3

      “CHRISTINE SLAYTER to see you, Mr. Dayton.”

      Johnny sat in his leather swivel desk chair, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a panoramic view of lofty Denver skyscrapers against the distant jagged Rockies. He’d just been enjoying the view, taking a moment to savor the world outside work—something he rarely did anymore—and now he had to deal with Christine. It was like he’d been soaring through the clouds and now he’d crash-landed.

      He wished to God he’d never made her a vice president—she seemed to think that meant he liked her more then he really did. But, as his advisors kept reminding him, it made good business sense to give her the title—it was an incentive for her to continue delivering projects under budget, with minimal carcasses in her wake. She was like an imperious queen in that sense—when a project faltered, she went hunting, looking for someone to blame. And inevitably, that person met a gory death—which in business parlance meant she fired the poor bastard on the spot. So far, Human Resources and the legal department had found legitimate backing for Christine’s infamous firings, but even Johnny knew that Christine couldn’t keep going this way. She would calm down with a bigger, better title—or so she’d whispered to him right after the promotion.

      He mistrusted words—those spoken in meetings or whispered in his ear. Robin’s expressive eyes flashed in his mind—he trusted what he saw there more than any hollow assurances.

      His thoughts returned to Christine, who waited outside his door. Despite her overachiever mentality, he regretted approving that damn promotion because ever since then, Christine had let him know repeatedly that she was available for more. Much more.

      But he was also personally to blame for that headache.Never, ever kiss a woman after two martinis. Women like Christine took such slightly inebriated overtures to mean there was hope. Forget that it happened a full year ago, the result of a long day’s work that turned flirtatious after a few drinks…an overture that went from hot to cold within seconds. For Johnny, anyway.

      Blowing out a gust of air, he turned his head slightly toward the intercom. “Thanks, Shelia, let her in.” Shelia’s physical appearance reminded him of that English actress, Judi Dench. Mature, professional and punctual Shelia had organized his work, and often his life, since he founded OpticPower five years ago.

      The door opened with a swoosh and in blew Christine, dressed in one of her designer suits—this one so purple, he imagined her as one of the irises in that Van Gogh painting. An iris topped with blond-streaked hair and a too-toothy smile. “Good afternoon, Jonathan.”

      His butler William called him Mr. Dayton, like most OpticPower employees. Christine and her peers called him Jonathan. No one had called him “Johnny” in years…until last night. For a moment, he could even hear Robin’s voice, soft and full of surprise, when she’d stepped outside the diner and found him waiting.

      He watched Christine swagger toward him, a quasi-masculine movement that looked funny on her scrawny frame. She eased herself into one of the leather guest chairs that faced his desk, and slowly sat down. Her face was overpowdered, caking in the lines around her mouth. For a moment, he wondered where those lines came from. Couldn’t be from laughing.

      Never breaking eye contact, she crossed one leg slowly over the other, a move obviously intended to give him a flash of her black satin garters.

      It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the finer attributes of womanhood—or the flash of skin against lace or satin—but being inappropriately manipulated, whether by words or gestures, was one of his hot buttons. Although he hadn’t felt manipulated last night when Robin slammed down that coffeepot and zeroed in for a kiss.That was a gloriously spontaneous act, full of passion and want….

      “You seem…distracted.” Christine looked peeved.

      “I was…going over some figures in my head.” A very luscious, curvy figure. “You wanted this meeting—what’s up?”

      A look of hurt shadowed Christine’s eyes. Straightening in her seat, she said crisply, “It’s the Nexus project. Teresa sidestepped the end-to-end test and now we have a noncompliant test process on a critical delivery.”

      Johnny leaned forward on his desk, hands folded in front of him. “It’s not like Teresa to bend rules—”

      “Brad repeatedly put up roadblocks, so she was forced to create her own test environment.”

      Sometimes managing managers was like running a day-care center. Not that he’d ever done that, but he sure as hell could after being CEO of OpticPower. Teresa was a senior manager, as was Brad, and yet their ongoing squabbles were hurting a critical project, which in the long run, could hurt the company. And Johnny’s priority, always, was to protect the company. “You undoubtedly have a plan.” Christine always did. Slap a long black wig on her, and she could be that cartoon character Natasha, Boris’s manipulative, conniving sidekick.

      She leaned forward, planting an elbow next to a carved wooden mask that sat on Jonathan’s desk. He’d bought it on a trip to Africa several years ago because he liked its mythological story, how tribes in the Congo believed it transformed its wearer into the “Wise Protector and Healer.”

      “Brad’s got to go,” Christine said, gazing intently into Johnny’s eyes. “He’s not a player, he’s a problem. I want to replace him with Scott, who works seamlessly with Teresa. It’s the only way we’ll get the test situation resolved and back on track.”

      A pungent scent, like spicy orchids, assaulted Johnny’s nose. He recognized the French scent, but most women dabbed it on their skin. Christine must have poured the stuff on. He wondered if she always sloshed on perfume when in the killing mood. “How long before the test can get back on track?”

      “A week.”

      She hadn’t even paused to breathe before that quick response. Oh, yeah, Christine had already planned this, down to the last gory detail. He mulled it over for a moment. He had no real data on this situation, but then he wouldn’t. He hadn’t built this multimillion-dollar business by micromanaging every single management employee—he’d built this monumental success by focusing on the big picture. And by protecting its vested interests and employees. His stomach knotted. If only he’d been half as successful protecting his own family—a family for whom he’d been more the father than his own dad had been.

      “I’d like your buy-in,” urged Christine.

      Of course she did. It gave her license to kill. Johnny had dealt with these power plays before—he’d give his response just the right spin.

      “Before you can Brad, talk to him. He’s a valuable asset—let’s try to make the situation work before losing a key player.”

      Christine’s eyes widened. “I said he’s not a player, and yet you used that word—” She immediately pursed her lips and Johnny realized where those lines around her mouth came from. “I know what you’re doing. You’re saying one thing, but thinking something else. And no one can ever figure out what that is because you’re—” She pursed her lips again.

      “Don’t stop now.”

      She tugged at the lapel on her jacket, and Johnny noticed the new Rolex on her wrist. Probably treated herself to an expensive bauble after the promotion. No way was she going to say the wrong thing, although she’d admitted enough by her overreaction. He scratched his cheek, mainly to hide a smile that threatened to break. Must be tough being a newly promoted vice president these days.

      She dropped her hand into her lap. “I was going to say,” she said, infusing her voice with phony goodwill, “that you’re inscrutable, that’s all. Actually, that’s an admirable trait. We shouldn’t be able to read your thoughts. What