It’s Just Business

The Faulkner Building is a landmark here in the city. It used to be the third tallest skyscraper in the Financial District, and was built at the height of the family’s power and influence. At one time, the name ‘Faulkner’ was whispered in the same category as Ford, or Rockefeller, or Morgan.

Not that the Faulkners aren’t still influential, but the family’s not at the same echelon of beyond-the-law levels of influence as they used to be. In fact, I didn’t know any of the family history when I first met Evan. He was simply an attractive man who charmed me with his confidence, charisma, and intelligence.

And though those things could also be said about the man stepping onto the red carpet at my side tonight, Evan and Dylan could not be more different. Most importantly, Dylan is upfront with his intentions. All of them—his plan to use me to get back at Evan, and his plan to get underneath, behind, or on top of me. He’s being polite about it, but I could see his eyes roaming to my legs when I would shift them in my seat. And when he wasn’t looking there, his gaze was a mix of cold-hearted brutality and fiercely tamped down desire. Dylan is a man of hardness and raw emotion.

Days ago, I would’ve put him off. Now, his attraction to me, as well as his willingness to involve me in what seems to be a long-deserved revenge plot, both give me an extra jolt of confidence as a flash goes off in my face.

“Everything alright?” Dylan asks under his breath, and it brings me back to the moment. He offers me a hand, and I nod, taking it and wrapping my arm through his. His warmth is at odds with the chill air of fall.

He looks completely unbothered by all of this—me, our conversation, the car ride, the photographers. But to me, the entire ride from my apartment to here felt almost surreal, like a blend of luxury and style but with all of the matter-of-factness of taking the SATs. While nakedly vulnerable. Not physically, but mentally. Because Dylan seems to know everything, see everything.

I never felt seen when I was with Evan. My heart twists, and I hate it. Tonight is not for my weak little heart. It’s for vengeance.

“Is it always like this?” I murmur to Dylan, who nods slightly and gives a cold smile to the photographers. Taking the cue from him, I smile as well, although I hope my smile for the paparazzi is a bit warmer. It serves both of our goals if I look like I’m enjoying myself.

I am enjoying myself, I remind my racing heart as anxiousness stirs in the pit of my stomach. I push aside thoughts of Evan, revenge, and even Dylan, trying to focus on the professional reasons I’m here.

“You’re going to do fine. Relax,” Dylan comments as we pass through the high arched doorway.

His bicep flexes, holding me to him, as we get into the elevator, and I notice he’s not letting me go. It’s comforting, almost, like I can lean on him a moment while I get a grip on my bearings. “Any last-minute advice?” My head goes light for a moment as we rush higher into the sky.

“Be yourself,” he says. “You’re charming and smart and would be an asset to any firm, so use every advantage you’ve got to make an impression.”

I nod as if that’s ground-breaking advice. It does help slightly, though.

The heart of the event is the ballroom of the Continental Hotel, which takes up fifteen floors of the Faulkner Building. Getting off the elevator on the top floor of the hotel, we walk down the hallway toward the ‘Grand Ballroom’.

“Tell me something about yourself,” I demand quickly, pulling him to a stop. “I know people will make assumptions, but it’d be nice to have at least one personal fact about you to deflect them with.”

Dylan looks down at me, considering his answer. “I built a model aircraft carrier in my office.”

“You built a what?” I ask, surprised at the randomness.

“Complete with an air wing. Hand built, hand painted, and thirty-six inches long,” he says as if merely stating facts. I can only guess how much time and effort he put into it, and simply because… what? He wanted to?

“So you like model aircrafts?”

“I admire the history behind aircraft development, but that particular project was… meditative.”

“Healing?” I guess.

“Something like that,” he states but doesn’t offer more.

We go through the entrance line, Dylan handing over his engraved invitation, and I let out a huff of a silent laugh. Dylan looks over. “What?”

‘Thought you didn’t come to these?”

He shrugs, unbothered by his small exaggeration. “Rarely, not never.”

He starts to say something else, but a man catches his eye and begins walking intently toward us. “The man approaching is named Tyler. He’s a business associate.” Dylan’s quick with the information, uttering it under his breath before turning to the man.

“Dylan, how’s it going?” Tyler asks, offering his hand. They shake, much more enthusiastically than I sense Dylan would prefer. I also notice Dylan’s hand going around my waist, his fingers resting just outside my low back as if ready to pull me tight at a moment’s notice. “I scouted out the food. They’ve got bacon wrapped shrimp that’s gonna go fast.” He says it as though he’s sharing valuable information.

“Tyler,” Dylan says evenly. “Good to know.”

“And who is your beautiful companion?” Tyler continues on, as if on one long monologue. “Tyler Hunt,” he says, introducing himself before Dylan has a chance to make the introductions.

I take his offered hand, adding a warm smile. Dylan’s hand tightens slightly on my waist, and though I take it as a warning to stick close to him, it also feels surprisingly intimate. “Raven Hill,” I answer more breathily than I intended. I clear my throat delicately and allow Dylan to do the talking.

To me, he explains, “Tyler’s a senior account manager at First National. He and I have done a number of deals together.”

“It’s wonderful to meet you,” I tell Tyler. I’m more than aware of First National. This man has no idea who I am, but I hope one day, he will.

At Dylan’s silent encouragement, I practice how I’m going to approach the night with Tyler. For the rest of our conversation, I try to find the balance between chatting up Tyler, meeting him as a strong and intelligent equal, while at the same time staying with Dylan.

It’s hard not to want to cling to him. Not only because this room is full of people who are intimidating as hell, but also because Dylan is… magnetic. Even though he says little, I’m constantly aware of his presence, and when he does say something, his words carry weight.

“Raven is currently looking for a position deserving of her skills,” Dylan confides, and Tyler’s lips lift into a smile.

“I see. She doesn’t work in your firm?” His brow furrows in surprise as he looks from Dylan to me, and back.

“I’m considering all offers at the moment, Mr. Hunt,” I reply coyly.

He lets out a short laugh. “I might know someone who’s moving up the chain, leaving a gap in our trading arm.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a business card. “Here. Give me a call on Monday. We can talk details.”

The two of them chat a moment longer as I slip the card into my clutch, ignoring my racing heart and the overwhelming pride flowing through me.

I did it. I’m doing it. This is going to work.

After he leaves, Dylan gives me a look. “Easy enough?” he questions.

“Very,” I agree, although my heart is still pounding as I take in the expansive room and sea of suits and ties who suddenly seem all-too-real with the potential to hire me. “I need to think of these like job interviews, mixed with a bit of speed dating.”

Dylan’s arm tightens again on my waist, and I feel a fresh thrill go through me. “Not speed dating.”

“Not like that,” I concede easily. My heart twists at the site of a navy-blue blazer I thought I recognized. It’s not him, though. Before I can think twice, I ask, “Have you seen Evan?”

“Not yet, but when I do, I won’t tell you,” Dylan says as he leads me across the room. It’s an odd sense of relief and irritation at his admission. “I want you to appear natural. Just you being your lovely self.” The compliment is delivered with a fair amount of charm before he goes cold, adding, “I’ll handle him. Just follow my lead.”

“Like a dance,” I tease.

“Something like that.”

He looks at me, his eyes focusing on my right eye, then left, then falling to my lips. While his gaze is there, I watch an unexpected smile bloom across his lips and feel like I’ve done something right, though all I’m doing right now is standing here. I guess that’s following his lead. Reaching up, he brushes a lock of hair behind my ear, the move reminiscent of my own habit, except his fingers teasing against my skin make my body flush.

He seems completely unfazed even though the touch nearly makes me come undone.

He takes my hand, guiding me through the crowd, and we continue mingling. As the night goes on, I find myself grateful again and again to Dylan, while simultaneously becoming more and more attracted to him.

Every person we talk to is connected. With each conversation, I highlight my skills and talents beyond what my resume might contain. I even steer some of the conversations, and as we make our way around the room, I get a glimpse of the world that Dylan Sharpe lives in.

One of wealth and power, and that revolves around whom you know.

And all the while, he’s completely at ease, giving me opportunities to shine, including me in discussions, and never leaving my side for something or someone more important.

The truth is, even with Dylan’s reassurances, several conversations that have all flowed easily, and all the acting that I can muster, I’ve spent the past hour feeling unprepared and out of place among these wealthy and powerful people. I’ve been to a number of events, but none like this. It’s top-tier invitation-only, and Evan always told me it was best not to come.

It’s not hard to deny that I’m out of place. In the last conversation, the guy mentioned his new car… his sixth. And it’s a McLaren, simply because he wanted to complete his ‘Formula 1 Set’ consisting of a Mercedes, a Ferrari, a Honda, an Aston-Martin, a Renault, and now, a McLaren. “God help me in a couple of years. I’ll have to rent a whole garage.”

Never mind the rent for a single parking spot in his neighborhood costs more than my half of the rent for my apartment. Now I’m trying to regain my mental composure, and having Dylan’s arm helps. It’s like he sees through all the fakeness and pretentiousness, reminding me that this is just a game. But at the same time, he understands how seriously I need to play this game to get to where I want to be.

As a tray of champagne is passed by us and we both decline, Dylan turns toward me and says, “After Faulkner’s speech, we’ll go talk to Ollie. He’s almost always notoriously late, and he’ll be able to listen after that speech is out of the way. In the meantime, relax. You’ve chatted with half a dozen senior partners and they’ve all loved you. Trust me, you’re making all the right impressions.”

I swallow, grateful for the pep talk. Comfortable with him, I lift his arm to take a peek at his watch. Nearly two hours have already slipped by. I glance around the floor again and answer him. “I hope so. And our other goal?”

It seems only fair to put a bit of effort toward that mission as well, especially considering how much he’s helped me already.

Dylan catches my hand in his own, lifting my knuckles to his lips to brush a kiss against them unbidden. “You are the talk of the event so far. You have been noticed, and while I doubt he’ll approach, I’ve kept my ears open. Just keep being yourself.” His smile has a hint of a chill, but it doesn’t intimidate me any longer.

I’ve actually come up with a trick. It’s quite similar to the ‘picture them in their underwear’ method of dealing with nerves, but it’s more along the lines of ‘picture them with magnifying glasses on that make their eyes look comically enlarged while they glue tiny pieces of plastic to other tiny pieces of plastic’. It seems Dylan’s little fact about himself and the model aircraft has helped me more than he probably guessed and has made him delightfully endearing, though I certainly won’t tell him that. I suspect it’d mess with his self-perception as a ruthless asshole.

The clinking of glasses and murmur of conversations fill my ear, and the crowd quiets as a man comes up to a podium at the front of the room. “Good evening,” he says, and I can hear the money in his voice. There’s a certain tone to it, a cadence and pitch that I’m familiar with.

This is the Faulkner Dylan was telling me about. Jerome Faulkner is, I believe, Evan’s grandfather or granduncle. I’m not sure which, never wanting to seem like I was cozying up to the family name, ironically enough. Either way, I haven’t met the man before, but there’s something in the way he talks, a certain pitch to his voice, that reminds me of Evan. It makes my throat go dry.

I must swallow audibly because Dylan offers to get me a water from the bar. Part of me wants to go with him, cling to his side as though he’s my security blanket, but I can do this. I can stand here in a room full of sharks and listen to a speech for a few minutes until he gets back. So, I wave him off, promising to stay right here until he returns and flashing a smile I hope reads as serene.

As soon as I’m alone, anxiety sets in. I fight it off, but it builds with an unexpected fervor, and I glance around me, not searching for Dylan, but Evan. I feel vulnerable, which means this would likely be the moment he strikes. It’s what men like him do. And though a few people return polite smiles when we meet eyes, I don’t see any incoming threats.

Once the senior Faulkner has finished his speech, he thanks everyone for their attendance before passing the podium over to tonight’s guest of honor, the chairman of Healing Through Business, a charity that promotes building up local economies after wars or natural disasters. It at least sounds like a worthy cause, although I’ve never heard of it before.

Suddenly, I feel a strong arm wrap around my waist. It’s a relatively unfamiliar yet immediately comforting feeling. But I’ve been holding this arm all night, and I turn my head to see Dylan giving me a warm look. My chest tightens with a flash of something I felt back in the car before it’s gone as quickly as it came.

‘Everything is going as it should,’ he whispers in my ear, sending shivers down my spine. To anyone around us, it must seem intimate, and in a way, it is, even though he’s merely coaching me through the evening the same as he’s done all night.

‘Thank you,” I say for what feels like the millionth time this evening. Still, it will never be enough. I’m going to forever be grateful to him, not only for this chance but for his presence. Because in the mere moment he’s been back at my side, my pulse has settled, my breathing steadied, and my nerves have all but dissipated. I look up to find his eyes on me, a spark there that resonates deep in my core. He holds my gaze, and heat rushes through my veins. I know exactly what he’s thinking.

Sex.

It permeates the room around us, not in a vulgar, in your face way, but it’s there, nonetheless. It’s in the power, the money, even in the way everyone is dressed. They politely touch each other, a hand on an arm or an arm wrapped around each other, but it’s there in the glances if you pay attention.

But of all the people I’ve met so far at this party, Dylan’s the most powerful, the most sexual. He’s merely polite to almost everyone but me, and I know he’s only more to me because he sees me as a means to an end, but the line between revenge and pleasure is getting murkier every time his hand grazes along my spine. Perhaps they are one and the same, though.

“Too bad Evan doesn’t work in this building,” I murmur as I sip the water he’s returned with, and Dylan lifts an eyebrow. “He definitely took her on his desk. It’d only be fair to do the same.”

Dylan’s grin is sharklike, and he nods in approval of my callous suggestion. “I’m sure I can think of something appropriate, if you’d like.”

His grin is infectious as we teasingly test the waters and each other’s limits, which does nothing to help settle the growing tension between us. If anything, it heats the air around and between us a few more degrees.

After a long moment where we simply look into one another’s eyes—me, imagining what Dylan would be like as a lover, and him, likely plotting and scheming how to use me for maximum impact—he glances away. Before I follow his lead of returning my attention to the speaker, I note the slight tilt of a smile at the corner of his lips.

I work to keep myself occupied mentally as the guest of honor continues his speech. It goes a lot longer than it should, but I don’t think I’m the only one who feels that way. There’s a few people shifting around as he drones on, and as the speech finally comes to an end, the room erupts in applause that sounds more grateful for the chairman getting off the stage than anything else.

A flash of light catches my attention. A photographer snaps photos of the event. As I smile for another photo, I catch my first sight of Evan this evening. He’s with his mother and father, and on his arm is Elise… but Evan’s not looking at her. If anything, he’s staring this way. My stomach drops, and a rush of cold slips down my spine. Every emotion swarms me, but I keep my expression still, using the skills I’ve practiced for years to fit in to the tiny corner of this world I’ve clawed my way into.

I pretend like I didn’t see him. I might be embarrassed by the way he treated me a few days ago, but I’m for damn sure not going to let anyone see that. Instead, I turn in to Dylan.

“He’s at your eleven o’clock. He brought her,” I tell him, placing my hand on his chest. I can feel the warmth of his skin through his shirt. It’s not enough to help with the shock of seeing not only Evan, but Elise at his side with his parents smiling at her welcomingly.

Dylan must see what I’m talking about because I feel a rumble in his chest. He captures my upper arms in his large hands and dips down to quietly say, “It could mean nothing. Many people bring assistants with them to take discrete notes throughout the event.” I look up at him through my lashes, hopeful it means that and not what I automatically assumed—that Evan is hard launching his relationship with Elise. But Dylan concedes, “It could also mean more. You okay?”

I force myself to nod. “Just unexpected. I was prepared for him, not them.”

“You’ve got this,” he says encouragingly.

I trust that he’s right, turning back to the podium and taking a drink of my water. When a waiter passes by, I set the now empty glass on his tray. All the while, I can feel both Dylan and Evan’s eyes on me.

Up front, another Faulkner is speaking, really giving the hard push for everyone to show generous support of tonight’s featured charity. When he wraps up, the room breaks out in muted applause. After it dies down, Dylan gives my hand a gentle squeeze and points with his eyes across the room. “There’s Ollie.” It’s a name I recognize from a list Dylan rattled off earlier of important contacts I should meet.

I nod, confident in my skills and ready for this because I’m on Dylan’s arm. I’ve got this, I remind myself as we cross the room to approach a balding man in his upper fifties. He’s surreptitiously sneaking what looks like one of the event’s single bite meatballs into his mouth.

“Ollie, you know Wendy’s going to be upset with you for that,” Dylan says, mock menacingly, and the man legitimately blushes as he licks his lips. Dylan breaks into a polite smile and offers a hand. “Your secret’s safe with me, though. For now,” he teasingly warns. “How have you been?”

“Dylan, it’s been too long,” Ollie replies, shaking hands enthusiastically.

This is a completely different introduction than all the others tonight. Dylan and Ollie sound like actual friends.

“You’re right. About what, thirty pounds lighter or so?” Dylan compliments him, and Ollie puffs his chest out a little.

“Doctor said I had to work on my blood pressure. Apparently, red meat and scotch aren’t good for me,” he sighs wistfully despite having just eaten a meatball that likely isn’t on his doctor’s nutrition plan. “I tried to tell him it’s not the food, but the stress. Unfortunately for me, it seems he was right because it’s working. Blood pressure’s down several points now, which means Wendy’s got the chef feeding me chicken every damn day.”

“Good for you,” Dylan says. “How is your lovely wife? She here?”

I watch the two of them chatting, and just as I begin to feel as if I’m intruding, Dylan’s thumb slips down the small of my back and then his hand is on my hip. He squeezes ever so slightly, telling me to be patient, and I lean into his soothing touch, smiling politely as they talk.

“She’s just fine, visiting our new granddaughter in Seattle,” Ollie says proudly. “I’d have gone, but with the quarterly meeting next week, I had to stick around. I promised I’d go over the holidays, though.”

“About that. I may have the best opportunity you’ll get this year to get away for a long winter break,” Dylan says, getting to business as he indicates to me. “Ollie, I’d like to introduce you to Raven Hill. She recently interviewed with me, so you know she’s smart, ambitious, and skilled, but I think she might actually fit better with you at your firm.”

“Oh, really?” Ollie says, turning interested eyes to me. Dylan’s introduction clearly shows how well he knows Ollie, and how much forethought he gave this introduction.

“Dylan mentioned you have a position at your firm for a fund manager, and I expressed my interest.”This is from NôvelDrama.Org.

“I do, in fact,” Ollie says as Dylan quietly excuses himself to get drinks. “I’m looking for someone who can do the research and make the calls on trades, letting me focus on the big picture operations of the firm. While leaving the office at five might not be in my immediate future, I would like to see the sunset from something besides my office window occasionally.”

“I see. That’s exactly what I want to do.”

“See the sunset from an office window?” he asks comically, and with my laugh, the conversation moves easily. It’s obvious that he’s passionate about business but wanting to slow down. I could see myself very easily working for him and filling a spot that could give him an opportunity to spend more time with family.

After several minutes of talking, Dylan reappears as if he senses our impromptu interview is drawing to a close. He bids Ollie goodbye, sending his regard to Wendy, and we continue working around the room.

I feel accomplished. This is what I’m meant to be doing and where I’m meant to do it. I’ve met so many people tonight, those in positions of power, not only in the stock markets, but in the world. I’ve done my best to make a good impression and engage in polite small talk, all the while trying to hide the fact that at times, I’m still shaking with nerves. I could see the measuring look in peoples’ eyes, but even the ones who were clearly just networking or meeting me because I was with Dylan were at least respectful of my skills and my talents.

How did I go this long without this? Sure, part of it was my own stubbornness about wanting to ‘do it myself’. But as I think back, I realize that something, or more accurately, someone else, was holding me back too.

Evan. He told me more than once that events like this weren’t worth it and he only attended because of his father. And after I mentioned doing things on my own, he latched on to that idea, making it seem like attending as his girlfriend would mark me as a gold-digging ladder jumper. Just thinking his name brings back that twist in my stomach.

As if thinking of him summoned the devil himself, I look up from a tray of champagne, picking up my third glass of the night, to find his sharp gaze piercing mine. Before I can turn, he calls out my name loud enough for everyone around us to hear.

I wish I didn’t look up. I wish I walked off as though I didn’t hear him. Instead, I plaster on a fake smile, one that hopefully reads as ‘fancy seeing you here’ and not ‘I hate you with the flames of a thousand suns’. I don’t go to him. I’m not that stupid. I know exactly how that would appear to those around us. But rather, I hold my ground and allow him to walk over to me.

Where’s Dylan? My heart races with apprehension and a flash of annoyance pricks at my skin. The one time he excuses himself for the restroom, Evan finds me.

He was waiting for this moment, I realize.

“Raven,” he says with a shark’s smile before leaning in as though he’s going to kiss my cheek. Instead, he whispers, “They would all line up to fuck you, but not a single one of them would hire you.”

He stands tall, leaving me stunned and wondering if he really just said that. His cruelty is vicious, hitting my weak spot with deadly accuracy, blasting it to smithereens and leaving a gaping hole in my confidence.

“After all, that’s what Sharpe is doing, right?” he murmurs, raising his brow sharply at the accusation. And then, he acts as if he’s just seen a friend, leaving me alone.

I’m left breathless, frozen in place, with my smile crumbling at the edges.

Is that all he sees me as? All he used me for? All that time, was it truly nothing more than sex? Was I that blind?

I thought I had prepared to see him tonight. I was wrong. A fatal mistake on my part, it seems, because our little tete-a-tete has garnered attention from those around us, and they’re watching me fall apart with barely disguised hunger, as if my embarrassment is reality-TV fodder for their enjoyment. Even those I had thought respectful and polite are now whispering to one another, their laughter-filled eyes fastened on me as if I’m a living, breathing car crash they can’t look away from.

Get it together, Raven!

Clearing my throat, I force my smile to return by sheer willpower, meet eyes with three people around me, and take a measured sip of my champagne. I’m doing everything I can to shut it all down—the shock, the horror, the feeling of not belonging.

I keep to myself on the edge of the ballroom, wishing Dylan would come back so we can leave. I’ve done what I wanted, meeting Ollie and the others, though I have serious doubts it’ll do any good after Evan’s comment. Secondarily, irritating Evan seems to be a lost cause. He wasn’t upset. He was amused by my appearance on Dylan’s arm. As if it proves what he thought all along—that I’m willing to do anything to make it.

“Fuck that,” I whisper, finishing off my champagne a bit too quickly. “And fuck him.”

“I do hope you’re using that in a positive way if you’re talking about me,” Dylan says, reappearing at my side. His warm hand finds its way to the small of my back again, and he gives me a flirtatious smirk.

He has no idea. I debate on telling him. But I also wonder if what Evan said is true. Dylan didn’t hire me, and while he’s been gentlemanly, there’s been a growing tension between us. Is he simply biding his time before he makes a move? Am I destined to be nothing more than a plaything for those in power, no matter how hard I work?

The idea startles me more than it should. Perhaps I’m more naïve than I would’ve thought because I truly felt that my experience and dedication would matter, that my skills and instincts would mean something.

I stare into Dylan’s eyes, feeling my foundation crumble beneath me but too lost to find new footholds. There’s concern sparkling in his gaze, a question of what’s changed, but when I lick my lips to speak, his attention drops to my mouth and that’s when I know.

He wants to fuck me.

Hell, I want to fuck him too.

Does that make it wrong? It definitely doesn’t make it right. But I’m not sure I care. This whole night suddenly feels like a waste, so maybe I should get something out of it.

Something for me. Evan can burn in hell. Dylan can too, for all I care right now. But I still have one play to make. A Hail Mary that’ll let the desire burning between us overflow into something tangible. An orgasm, hopefully.

A job?

The tiny voice of disappointment whimpers in the back of my mind, and I tell it to shut up. I’m not sleeping my way to the top, but am I willing to possibly sleep my way through the front door?

“Where can we go?” I whisper.