steel in his eyes—hard but not altogether unforgiving—strengthened Holly’s backbone and impelled her to an openness she hadn’t intended. “That article was a wake-up call for me. I’ve decided to be more tolerant of others.”

      His lips twisted, she suspected in cynicism rather than appreciation of her resolution. “So that’s why you’re here. I’m the lucky beneficiary of your newfound tolerance.”

      She nodded.

      “That’s good. Because I don’t think I could work with the woman described in that article.”

      Holly gulped.

      “So,” he said silkily, “if you ever feel compelled to comment on the length of my hair or the state of my shoes, the way I hold my pen or the cleanliness of my desk—” Holly was certain he would discern from the guilt in her eyes that she’d already evaluated them all “—I suggest you run to the bathroom and tell it all to your reflection. Is that clear?”

      “Perfectly,” she said.

      Jared stood and walked over to his filing cabinet. “I’ll give you a copy of my standard employment contract. Amend the terms to suit yourself, and if I’m happy with it, I’ll sign it.”

      He opened the top drawer and began to rummage through it. To stop herself from noticing how the drawer was stuffed higgledy-piggledy with papers, Holly picked up the cup of coffee Jared’s PA had brought in. She took a sip of the now-cold liquid. As she put the cup back on the desk, a splash of coffee slopped over the side onto the polished beech surface.

      On automatic pilot, Holly whipped a tissue out of her purse and mopped the puddle. Then she noticed a smear of dust all along that edge of the desk and ran the tissue over it.

      “What are you doing?” Jared thundered.

      Holly jumped. “I spilled coffee,” she said. “I was just—”

      “You were dusting my desk,” he accused.

      “No! Well, maybe a little. I happened to notice—” She stuffed the dusty, coffee-soaked tissue back into her purse.

      “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. In addition to the other things I mentioned, you are not to do any tidying or cleaning anywhere near me.”

      She nodded. “I understand.”

      “Do you?” He advanced toward her and Holly instinctively shrank back in her seat, even as she reached to take the contract from him. “Are you sure?”

      He picked up her three-quarters full cup of coffee and slowly, deliberately, poured its contents over the surface of his desk.

      Holly squawked and leaped to her feet, looking wildly around for a cloth, napkins—anything. Finding none, she dredged the sodden tissue back out of her purse…

      And stopped. Jared was standing immobile, watching her, impervious to the liquid spreading over his desk toward his laptop and the papers he had stacked on one end of his desk.

      Holly swallowed. She dropped her tissue into the wastepaper basket, and forced her gaze away from the desk. “So,” she said briskly. “When do I start?”

      Jared almost applauded. Ignoring that mess was the exercise of an iron will—he was struggling himself. “I’ll brief you over dinner tonight.”

      ONE PROBLEM DOWN, two thousand to go.

      Holly peered in the mirror on her visor, stifling the memory of the last time she’d done that—had it only been Tuesday?—and then found herself barred from her office. It was unlikely she’d be refused admittance to the Green Room, Seattle’s swankiest restaurant, if only because Jared wouldn’t let it happen.

      She knew that much, though she knew little else about the man. She’d spent the past couple of days surfing the Internet at AnnaMae’s house, searching for information about her new employer. For someone who was never out of the headlines, the search yielded surprisingly insubstantial results.

      Harding Corporation had succeeded where so many dotcoms had failed, creating a series of viable Internet businesses. The press had reported with a mix of admiration, envy and resentment the deals Jared had signed with companies and people no one else would touch. He’d cleaned some of them up and stripped some of them down for their dubious assets. He’d bought businesses for their possibly illegally inflated tax losses and offset them against his more profitable operations.

      And rumor had it Jared hadn’t paid a penny in personal or company taxes in five years.

      It might be true. But Holly doubted it could be both true and legitimate. So he’d better have meant it when he’d said she could do as she wanted with this deal.

      She walked the block from her car to the restaurant and pushed open the heavy wooden door with the brass handle. The maître d’ made a dignified rush to meet her.

      Holly followed him across the intimate space of the dining room. Jared rose to greet her and she slid into the booth-style seat that wrapped around two sides of the corner table.

      Jared had changed his clothes. This morning he’d worn a casual gray shirt, which, as he’d pointed out, hadn’t been tucked in to his dark pants. Tonight, a black polo and a zip-fronted jacket made him look too cool for words. Holly was still wearing this morning’s suit.

      “I would have changed, but I don’t have any more clothes,” she said, then clamped her mouth shut.

      “I’d no idea things were so tough in the accounting trade.”

      “I wasn’t allowed back into my home after the FBI searched it yesterday,” she said. “And they froze my bank accounts, so I couldn’t get any cash. And when the bank realized that, they canceled my credit card.”

      Her voice quivered. Holly bit her lower lip. She’d explained the situation to AnnaMae without shedding a single tear. Even lying awake in AnnaMae’s spare bed the past two nights, she’d been shocked, but dry-eyed.

      “You’re not going to cry, are you?”

      “Not in front of you,” she said stiffly.

      With overt relief he handed her a leather-bound menu. Thankfully she wasn’t someone who lost her appetite under stress.

      When they’d ordered, he said, “Since you’re going to work for me, you’d better tell me about this investigation. Just the facts.”

      He was entitled to that much, Holly conceded. “David Fletcher and I went into business together two years ago, after we met at a conference. We were both unhappy with our jobs, and our different skills meshed well—he’s good at client relationships.”

      “The schmoozing, you mean.” Jared looked her up and down with that faintly insulting scrutiny. “I can see you’re not a schmoozer.”

      “I’ll take that as a compliment.” She sat back in her seat while the waiter set her appetizer in front of her—a salmon kebab in a coconut curry sauce. It smelled divine, and she took a moment to inhale its spicy perfume, eyes closed.

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