HelenKay Dimon: Switched

“Only for as long as it takes to end this thing.” He figured he had seconds only before he had to be ready for whatever came through that door. “I want you to know one thing.”

He didn’t touch her, because his control would break and right now he needed his mind in the game. But later everything would be different. “When this is over I’m going to kiss you. One of those long, sexy kisses that knock your shoes off and have you wondering why you ever bothered to kiss a man before me.”

“You’re awfully sure of yourself,” Risa said.

“It comes from the slow buildup of simple dates to a complex disaster. This has been brewing. It’s all wrapped up with adrenaline and excitement.” He leaned in. “And now it’s out of our control.”

Award-winning author HELENKAY DIMONspent twelve years in the most unromantic career ever—divorce lawyer. After dedicating all that effort to helping people terminate relationships, she is thrilled to deal in happy endings and write romance novels for a living. Now her days are filled with gardening, writing, reading and spending time with her family in and around San Diego. HelenKay loves hearing from readers, so stop by her website, www.helenkaydimon.com, and say hello.

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Aaron McBain stood in the only doorway without mistletoe taped to the beam and checked his watch for the tenth time. The schedule ticked along with precision. No surprises. No problems.

He knew that was a bad sign.

No holiday party ever ran on time or as planned. Actually, no party, meeting or anything sponsored by Craft Industries sailed along without an issue. But a half hour before the official kickoff, a steady line of sullen office workers dressed in gray suits filed in and now hovered in groups around tables and near the Christmas tree set up on the small stage at the far end of the room.

Absent was the usual happy holiday chatter found at similar events for other companies, likely because the boss declared attendance mandatory for this after-hours, nowhere-near-the-office party. Amazing how requiring people to have fun guaranteed they didn’t.

Neither did the thirty-mile drive from their northern Virginia office building in McLean to the Elan Conference Center at the edge of the metro area’s wine country in Loudoun County. Lowell Craft, the company’s president and owner, lived out there and didn’t care what kind of traffic disaster the Washington, D.C., rush hour imposed on everyone else.

Aaron wasn’t exactly on fire for the party, either, and the drive was only one frustration. For the past three months, since he and his team had been hired by Lowell to provide him with extra security, he’d been handling everything from drunken rages in the office hallways by dismissed employees to outright threats against Lowell. And since Lowell spouted some controversial business theories, including one about how what motivated the staff was a series of unexpected firings on Fridays, it was amazing the guy wasn’t attacked in the office parking lot every afternoon.

But there was a viable threat today, had been for months since Lowell got the first note promising a painful death if he didn’t step down as head of the company by Christmas. Which was why Aaron stood three feet away from where Lowell inspected the buffet table, wearing his usual frown. He apparently didn’t approve of the festive atmosphere the center had provided. Not a surprise to Aaron since as far as he could tell Lowell didn’t like anything.

Aaron blew out a long breath as he listened to his assistant, Royal Jenkins, whistle an annoying tune into the open-ear mic. When the frustrated exhale didn’t drive the point home, Aaron tried an across-the-room scowl at the man who was younger, fitter and less disciplined but possessed sniper-level shooting skills thanks to his short army stint.

Finally Aaron went for the direct approach with Royal. “Any chance you could stop that?”

“You want to request a different song?” Royal smiled as he nodded a welcome to Angie Troutman, the woman who by day ran the Craft human resources department and by night serviced Lowell. Their evening activities were a constant source of office gossip.

“Let’s start with a moment of silence and then go from there,” Aaron said.

Royal walked across the room and two seconds later stood next to Aaron. “You notice something missing at this party?”

Aaron watched the employees crowd together at a point in the room farthest away from their boss. “People who actually want to be here?”

“There is that, but no.”

“Is it the lack of anything resembling holiday cheer or happiness?”

“Music.”

“Ah, yes. Lowell sent around a memo prohibiting music in the workplace.” Aaron eyed the business dictator in question as he moved around the serving platters the catering staff had just carefully arranged on the buffet. When the man snapped his fingers at one of the servers to get his attention, Aaron looked away. “Lowell said something about the Christmas carols distracting the employees from their work.”

“But we’re not at the office.”

“I’m not sure Lowell sees a distinction. All fun is bad.”

“With his lack of holiday spirit, why bother throwing the party at all? Unless he’s charging them to attend.” Royal’s gaze shot to Aaron. “Oh, man. He’s not, is he?”

“Worse, I heard the party is in place of year-end bonuses and cost-of-living adjustments for the next year.”

“Classy.”

Despite his distaste for Lowell, Aaron had to watch over the guy. Aaron had enough troubles without blowing this assignment. Unlike Craft’s, Aaron’s staff got bonuses and had time off and were even allowed to get sick now and then. All of that required money. Lowell did pay his bills, which allowed Aaron to keep paying his. A timely check was just about the only positive aspect of Lowell’s personality Aaron could find.

Not that Lowell was making the current job easy. At the beginning of the assignment, he’d had a habit of disappearing during the middle of the day and then wandering back in with a stupid grin a few hours after lunch. He did that until Aaron started shadowing the older man’s every step.

Slim and tall with brown hair peppered with gray, Lowell had the kind of power and money many women found attractive, though Aaron had no idea why. The guy reeked of the same smarminess usually reserved for career politicians. He possessed all the people skills of a serial killer. He never offered his age, but people who knew him back when pegged it in the mid-fifties. He had a wife and a twenty-three-year-old son, and just like the people who worked for him, neither family member could stand him.

Then there was the other side of Lowell’s life. The man pretended to be a what-you-see-is-what-you-get type, but Aaron knew better. You couldn’t dig into every aspect of a man’s existence without having to brush off some dirt. And this Craft guy slid around in mud every single day.