Nowforruing gracefully agreed to beta this. Thank you.
I don't own Twilight.
2.
2007
I knew I was in trouble when she looked up at me, scowling.
"Maybe that came out wrong." I flashed my most winning smile, but didn't get the desired reaction.
"Indeed." She nodded curtly, gave me a once over and stepped around me.
"An apology might be in order, don't you think?" I said, looking for a quick introduction – so sure of myself.
The click clack of her heels came to an abrupt stop. I turned around and stared at her while loosening my soiled tie.
She walked three steps back in my direction, allowing me to let my gaze linger. I'd become an expert at discerning the value of things over the course of my career. So I noticed how her perfect tits were draped by a silken beige blouse, how her tight little shape was fitted into a fashionable yet conservative black pencil skirt, and how her long legs were accentuated by a nice set of steep heels. The girl in front of me embodied class with ease – Bergdorf Goodman style and Park Avenue penthouse money rolled up into one.
"I am, without a doubt, sorry you did not watch where you were going, but then again men like you never do. No," she said coolly, shaking her head, "they walk right over anybody in their way."
"Interesting theory. Though I think in this case you're wrong. And beside – you walked into me."
And then she did what no woman had ever done before – she raised her eyebrows once, a condescending sneer forming on her lips, before turning and walking away without another word, effectively ignoring me as if I was made of thin air.
"That's the voice." I had forgotten that I'd had an audience for my one-on-one with the girl until I heard Emmett say those words followed by an obscene clacking sound.
"She answered my line?"
"I only ever call the 1-800 number to this place," he answered, shrugging his shoulders.
When we walked past the reception desk to my office, I was greeted by the customary "Good afternoon, Mr. Cullen," but the world wasn't righted by it.
I got rid of Emmett the minute he finished stuffing his face with the sandwich and called one of my buddies from the trading floor who always was in the know if an attractive female joined the club.
"Jasper fucking-king-of-short-sales Whitlock at your command, Cullen. How's the cushy leather seat treating your ass? Getting soft yet?"
"Shut up. What derivative crap are you pushing these days, Whitlock?"
"Oh, you know the usual – mortgage backed stuff. What else is there?"
"Right, right. Actually not calling to talk shop but was wondering whether you happened to have the 411 on a brunette, near a ten on the rating scale, slightly snotty and uptight?" An image of her blouse closed up to the last button flashed across my mind.
"Near a ten on the rating scale? Are you certain? I'd imagine a hot little bunny like that wouldn't have escaped my attention, but your description off-hand doesn't ring a bell."
"Definitely high marks. Neatly accessorized with classy clothing and a smooth voice."
"Okay, since I trust your judgment, I think I should be able to dig something up."
"Sure. Later." I hung up the phone in annoyance and summoned my secretary via the intercom.
"Yes, Mr. Cullen?" I heard her chirp as she entered.
"Jess, I need a new BlackBerry … actually get two while you're at it. And take the suit I wore this morning to the dry cleaner."
"Would that be all, sir?"
"Yes … actually, no. You wouldn't happen to know where our 800 number gets picked up?" I asked without looking up from one of the monitors on my desk.
"Which one?"
"What do you mean which one?" I asked, watching the Dow rise to a new high.
"Well, as I'm sure you are aware, there are several 800 numbers, depending on which department you are trying to reach."
I wasn't aware. Not that it mattered.
"If someone would try to reach this department, for example, via a toll-free number, where would the call go first?"
"Oh, for the big clients the number goes directly to the front desk on this floor. Lauren, the receptionist, usually connects them."
"I see." Jess turned out to be as useless as Whitlock and I dismissed her with a wave of my hand.
My interest wasn't in Lauren, and even Emmett's mom used to suggest there was something wrong with his hearing, so I knew I might have been following a cold trail.
After some after-hours trading, I left the office still early enough to glance at the reception desk on my way out and it confirmed my suspicion: the brunette wasn't sitting there. Brassy blond was in clear view. Whatever job the girl I collided with held at this firm, I highly doubted she was anybody's secretary or receptionist.
My first step was clear: find out what her name was and where she worked – piece of cake, I was certain. Once I'd figured that out, the next step would be the tricky one. I needed to charm her, make her fall for me. The ultimate goal of the mission – and this again I knew with certainty even then – was to make her mine.
I'd never attempted to lure, woo, entice – whatever you wanna call it – a woman before.
You know, the ritual where a guy actually has to work to get the girl? Yeah, that ritual was something completely foreign to me.
Attracting the attention of the female of the species had never been my weak point. I usually got what I wanted without much effort even when I didn't have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out off. When I started making money hand over fist, I only had to snap my fingers to get prime meat. Yet my gut instinct told me that she might present a challenge.
And maybe that was part of her appeal, at least initially. Maybe that was why I immediately knew I wanted her. There was something so aloof in her response to me that irked me and beckoned me at the same time.
I wasn't too concerned though. I still had some aces up my sleeve, I thought, and since I'd never failed at anything before, I was full of foolish confidence. It simply didn't occur to me that winning over the girl would be the hardest thing I'd ever tried.
The next morning, after a quick check on the markets in Europe from home, I drove to the office at five AM to get an early start. I was greeted by a "Good Morning, Mr. Cullen," as I walked to my office, and for the first time in a long time I bothered to look at the receptionist's face; it was as average as her voice, I decided after a quick glance, cementing my suspicion that Emmett was hard of hearing.
My goal was to get as a good overview of the early trading and then walk into the company cafeteria around nine AM, when most of the employees who didn't work on the trading floor arrived and stopped by for a cup of coffee. If my instincts were correct, and they had never failed me before, she wasn't a trader. In fact, she didn't fit any of the neatly established drawers I'd sorted the people who worked at this place into.
Something about her, possibly her self-righteous attitude, told me she didn't care for money – a rare sentiment among the firm's employees. Despite the fact that all the little junior analysts told you with earnest expressions on their faces that they were drawn to the field of investment banking after they got hooked on microeconomics in college, they were there for one reason and one reason only: to get rich. My guess, considering her dress and style, was that she was someone who was born rich and therefore saw no need to amass further. Of course that didn't solve the puzzle of what position she held, and more importantly, why she was working for the firm to begin with.
As I walked into the cafeteria, I wasn't disappointed. Indeed, she was there, lining up behind a cash register to pay for a cup of coffee, wearing a blue wrap dress, and a different set of pretty heels with her hair in a bun.
I grabbed an apple quickly and moved to stand behind her.
"Good morning," I said, leaning over her shoulder before biting into the apple with a loud crunch.
She didn't respond or move.
"Bad day? Little bit early for that," I continued unperturbed.
"Why no, actually until two seconds ago the day had been quite pleasant," she said in an icy tone while handing the cashier her card to swipe.
I laughed.
"Wow, I'm hurt. I had no idea that a simple greeting could turn your day sour." The girl rolled her eyes at me and walked away, though I swore that just for a nanosecond I detected the hint of a smile on her face.
I swiped my card and followed her right into a cramped elevator. She stood behind me, and I couldn't resist turning around and grinning at her. When my floor came up, I didn't get off and instead stayed. Another two floors later, the place had cleared out and I moved to stand next to her.
"So, how long have you been working here?"
"Today is my second day. Not that it's any of your business."
"So is it only me or the place?"
"To be frank – both." She stepped forward to get out of the elevator. When I didn't make any attempts to follow her, she looked at me with furrowed eyebrows. "This is the last stop. You're not getting off?"
I shook my head, smirked and took another bite from my apple.
"Well…" She looked confused for the first time.
The elevator doors closed and she was still staring.
I sprinted out the doors on my floor. The chase was on. I knew the floor she worked on. Finding out her name from there on wouldn't be too difficult.
"Sir, I have Mr. Whitlock on line one for you," Jess announced as I walked into my office.
"Tell him, I'll call him back." Pulling up the internal directory with accompanying photos to figure out who exactly was working on that fortieth floor would be a quicker way to find out what I wanted to know. The details were just a finger click away. Beside, I didn't want to shoot shit with Whitlock.
"He asked me to tell you that he has the scoop … the 411 you're looking for," Jess said with some trepidation in her voice. She knew I didn't like to be interrupted once I told her I wouldn't take the call.
"It's alright, Jess," I answered, and heard her exhale in relief. "Put him through."
"Give me what you got, Whitlock." I leaned back in the chair with my headset on, swung around and stared down at the busy street, people crawling along like ants.
"Okay, your perfect ten is indeed a ten," he said, followed by a low whistle. I was annoyed
"I know that already. Cut to the chase."
"Testy, Cullen." He snickered. "No worries. I'm not up for a pissing contest over this one. She's all yours as far as I'm concerned, not that I'm suggesting you go there. So here's the story: her name is Isabella Marie Swan. She started working as an intern for one of the bigwigs up in private equity yesterday. Word is she's his niece and got the job despite no econ or math background. Oh, and her daddy is none other than hedge fund guru Charles Swan. That's all I know. Make a circle I say."
"I see."
I wasn't intimidated by who her father was, nor did her uncle's position, most likely as an SVP, scare me away.
Call me arrogant, but if you made it as far as I had on your own, the guy who'd inherited a halfway viable investment firm and just had to build it up, was not that impressive. I'd outranked and out-earned most of my fellow graduates, born with a silver-fucking-spoon in their mouths and a sense of entitlement so strong that they thought working on the trading floor was beneath them, after just a year with the firm. I went from highest earning trader to analyst to senior associate within four years straight while finishing up my MBA at night.
The information only spurned me on. Money wouldn't impress her, so I'd just have to work a little harder …
Thank you for reading.
