Hotshot (Buchanan-Renard #11)

Hotshot (Buchanan-Renard #11) Page 5

“I’m not so sure Bridget would help me. She doesn’t seem to like me. Neither do any of the other women here. Have you noticed, Mimi? Look around the cafeteria. Most of the women are glaring at me.”

Mimi laughed. “The last trainee left a sour taste in their mouths, I guess. Don’t let it bother you. They’ll get used to you. I notice the men are all smiling at you.”

Peyton looked around the room. Mimi was right. Several men were smiling at her. “That’s kind of creepy, too,” she whispered.

“Don’t pay attention to them,” Mimi suggested. “Tell me about yourself. Any sisters or brothers? What’s Texas like? I’ve never been south of Minneapolis. I always wanted to see the world, but my husband, Don—my ex-husband—didn’t want to travel.”

It soon became apparent that Peyton was proud of her state. She bragged about all it had to offer. “I could go on and on. Texas really does have everything you could ever want.”

“What about your family?”

“I have two sisters,” Peyton told her. “Lucy is two years older. She’s an interior designer and really creative. She would like to start her own business, but in this economy it’s tough. Ivy is the youngest. She’s a senior at the University of Texas. She’s doing her student teaching now and wants to teach kindergarten. She loves children, and of the three of us, she’s the most patient.”

“Are your parents still alive?”

“Yes, and still living in the house they bought over twenty-some years ago. Okay, now it’s my turn, Mimi. Tell me about your family.”

“Not much to tell,” she said as she stabbed a leaf of spinach. “I have two younger brothers. They’re both married and living in Minneapolis. No nieces or nephews, sorry to say. After college I married the only man I ever dated. We lasted almost twenty-five years.”

“Twenty-five years,” Peyton repeated. “That’s a long time. You don’t look old enough to have been married that long.”

Mimi smiled at the compliment. “I’m old enough to be your mother.” Her expression changed and she looked out the window. Peyton noticed a hint of sadness in Mimi’s eyes as she shrugged her shoulders and said, “Don and I never had any children.”

They continued to talk about their backgrounds while they ate, and after lunch Mimi walked Peyton back to her desk and handed her the company manual. She opened the two-hundred-page volume and began reading all about The Bountiful Table. The material wasn’t what she would call riveting, and Peyton did a fair amount of yawning and daydreaming.

Occasionally, Mimi would check on her. Once, on her way back from the printer, she stopped at Peyton’s desk and in a low whisper said, “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she answered, perplexed by the odd question. “Why—”

Bridget interrupted when she called Mimi’s name from across the room. “I’ll explain later,” Mimi said, patting Peyton’s shoulder and then hurrying off.

Peyton didn’t have the opportunity to talk to her new friend again until the end of the day when they were walking to the garage together. Mimi was turning to go up the stairs to the top level when Peyton stopped her.

“Mimi, what did you mean when you said I don’t have to do anything I don’t want?”

Mimi halted on the step and thought for a second before saying, “Don’t be in a hurry to sign a lease. Take your time and talk to me before you commit. Okay?”

“Okay, but I don’t understand why—” Peyton began.

Before she could finish her sentence, Mimi said, “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine,” and then she turned to continue up the stairs.

As Peyton made her way to her car, she reflected on her first day at her new job. Very peculiar, she thought. It wasn’t at all what she had expected, but then, she reasoned, one couldn’t expect to feel completely comfortable from day one.

On Tuesday she met the man who would share the cubicle with her, Assistant Editor Lars Bjorkman. He was already at his desk furiously typing on his keyboard when she walked over to introduce herself. He was young, in his twenties, and handsome. He wore one of his signature ski sweaters. According to Mimi, he owned one for every day of the month. Lars was from Stockholm, and he had the most wonderful accent. He told her his goal was to become a chef, and he’d taken the job at the magazine as a first step, explaining it would provide exposure to some of the finest restaurants in the country. She liked him. She noticed how kind he was to everyone, no matter how rude or impatient they were when demanding his attention.

Peyton took up where she left off in the manual, but it was a much more pleasant task with Lars’s help. He was generous with his advice, telling her which procedures she would need to learn now and which ones she could postpone to a later date. Whenever she had a question, he would stop what he was doing and answer her.

All in all, Tuesday was a much better day.

Wednesday her nightmare began.

THREE

Drew Albertson looked like a Scandinavian movie star with his blond wavy hair, gray-blue eyes, and long eyelashes. He was tall and thin but quite muscular. His custom-made shirts were fitted a tad too tight, giving the impression that he was so buff his muscles were about to bulge through.

For Peyton’s first few days on the job, he was very warm and welcoming, expressing his desire that she feel at home and enjoy her work at The Bountiful Table and assuring her that if she had any questions or concerns he was there to help her.

Drew was married to Eileen, the daughter of Randolph Swift, the patriarch of the company. Peyton met Eileen briefly when she swept through the office one morning to drop something off at Drew’s office. She was a big-boned woman with shoulders a linebacker would envy, but she wore beautiful clothes. Her cashmere coat was definitely black label, and her boots cost well over a thousand dollars. Peyton recognized them from a Neiman Marcus ad she’d seen in a magazine. After two minutes with the woman, Peyton decided the clothes were the only beautiful thing about her.

Eileen stopped at her desk and looked Peyton up and down as though she were scrutinizing a specimen in a jar. “So, you’re the new girl,” she said, not hiding her disdainful smile.

Peyton put on her most pleasant face and extended her hand. “Yes, I’m—”

“I know who you are,” Eileen snapped. “Peyton . . . something.”

“Lockhart,” Peyton offered.

“Yes . . . whatever,” Eileen said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Just do your job, and you’ll get along here. My husband has high standards . . . very high standards,” she repeated. “If you want to make it in this company, you’ll see that he gets what he needs.”

Peyton bit her lip to keep from snapping back at the rude woman. She managed a faint smile before saying, “I’ll do my best.”

“See that you do,” Eileen said and then turned and walked away.

Peyton didn’t think she’d ever met a more abrasive woman in her life. If this was her normal way of communicating with people, it was a wonder anyone would speak to her, let alone get close to her. The one thing she had going for her was money. Most likely that was what had attracted Drew. She came from money and was due to get lots more. Peyton had learned from Lars that Eileen and her younger brother, Erik, would inherit the publishing company and a fortune in stocks and bonds just as soon as their father retired as CEO. Even more money would come to whoever took over and ran the business after Randolph was gone. Since Erik had been away at school for several years, it was fully expected that Drew would step into his father-in-law’s shoes.

Peyton thought Eileen was the most repulsive person she had ever met. That is, until she got to know Drew Albertson.

One wouldn’t expect such a handsome man with the sweetest smile and the softest voice to be a sexual predator—at least Peyton didn’t expect it, which was why she was slow to react. But a sexual predator was exactly what Drew was, and in hindsight, she realized she had been foolishly naive.

His creepy seduction began almost immediately. On her fourth day at work his hand brushed against the side of her left breast . . . and lingered. It happened while she was sitting at her desk and he was leaning over her to point to a graph on her computer screen. She was mortified, but because he didn’t say anything or apologize, she thought he hadn’t realized what he had done. She assumed it was an accident.

The seventh day on the job he followed her into the file room, shut the door, and trapped her as she was trying to get past him. Pretending to get out of her way, he pinned her against the wall, his pelvis against hers, and said, “You must be used to men telling you how beautiful and sexy you are. I’ll bet they make fools of themselves fawning all over you.”

She shook her head. “No,” she said. “Please move away from me. You’re making me terribly uncomfortable.”

He acted as though he hadn’t heard her and brushed a strand of her hair over her shoulder. “So silky,” he crooned.

She pushed his hand away, squeezed around him, and without a word, left the room. She resisted the urge to slam the door in his face.

That evening she spent a long while researching sexual harassment on the Internet, gathering information to take to Human Resources. She had a strong feeling that Drew wasn’t going to let up, and she needed to know what she legally could do about it.

A few days later he trapped her at her desk. He snuck up behind her, put his hands on her shoulders to keep her from bolting, then leaned down until his lips were next to her ear and whispered, “I look at you and all I can think about is touching you. I dream about you and me.”

She dreamed about Tasing him. She twisted in her chair, forcing him to let go of her. Anger radiated in her voice when she said, “Mr. Albertson, it isn’t appropriate for you—”

“Call me Drew, honey. I can tell, you and I are going to be real close.”

That thought was so repulsive she cringed. He didn’t seem to notice. He raised up and crossed his arms, assuming the posture of an authoritative boss. In his professional voice, he said, “I’ll give you a couple of weeks to find a place and get settled here in Dalton, but then you and I are going to Hartford. There’s a restaurant there I want to review. From there we’ll fly down to Miami and do an interview with the owner of a new Cuban restaurant I’ve been hearing raves about.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. Minty fresh breath blew in her face when he added, “Our schedule will be tight, but there will be a little time for relaxation. Be sure to pack your bikini.”

Right. Bikini. Like that was going to happen. The only way she would go anywhere with the letch was if she could take a cattle prod, a Taser, a couple of pepper sprays, and maybe a pair of handcuffs. She doubted, however, that any airline would let her carry these weapons on board, so that left a three-hundred-pound bodyguard. Where could she find one of those in Dalton?

He smiled his most seductive smile, and with his voice still low said, “I’m sure you’ll warm up before then.” Finished with his sexual harassment for the afternoon, he went back to his office to get his coat and strolled out the door.

Peyton was so angry her hands shook. She took a deep breath and tried to calm down, but it didn’t work. She still wanted to scream. There had been a moment when his lips were actually touching her ear and his hands were pushing down on her shoulders that she had felt trapped and helpless. The feeling was so foreign it almost overwhelmed her. Almost. And only for a few seconds. Now, outrage was taking over.

Armed with the information she had gathered from the Internet on sexual harassment Peyton went to Human Resources to lodge a complaint. The office of the director, Annette Finch, was usually guarded by Bridget, and, thankfully, she had already left for the day. The director’s door was open. Peyton knocked to get her attention.

“May I have a moment of your time?” she asked.

The heavyset woman with a severely short haircut pointedly looked at her watch before giving a nod. “Make it quick,” she said, her tone brisk. “What do you need?”

“I would like the necessary forms to fill out to file a complaint against my immediate supervisor, Drew Albertson.” Peyton could have sworn she saw a hint of a sneer on Annette’s face.

“What kind of complaint?”

“Sexual harassment.”

Tapping her lips with one finger, she said, “Hmmm.”

“Excuse me?” When the woman continued to stare at her without saying anything, Peyton asked, “Would you like me to tell you what happened, or should I write it down and—”

“No, absolutely not,” she snapped. “Do not tell me what happened.”

Her reaction was so hostile Peyton wasn’t sure how to proceed. “May I have the forms, please?” she asked.

“No.”

Annette was drumming her fingers on the desk now as she stared at Peyton. Her lips were pinched together, and her eyes had narrowed. For some reason the request had infuriated her.

“It’s your job to—” Peyton began, flabbergasted by the woman’s behavior.

“Don’t tell me what my job is,” she said. She forced a smile then, and it was creepier than her scowl. “You took me by surprise. No one has ever wanted to complain about Drew, you see. That surprised me. You’ve only been here a couple of weeks, right?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a policy that you can’t file a complaint until you’ve been here three months. If you still want the forms then, I’ll give them to you.” As a dismissive gesture, she stood and reached for her coat.

“That’s it?” Peyton struggled to keep her temper controlled. “Come back in three months?”

“That’s our policy,” Annette insisted. “You’re new here, and once you’ve settled in you’ll calm down.” She turned her back to Peyton as she put on her coat and began to clear the credenza behind her desk.

Now what? Peyton wondered, astounded that the head of HR refused to let her file a complaint. She didn’t know what else she could do to stop Drew’s lecherous behavior. He was such a vile person. She came up with a couple of sadistic ways to do him in, but unfortunately none of them were legal. She justified her bloodthirsty attitude by telling herself she was protecting future women who came to work for the magazine. She had never had murderous thoughts about anyone before—not even when Troy, the drunk, was slobbering all over her hand as he tried to stop her from giving his car keys to the restaurant manager—but she was certainly having those thoughts about Drew now. She could just see the sisters of Saint Michael’s shaking their heads. Peyton knew what they’d say, too: “Murderous thoughts? You’re on the highway to hell, young lady.”