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How the fuck do you expect to avoid him, asshole?
This was a mistake. A huge fucking mistake. I should leave and tell Drake something else came up. No hard feelings. No big deal. No chance of an incredibly tense and awkward encounter with Mason James.
I turn around to leave and come face-to-face with a slightly older and broader version of Drake. “Mr. Blackthorn?” he says, offering his hand.
“Elijah?”
He nods, giving my hand a firm shake. His dark-gray eyes hold mine, and we assess each other the way most alpha males would in this situation. Like me, he’s probably forming an opinion in only a few seconds. From the neatly trimmed beard, the pristine and expertly tailored suit, and the lack of finelines around his eyes, I gather that he’s organized, respectable, calm under pressure. Laughs only when absolutely necessary. Of course, I also researched him thoroughly before my meeting today.
“Call me King.”
He indicates the elevator a few feet away. “Shall we?”
Elijah’s officeis like one of those you see in slick TV shows: all glass and sleek lines but filled with antique furniture. Dripping with wealth. It’s as big as the entire Marble Hill apartment—an office befitting the CEO of a multi-billion-dollar tech corporation. I sit in an Elysium chair, aware my ass is encased in a seat more expensive than my bike, and listen intently as Elijah fills me in on the leak at Jamestech.
Already, I suspect it wasn’t one of the four people involved in the actual project. More likely, someone who shouldn’t have been able to somehow accessed the files, but I keep those thoughts to myself for now. Until I know better, every person at this company whose last name isn’t James is a suspect.
When he’s done speaking, he studies me while I turn everything over in my mind.
“Drake tells me you’re the best at what you do, King.”
“He flatters me.”
That gets me a short laugh. “If you know him as well as he says you do, you’d know he doesn’t do flattery. That’s our brother Mason’s department.”
The mention of his name sends a shudder up my spine and kicks my heart rate up at least two gears. I grind my teeth, hoping Elijah doesn’t notice my reaction.
He does notice. Fuck. “He runs all our marketing and PR,” he explains. “Flattery is part of his job.”
I know what Mason does. I read the article about him stepping up as COO a hundred times or more. And the accompanying image of him flashing that easy smile full of charm and arrogance in his perfectly fitted navy suit and white shirt is burned into my consciousness. I’ve read every article I could find on him in the past eighteen years, seen far too many pictures of him with whatever actor or model he was dating at the time, and always been secretly relieved when not a single one of them seemed to last more than a few weeks. The press branded him a playboy by the time he was in his early twenties, and he sure lives up to the title.
I shouldn’t take this job. But it’s too fucking intriguing to pass up. And perhaps this is my chance for…
For what, fuck-knuckle? Redemption? Nothing you can ever do will get you that.
I clear my throat. “Will I be reporting to you? PR isn’t really my thing.”
He gives a single nod. “Yes, you’ll report to me for the most part. And we’d like to keep your role here between us—that is my brothers and me. To explain your presence, all of our employees will be advised that you’re undertaking an audit. Nobody else is to know why you’re here.”
I really shouldn’t take this job.
“So are you in?” Elijah asks.
It’s a mistake. I can’t work for Mason James.
“King?” Elijah’s voice is tinged with frustration.
“Yeah, I’m in.”
Chapter
Nine
MASON
Inever stay at the hotel where conferences are held, preferring my own privacy over having to make small talk with people I’ll never see again—or worse, getting hit on by drunk tech guys who are too young to understand that Green Day is a punk-rock band and not a national holiday for vegans. But as I’m the keynote speaker at this particular event, I make an effort to attend the meet and greet on day one and speak to people before they get wasted on the free sparkling wine.
Sean Phillips, the VP from a tech company we do a lot of business with, greets me as soon as I walk into the conference center. “Mason. It’s so good to see you, buddy.” He doesn’t bother with any attempt at a formal handshake and instead wraps me in a bear hug. “How the fuck are you?”
