Page 17 of Forbidden Boss (Manhattan Billionaires)

“No. The other thing.”

“Oh. Apparently they’ve offered everyone full benefits, or something? I didn’t have time to get the full story.”

A slow, victorious smile stretched over Phil’s lips. “They’re covering their asses.”

The screen above the door flashed with increasing numbers as the elevator shot up through the core of the building. “What do you mean?”

“Everything is going to be fine. They’re scrambling, Nikki. We have the upper hand. Now look sharp,” was all he said.

The elevator slowed so smoothly I barely felt it, and then the doors opened to reveal a bright white lobby and a woman of about forty, staring at us from behind thick-rimmed glasses. She wore a dark-green dress with an asymmetrical neckline and a perfectly tailored waist. I wanted to ask her where she got it, but I doubted I’d be able to afford it even if I knew. Her brown hair had golden highlights that had obviously been done by someone who was an expert colorist.

Her gaze was sharp as she took in my appearance. I’d chosen a black tweed dress that fit close to the body. It was piped in white and had big, white, fabric-covered buttons. It was fabulous, even if I’d bought it for less than twenty dollars in a bargain bin and had to do some major repairs to the aged fabric. Whether or not the woman agreed was hard to tell.

All she did was nod and say, “Ms. Jordan. Mr. Phillips. My name is Clara. Mr. Blakely will be with you in just a moment. Please follow me.”

I was impressed she knew our names—especially Phil’s. Then again, she’d probably been notified of us signing in, which meant she—and Rome, and whoever else would be attending this meeting—now knew I had brought legal representation.

My heart thumped as we crossed the white space. Two white leather armchairs were clustered around a heavy-looking wooden coffee table. The walls had a few large pieces of art to break up the blank color scheme so that the overall effect of the lobby was one of money, prestige, and—to me—intimidation.

I took a deep breath and trotted after Clara, my heels clacking in time with hers. Beside me, Phil stalked, utterly calm—almost serene. A small smile teased the corners of his lips.

If only I could have an ounce of that confidence. As it was, I felt like I was walking deeper into the dragon’s lair. Danger lurked just beyond my sight, but I could sense it.

I didn’t belong here.

“Please,” Clara said, gesturing to an open door. We entered a medium-sized conference room with a great view of Manhattan.

I drifted to the windows to glance down at the world spread out below my feet, then turned when Clara cleared her throat.

“Can I get you coffee or tea? Water?”

“Water’s fine,” I said.

Phil chose a seat with his back to the windows, midway down the long table. “I’d love a coffee, if you don’t mind,” he said. “Dash of cream if you have it.”

Clara inclined her head, then clip-clopped down the hard floors until the sound of her shoes faded. I sat beside Phil who rocked slightly back and forth in his chair, his fingers drumming on its arms. He looked like he was out for a day at the beach instead of a boardroom in a billionaire’s building.

I, on the other hand, was full of nervous energy. I unclasped my purse and pulled out my compact mirror and my bullet lipstick. My hands trembled slightly, but the familiar motion of uncapping the lipstick and twisting it up settled my nerves enough that I could reapply it without worrying about looking like a five-year-old who’d raided her mother’s makeup drawer.

I was halfway through swiping my favorite rust-red onto my top lip when I heard the sound of many footsteps. I would look stupid if I stopped now, since the pigment on my bottom lip had worn off slightly, so all I could do was keep going. That meant that when Rome Blakely strode through the conference room door followed by half a dozen men and women wearing severe suits and scowling faces, I was in the process of painting my bottom lip.

Lifting my gaze, I saw Rome’s thunderous expression as he watched me. Long fingers grabbed the back of the leather chair across from mine as a network of tiny lines tightened in the corners of his eyes. He wore another one of his expensive white shirts under a perfectly tailored suit. His tie today was black silk. He looked powerful and in control of his domain.

I felt like a trembling little mouse with a bullet of red lipstick in her paws.

Beside me, Phil stood. “Mr. Blakely,” he greeted politely. “Very nice to meet you.”

I snapped my compact mirror closed and slipped it into its designated slot in my purse. Then I worked the lipstick bullet back into its tube and slipped the lid back where it belonged. My movements were slow and deliberate, because otherwise I’d betray the fact that my heart was fluttering, and my fingers felt swollen and uncoordinated. The last thing I wanted to do was drop something and make a fool of myself.

It wasn’t until I put the lipstick away and stood beside my lawyer that Rome Blakely tore his gaze away from me to bare his teeth at the man to my left. “I wasn’t aware Ms. Jordan had engaged your services,” he said.

Phil shrugged, unconcerned. “I’m sure we can all come to a resolution today. That’s why we’re here.”

The man to Blakely’s right snorted. “Give me a break, Phillips. You’ve never wanted to resolve anything amicably in your life.”

Phil met the other man’s snarling face and gave him a genial smile. “Arthur. Long time. How’re Trudy and the kids?”

Arthur’s face went bright red. He opened his mouth to retort, but Blakely put his arm up.

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