Dreaming Of... Italy: Daring to Trust the Boss / Reunited with Her Italian Ex / The Forbidden Prince. SUSAN MEIER

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СКАЧАТЬ things I need to have changed. An assistant who has to be able to keep up.” His lush mouth thinned. “Do you have a problem with that?”

      Intimidation froze her limbs, her tongue, and she could only stare.

      “Good.” Obviously taking her silence for acceptance, he headed for the door. “Spend the twenty minutes you need with Mrs. Martin to get your ID badge and fill out your paperwork then report to my office.”

      He strode out and she stared at the empty space he left in his wake.

      “He’s a whirlwind.”

      Obviously, Mrs. Martin was paid to say nice things because Vivi wouldn’t call him a whirlwind. He was more like a bully. A really good-looking bully, but still a bully.

      Bile rose to her throat, but she shoved it down again. She’d dealt with bullies before. “I take it that’s Tucker Engle.”

      “In the gorgeous flesh.”

      “He demoted me even before I started.”

      Mrs. Martin shook her head. “It’s not a demotion. That’s what he was telling you. The assistant job is a lot more than you think it is.”

      “But I need to start my real job now. I have to keep my skills sharp to take the CPA exam. I don’t want to fall behind.”

      “You’ll be working with the Tucker Engle. The man who leads Inferno. You’ll see everything he does—learn everything he knows.”

      That didn’t mesh with the picture painted in the Facebook rant, but it sounded promising. Like something she could cling to to force herself to be able to work with him. “So he’ll teach me things?”

      “I don’t know about teaching, per se.” Mrs. Martin motioned for her to sit in the chair in front of her desk. She pointed to a little camera attached to her computer monitor. “Take a seat so I can get your employee picture.”

      Vivi sat.

      “Anyway, I don’t know about him teaching you, but you’ll learn a lot working with him. He built this company—”

      “With help.”

      “Help?” Mrs. Martin laughed. “You think he had help? Everybody who works here supports him. He’s the idea man. No one else.”

      That did mesh with what she’d read. In the interview he’d given the Wall Street Journal, he’d bragged that he used only accountants, lawyers, PR people—support staff. He didn’t want, or need, an equal.

      “Fantastic.”

      Mrs. Martin smiled sympathetically. “I understand you’re disappointed. You see this as a setback. And I probably can’t talk you out of that.” She paused and sucked in a resigned breath. “So, I’m going to stop the sugarcoating and be totally honest with you. Tucker Engle is a suspicious prima donna. He gives assignments piecemeal so that no one can figure out what he’s working on. He’s so demanding that none of our employees would volunteer to replace Betsy—even for a few weeks.”

      Her heart stuttered. “And you think I can?”

      “I didn’t pick you. We gave Mr. Engle the files of the accountants starting today and he chose you. Like it or not, you’re stuck. But Betsy won’t be out forever. Eight weeks—”

      Her eyes bulged. “Eight weeks?”

      Mrs. Martin grimaced. “Twelve tops.”

      “Oh, my God!”

      “But you still get your accountant’s salary. And your time with Mr. Engle counts in your seniority with the company. It’s not as if you’ll be starting over when Betsy returns.”

      “No, thanks. I’ll just keep my job in Accounting.”

      Mrs. Martin sighed. “How good do you think it’s going to look on your employee records if you refuse your first assignment?”

      “It’s not the position I was hired for.”

      “Nonetheless, it’s your first assignment and if you don’t take it, he may tell us to fire you.”

      She was really, really sorry she’d found that Facebook rant because she couldn’t even argue that. “Of course he will.”

      Mrs. Martin’s face fell into sympathetic lines. “The other option is to quit.”

      * * *

      “The other option is to quit.”

      Vivi muttered those words under her breath as she made her way through the maze of red-, orange-and yellow-walled corridors, looking for the private elevator to the executive office. She finally reached it and inserted the magic key card that would start the plush car, giving her access to the inner sanctum of Inferno. Which, she was beginning to think, had been named appropriately since this company really might be the pits of hell.

      The doors swished closed and she shut her eyes. She was the toughest person she knew. She had survived an attack at university that had nearly ended in her being raped and the bullying that had resulted when she’d tried to prosecute the boy involved—the son of Starlight, Kentucky’s leading family. One grouchy, narcissistic CEO would not stop her from reaching her dream of being somebody. Somebody so important that the people back in Starlight would see that despite all their attempts to break her, she had succeeded.

      They had failed.

      And Tucker Engle wouldn’t break her either.

      The elevator bell pinged. The doors opened again. Like Dorothy entering Oz, she stepped out, glancing around in awe. Contrasting the slick, ultramodern red, orange and yellow “fire” theme of the public areas, this space was superconservative. Ceiling-high cherrywood bookcases lined the walls. The antique desk and chair could have been in a museum. Oriental rugs sat on luxurious hardwood floors.

      “Don’t just stand there! Come in!”

      She pivoted around, following the sound of Tucker Engle’s voice. He stood in a huge office behind the one she had entered. A cherrywood conference table sat on one side, a comfy brown leather sofa and recliner grouping filled the other. A desk and chair fronted a wall of windows at the back of the room. The view of the New York skyline took her breath away.

      She walked to the desk she suspected was hers, removed her jacket and dropped it and her backpack to the chair. Then she gingerly made her way to the grand office.

      Standing behind the carved desk, Tucker Engle removed his black suit coat and carried it to a hidden closet. His back to her, he slid it onto a hanger, and her gaze fell to his butt. Perfect butt. His trousers were cut with such precision that they all but caressed him. His simple white shirt outlined a swimmer’s back. She could virtually see the ripple of his muscles through the silky fabric. If he didn’t do laps in a pool every day, he did something.

      She swallowed just as he turned.

      “What?”

      She swallowed again. Add what appeared to be a perfect body to his dark hair and chiseled features, and he had СКАЧАТЬ