Page 3 of Art of Sin

2vanity

Maxwell Evans,our branch manager, surveys the conference room, a king in the presence of his subjects. He’s the picture of suaveness in his bespoke pinstripe suit and lavender tie, his skin perfectly tanned and his blond hair perfectly styled. Of course, he’s the only one standing—he does enjoy looking down on us. We’ve been here for an hour already, also not uncommon. Among Maxwell’s many vanities is enjoying the sound of his own voice.

After a brief conversation with his assistant, who busily scribbles down notes, Maxwell’s knuckles hit the glistening conference table and silence the room’s idle chatter. Only when every eye in the room is on him does he speak.

“The difference between lambs and wolves, people, is that lambs lie down for slaughter while wolves do the slaughtering. I wish I could say we’re all wolves here, but given the subpar reports this morning that isn’t the case.”

I close my eyes to conceal their roll. A moment later, Trent, seated to my left, pinches my leg in warning. When I look back at the front of the room, I find Maxwell’s wide grin aimed at me.

“Deirdre Moss is a wolf. As I’m sure most of you have heard, last night she single-handedly avoided the clusterfuck of the century.”

I smile politely as my colleagues offer applause and congratulations. Beneath the forced accolades, I know is a range of emotion from adoration to envy to downright loathing.

Finding the blue eyes I know conceal distaste bordering on hate, I smile wider. I wait for the room to quiet, then speak directly to my rival, Skylar Kilgore. “I’m glad to report that—at least today—Gideon Masters will not be derailing his father’s merger with Bron Systems.”

“Amen,” intones Maxwell. His self-satisfied smile tells me what he won’t announce—Masters Sr. cut him a bonus check for good work. Since part of that payout will come my way, I’m only mildly annoyed. One thing I learned early on in this business, thanks in part to Maxwell’s questionable morality: be the fucking wolf.

Knuckles hit the table once more. “That’s all. Back to work. Phillips! Let’s discuss next steps with the Anderson contract.”

In the commotion of twenty people standing, talking, and milling about, Trent and I slip out a side door. We’ve barely cleared the doorway when Trent mutters, “I hate that smarmy fucker.”

“Keep your voice down,” I hiss, my stern tone betrayed by a grin. Glancing around to make sure none of the loitering PAs are listening, I admit, “He’s been especially asshole-ish lately. If his ego gets any bigger, he’ll need to remodel his office.”

“Maybe his secretary is finally putting out,” murmurs Trent, opening my office door. “I heard she was driving a new car this week.”

“No gossiping,” I remind him half-heartedly. It’s a battle I’ll never win on a large scale, but I try for higher standards on my team.

“Sorry, boss.”

I slip past him and retreat behind my desk, sinking gratefully into my custom chair. Dropping my head back, I roll it from side to side to release some tension. Trent collapses into the chair opposite me with a dramatic sigh.

“Any word on Gideon today?” he asks.

“Nothing.” Straightening, I gaze out the nearby window at the hazy sky. “He’s been in his house since I dropped him off there last night.”

Trent perks up. “Are you going to spill the details or what? I’m dying over here.”

Meeting his gaze, I shrug. “There aren’t really details, per se. Bagged and tagged. He didn’t give me any problems.”

Trent chuckles, eyes gleaming with curiosity. “I find that hard to believe.”

“You do realize it’s easier to catch flies with honey than with vinegar?”

My fingers clench on the steering wheel as Gideon’s deep voice fills the suddenly too small space. I keep my eyes on the road, my body stiff under the pressure of his gaze. When I don’t respond, he chuckles and reclines his seat.

Staring out the passenger window, he murmurs, “You’d be beautiful if you smiled more.”

Snapping back to the present, I blink at Trent. He’s watching me carefully. Too carefully.

“I’m just glad it worked out,” I say blandly, “and that I don’t have to deal with him again.”

A knock on my door precedes its immediate opening. Maxwell, of course. Trent moves to stand, but Maxwell waves him back down.

“Deirdre, I’ve just received some excellent news.”

I don’t trust the look in his eyes, a mixture of exaltation and trepidation. “What’s that?”

“Frank Masters wants you personally managing the Gideon-angle for the foreseeable future. At least until the merger.”

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