Disclaimer: I do not own the characters and situations of "Profit". No copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: I know I'm not alone in loving "Profit", so this one is for all you fans out there. Kinda shippy, but I hope you like it anyway. The fact that Joanne never seemed the slightest bit interested in Jim always baffled me (I was seventeen, so sue me!) and that ultimately led to this story. Inspiration hit me over the head one evening after a recent re-watch, and... well, here we are. I suspect I've discovered an entirely new subspecies of plot-bunny... :) And, please, mind the rating.
There is only a thin line between love and hate... and sometimes it seems like we are dancing on that line. Ritu Ghatourey
Joanne twisted fitfully in her sleep. Her heart was racing, her breathing so fast she almost choked.
Image fragments flickered through her brain, dark harbingers of what lay ahead, and all she could do was watch as it came crashing over her, possessing her, screaming silent screams of terror in her head.
He was in her dreams, again; a looming shadow that blotted out the light and stole the breath from her lungs. She could feel his treacherous fingers curling around her neck. Once again, she was a little girl, a helpless child at the mercy of a twisted individual. Everything was darkness, like the darkness at the bottom of those pitiless eyes.
As usual, she woke up in a state of near panic, drenched in sweat, her fingers clawing at her throat for air. Sobbing, she sat up and swung her feet to the floor. The nightmares were nothing new to her, but during the last, few weeks they had been growing more and more disturbing, gaining in intensity with each passing night.
She scrubbed her face, trying to chase away the last vestiges of sleep. When her heart-rate had finally returned to normal, she glanced at the alarm clock and groaned. She had gotten barely four hours of sleep. It was going to be a long day.
Thankfully, it was also a quiet day. The Gracen and Gracen offices were unusually peaceful, and with a grateful sigh she buried herself in the pile of paperwork waiting on her desk. She even managed to avoid any actual interaction with Jim Profit, although she could feel his eyes following her throughout the day. Watching, always watching.
It set her teeth on edge and sent a shiver down her spine. It was the shiver of the helpless prey, but try as she might, she couldn't help it. All she could do was ignore it, ignore him, and hope he would eventually go away.
The day passed quickly into night. After a silent and lonely dinner of re-heated leftovers – which she pushed around on her plate, while the same, old thoughts kept circling around in her head like a dog chasing his tail – she turned on the TV and tried to relax. It was impossible. Instead, she cleaned her already clean floors and straightened her already immaculate bedroom. For hours she puttered around in her apartment, trying to delay the inevitable, hoping that when sleep finally came, she would be too tired to dream. But she knew deep down that it was futile.
In the early hours of dawn, he once again stole into her nightmares on shadowed, supernatural wings. Her breathing became ragged and panic welled up, but then the dream changed. Slowly, insidiously, fear turned into desire. This time when his fingers closed around her throat, it was in a caress and she writhed in pleasure. She had always found him attractive, after all – in a casual, dispassionate way – and now her subconscious spun that attraction into a gossamer web of heady sensuality, sticky and strong as silk. She was helplessly caught.
Her dreaming self remembered no fear, felt no disgust; she felt only pleasure and a rising tidal-wave of heat as his hands continued caressing her. His lips came down on hers, hot and demanding, and she moaned, arching her body against his, reveling in the feeling of their tongues intertwining, his weight pinning her down. His mouth traveled lower, down over her neck. His hand slid towards her breast and she held her breath in anticipation...
...and then the alarm clock went off. With a strangled cry she kicked off the covers that snaked around her legs. Her body was sensitized and tingling and she hurried towards the shower, convinced she could still feel the touch of his hands lingering on her skin.
She turned the hot water up as high as she could stand it and vigorously scrubbed her body until her skin was almost raw, but it was no use. She couldn't escape the images in her head. She leaned against the wall, tears streaming down her face.
When she arrived at the office an hour later, she kept her eyes firmly on the carpet and prayed that no one would stop her before she could duck into her office. She made it, barely. Her assistant opened his mouth and followed her, only to have the door unceremoniously slammed in his face. Joanne knew it was unspeakably rude, but she couldn't handle his anxious, puppy-dog eyes right now, not without imploding.
She made it to lunch without even a sign of the odious Jim Profit, and, relieved, she let her guard down. She ate a sandwich at her desk, finally able to relax enough to actually concentrate on work. The nightmare was fading. She felt like she had regained her equilibrium.
As they say, don't count your chickens and all that.
It was late afternoon when fate caught up with her. She was passing his office when he called out her name in that cool, professional-politician voice of his. She screeched to a halt, cursing the man under her breath. Nonetheless, she ducked into his office and pasted on a smile.
"Yes?" she said frostily, arms crossed over her chest.
He looked as unflappable as ever, his dark, unfathomable eyes watching her patiently. Probably hatching plans, she thought. Briefly, she wondered why he hadn't changed his first name too, Jim really didn't suit him. It lacked a certain... polish. Annoyed at the inane line of thought, she frowned. What do you care? A toad by any other name...
"Do you have that report on the situation in the Gulf?" he said with a polite smile.
"Yes," she said, her tone even more icy. "Seth gave it to you half an hour ago."
"Oh," he said, and pretended to shuffle around on his desk. Joanne sighed. If she didn't know he was faking it, it would have been quite the performance. "Ah, there it is," he said and held up a blue file. She only looked at him, one eyebrow creeping up despite all her efforts to keep a straight face. He flipped through it. "Would you mind giving me a brief summary?" he said, eyes still on the pages.
As if he hasn't already read it, Joanne thought sourly. "Sure," she said through gritted teeth. "As you can see from the introduction," she said pointedly, "the situation with regards to security has changed significantly over the last six months. Acquisitions with primary assets in the area..."
She continued to rattle off the main points of her report. He gave no outward sign to indicate that he was even listening, only nodded once in a while in a haphazard fashion. He was quietly rapping the fingers of one hand against his desk and the movement caught her eye. His fingers were long and supple; his hands strong, well-formed and very – she swallowed nervously – attractive.
Dammit all to hell...
She caught herself staring at his hands, images from her disturbing dream popping into her head, unbidden and in technicolor. Her throat dried up and she fell silent in the middle of a sentence. She had no idea which one. He looked up and she twitched her eyes away from him, but she couldn't help the delicate blush that stained her cheeks. Mortified, she dug her nails into her palms, took a breath, and made herself look up again.
His head was slightly cocked to the side, and he was looking at her with a startling intensity, as if intrigued by something she had said or done. His eyes never wavering from hers, he put down the file and took a step towards her – one single, measured, calculated step – and it was the last straw. Instead of facing him head-on like she always did, she turned around to leave. She fled – like a weakling, a voice inside her hissed – knowing even as she made the decision that it was a mistake. You don't run from a predator, after all.
A hand closed around her wrist, inevitable and unyielding. On pure instinct, she whirled around, one hand raised to defend herself. He easily caught it, and she found herself mere inches away from him, both her wrists caught in his hands. It was too much. She knew she shouldn't indulge him, but she couldn't help the pleading, breathless note that stole into her voice; a little-girl sound, helpless and afraid.
"Please... Let me go."
His hands tightened their grip on her wrists. "Why?" he asked softly, his voice a low rumble, like the purring of a very large feline.
She found she had no answer, only struggled feebly in his arms. She, who a week ago – hell, yesterday – would have punched his lights out for daring to lay his hands on her, gladly forfeiting her job in the process.
She could feel the heat radiating from his body; his breath as it lightly fanned her hair. But instead of being repulsed by it, she found she wanted more, craved it even. She longed for him to crush his mouth against hers and consume her completely. A tiny part of her was screaming inside her head, demanding to know what the hell she thought she was doing; screaming a terrified warning, a high, pitiful sound. The rest of her just didn't care.
He shifted her wrists to one hand, and slowly lifted her head up with one finger. His eyes bored into hers, cold and dark like the vacuum of space, but with an intensity that burned into her very soul. The feeling of his fingers against her wrist was exquisite and a wave of heat swept through her body, leaving her skin tingling.
"Why?" he repeated, stronger this time. Joanne just shook her head, utterly at a loss for words. He smiled slowly, a cruel twist of the lips.
His finger traveled down the side of her neck – eliciting a very telling hitch in her breath – and around her shoulder. His hand curled around the back of her neck, squeezing ever so slightly, and he leaned forward. He's going to kiss me, she thought, barely coherent as her brain cried out a breathless Yes!
Her eyes fluttering shut, she lifted her face up, lips parted in invitation. When he was a hair's breadth away from kissing her, he stopped in mid-motion. A soft, pleading sound escaped her throat. Then he released her and stepped around her neatly, whispering in her ear as he passed.
"Never mind. I think I know why."
His voice was mocking, as was his face and smile as she woodenly turned around to face him. The bastard knew exactly what she was feeling, and he was laughing at her. Humiliation hit her like a hammer, turning foggy desire into instantaneous rage.
He turned away, and she launched herself at his back, a hoarse scream spilling out of her throat. It was like he was expecting it. She landed on his back, only to wind up thrown against the wall, his hand around her throat, choking her.
Joanne was caught in her own worst nightmare as his hand squeezed the air from her lungs. She was frozen with fear, but some small part of her brain must have realized that it was a power display, not a serious threat, because she couldn't help the frisson of desire that suddenly danced across her skin.
He must have felt it too, because his grip loosened. He watched her warily, a slightly puzzled expression on his face, and when she didn't move, his eyes slid down to her mouth. For a moment, time seemed to stand still. Then he once again curled his hand around the back of her neck, and kissed her.
It was a demanding kiss, but not without feeling. His lips descended on hers passionately, his fingers caressing the back of her neck until she thought her knees were going to buckle. He teased a response from her and she willingly opened her mouth when he deepened the kiss. Suddenly, she couldn't get close enough. His fingers slid through her hair, sending shivering spikes of pleasure over her skin. His free arm wrapped around her waist, pressing her even closer, and it sent a jolt of awareness through her that pulled her out of the haze of desire.
Reality crashed in on her and she pushed him away violently. She feinted a kick and when he instinctively jerked away, she slapped him with as much force as she could muster. His head snapped to the side and she could see red welts on his cheekbone from her fingernails. Good, some feral part of her snarled.
Like the cold snake that he was, he hit her right back. Her vision was reduced to a field of stars. It felt like her cheek had exploded, and she stumbled back against the wall, one hand against the side of her face.
They stared at each other over the expanse of brown carpet like two combatants in a duel, eyes dripping vitriol. Then he grazed his fingers over his cheek and when they came away red with blood he snarled in the back of his throat and started towards her. Joanne crouched down into a defensive stance.
Suddenly the door crashed open and Charles Gracen barreled into the room.
"What the hell is going on here!?" he bellowed.
Behind him, Gail and another assistant peered fearfully into the room. Gail's face was white. It seemed their little... spat had been less than discreet. Someone had called in the cavalry. Joanne twitched her head, and a curtain of hair fell down, covering her swollen cheekbone.
Neither of them said anything, but when Chaz's eyes fell on the scratches on Jim's face, he turned on Joanne, a furious look on his face. She could see it coming, this was it. The word "axed" had never felt so apt.
"Joanne! I told you to keep your feelings-"
Before he could continue, however, Profit cleared his throat quite noisily, drawing his attention.
"Mr. Gracen. I'm afraid the fault here rests entirely with me."
Chaz looked shocked, but not half as much as Joanne. "What?" he blurted out. So did Joanne, but luckily it was drowned out by Chaz. Though she had a feeling it didn't pass Profit by unnoticed, judging by the tiny spark of amusement in his eyes. He tugged his shirt straight and gave an apologetic, if annoyingly enigmatic, smile.
"Yes. It was my fault. I misunderstood. Ms Meltzer was entirely within her rights to slap me."
Somehow, he managed to make the forthright admission of guilt sound smug and satisfied, even if she doubted anyone else could hear it. She gritted her teeth together and managed to swallow the angry retort that came to mind. Chaz gave her a speculative look.
"Really?" he asked, not sounding very convinced.
"Really," Profit said calmly.
Joanne managed to nod in agreement, forcing out a smile.
"Well," Chaz continued, "I'm sure you can handle it from here then." He turned to leave, but stopped in the doorway. "Leave the door open, for now. We wouldn't want any more... misunderstandings, would we?" he said in an icy tone.
Then he left, and silence fell in the office, thick enough to cut with a knife. Joanne was still shaking. Profit, though, leaned against his desk casually, looking as infuriatingly calm as always, despite the welts, as if the entire world hadn't just crashed down around them. No, she corrected herself. Around me. He obviously couldn't care less.
The sudden and seamless shift from snarling rage to his usual polite, charming mask was truly chilling.
He looked like he was about to say something, and once again, like a damned weakling, she legged it. She rushed past the still white-faced Gail and into her office. Slamming doors and drawers she gathered up her stuff and left.
/
A few hours later, Joanne sat in her car outside Profit's apartment building, hands frozen on the wheel and eyes staring blindly out into the descending dark.
She was caught in a conundrum. It seemed he was the only reason she still had a job. It warranted a thank you, even if his gallantry was a sham, as fake as the rest of him. She wanted to scream in frustration at the thought of being beholden to that man for anything, but forced herself to relax.
She knew he hadn't meant to save her. He was trying to manipulate her, use her feelings and humanity like a weapon against her. If he could make her feel grateful to him – for anything, big or small – it would be one step towards laying their mutual animosity to rest; one step towards disarming the threat she posed to him and his future advancement in the Gracen and Gracen hierarchy. It was all one, giant calculated move.
A tiny frown appeared on her brow. Except, maybe, for that kiss...
He's playing you. God, don't be an idiot.
But she knew she was about to do something really stupid, and she could hardly believe it herself. She groaned and leaned her forehead against the steering wheel. Stupid, stupid, stupid... She punctuated her litany by hitting her head repeatedly against the wheel.
A complex mix of fear, anger, embarrassment and attraction – that damned attraction again – roiled inside her. She took a deep breath and stepped out of the car, taking a perverse satisfaction in slamming the door behind her with an irritated flick of the wrist.
She looked up towards the penthouse. Of course he lives in a penthouse, she thought sourly, what else? The apartment was brightly lit, windows blazing against the dark sky with an almost ominous glow. He was probably waiting for her, waiting with the infinite patience of a fat, smug spider in the center of his web, just hoping that a juicy damselfly would stumble into his grasp.
She hesitated mid-step as a wave of apprehension threatened to turn her stomach inside out. On its heels came an undeniable thread of exhilaration. She pressed a hand to her middle. God, what is it with that man? Most days she just wanted to smash his face in, and now she lusted after him? What the hell is wrong with you? She knew she should probably turn around and run like hell in the opposite direction, but stubborn as she was, she continued walking.
A messenger was heading out through the door just as she arrived and he happily held the door open for her as she fired off her brightest megawatt smile at him. At least she wouldn't have to explain why she was here over the dammed intercom, standing on the sidewalk, hat in hand like a beggar.
The ride up seemed endless and the inane muzak set her teeth on edge. When the elevator doors opened, she was faced with a long, empty hallway lit only by muted sconces. Hesitantly, she edged out onto the marble floor. The doors dinged shut behind her, and she jumped. Get a grip, she told herself sternly.
Throwing caution to the winds, she marched up to his door and rang the doorbell. Barely a sound escaped through the thick front door, and Joanne frowned, beating down a fresh wave of uneasiness.
Then Profit answered the door, his eyes widening slightly as they fell on her.
"Joanne. What a surprise." For a moment he looked almost taken aback, but then he opened the door wide and made an inviting gesture. "Please, come in."
Joanne hesitated, but stepped over the threshold. She cast him a curious glance as she passed. Was she imagining things, or was that discomfort she had seen flash briefly over his face? Maybe he didn't appreciate her invading his territory. It was an intriguing thought. Yeah. Right. Dream on.
Whatever it was she had seen, he seemed to have made a quick recovery. He was now smiling affably, playing the part of courteous host as well as he played normal human at the office.
"May I offer you a drink?"
She felt like rolling her eyes, but settled for an insincere smile. "No, thank you."
He looked good. His suit jacket and tie were gone and his sleeves were rolled up, showing off his muscular forearms. Most men couldn't manage it without looking like slobs, but he wore casual just as well as he did professional. She had a feeling he would blend in easily just about anywhere; his lack of morals and easy charm would certainly help with that. Lucky for him he's a sociopath.
He took a seat in a comfortably upholstered chair and leaned back. He seemed completely at ease, his mien disinterested, bored even. 'Seemed' being the operative word. She could see the slight hum of tension clinging to his shoulders. But tension about what? Her? Surely not. Careful, Jim. Your mask is slipping, she thought spitefully.
"So... What can I do for you?" he finally said.
The small, and petty, measure of triumph she felt as he was the one to break the silence, quickly died when she realized it was time to fess up. She decided to stay standing, preferring to maintain at least some sense of control over the situation.
"I came to thank you for not letting Chaz fire me. For whatever reason you did it." She took a deep breath, and raised her chin defiantly. "Thank you."
She thought she saw a brief flash of admiration in his eyes, but then the supercilious smile was back. Okay, so it wasn't exactly supercilious, but having seen his true nature had forever altered her perception of him. She saw through all his pretense, right down to the ruthless predator at his heart, and she suspected he knew it. Why no one else could was quite beyond her.
"You're welcome." Somehow he managed to make even that small courtesy sound condescending. He was looking at her with a puzzled air, and she let her eyes wander.
His apartment was fabulous, of course. Fabulous and huge. It had a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows with what must be a spectacular view, and the biggest freaking fireplace she had ever seen in her life. Joanne couldn't help but feel a tiny sting of envy. She was just an ex-cop, even if she did work for a multi-million-dollar conglomerate. She didn't make nearly as much money as he did, even though she had been working there longer.
When she refocused on him, he was still watching her. She could almost hear the tiny cogs and wheels turning in his head, his cold, detached mind ever calculating. A tiny smile played about his lips. Joanne froze, like a deer in the headlights. Uh-oh... That's never a good sign.
She crossed her arms over her chest, trying for flippant and knowing he probably wasn't buying it. "Why not just let him fire me? That's one enemy out of the way, right?"
The smile widened. He crossed his arms, mirroring her. "Now where would be the fun in that?"
A spark of anger ignited inside her. Him and his fucking games. "Hey, let me make one thing absolutely clear, mister. I am not here to dance to your little tune."
He grew very still, eyes boring into hers. "Then why are you here?"
Joanne opened her mouth to speak, but – to her absolute horror – nothing came out. She had thought she knew why she was here, but all of a sudden those reasons seemed as flimsy as a cheap umbrella. She swallowed nervously. Oh God, why am I here? "Common fucking decency," she said with a snort of contempt. "Sorry, my mistake," she added sarcastically. It was a good show, but her eyes flitted away from his, betraying her.
Her instincts were screaming at her to leave, and once again – immediately cursing herself for her stupidity – she made the mistake of turning her back on him. She gave a startled cry as his arms clamped around her from behind like a steel vise.
"Get the hell off me," she snarled and struggled against him, but he just laughed that same low, amused laugh that always drove her completely up the wall. Insufferable man.
"Come on," he said in that mocking tone. "We both know exactly why you're here." He pressed her even closer, speaking right into her ear in a sensuous whisper. Goose-flesh danced over her skin. "What's the matter, Joanne? Cat got your tongue?" One of his arms pressed suggestively against the underside of her breasts and she gasped. "I'm not holding you that hard. Go on, defend yourself." His voice suddenly crept low. "Finish what you started," he all but growled.
Again, she swallowed convulsively, and closed her eyes. Damn him, damn him straight to hell. Is that why I came here? To finish what we started, be it the fight or the kiss? Then God help me.
She should have fought back then, left immediately when she sensed the danger she was in. Instead she just stood there in his arms, breathless and trembling. She didn't know what to say, so she said nothing, even knowing he would see it as a victory.
"No?" Harshly, he turned her around, one hand twisting in her hair. Her eyes flew open and were immediately caught in his. His smile was triumphant, gloating – the predator enjoying the inevitable surrender of the prey – and still she said nothing.
Her eyes, though, spoke volumes. They were twin pools of swirling emotion, a terrible conflict warring in their depths and begging for salvation. Jim didn't quite know why, but he answered the unspoken plea and crushed his lips against hers.
Joanne whimpered, hating the tiny sound even as it escaped her lips. Then she wrapped her arms around his neck and surrendered to his passionate embrace.
Damn. I always did have the worst taste in men.
The End