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Not to mention the Others. They would not be happy about this new addition. What they did about it was the real question. All he could do was wait. And that wasn’t how he rolled.
The intercom beeped. “Mr. Regatti and Mr. Martin are here,” the receptionist announced.
“Fine.” He had a business to run, several million-dollar companies, to be exact. People counted on him. This would wait until noon. “I’ll be in the conference room in five minutes. I need a pot of coffee.”
“Yes, Mr. Dean,” she answered, clicking off.
Regatti and Martin were all about projections and forecasts. They were his advisors, the best in their field, the best at keeping him on the strongest financial path. Which meant they’d give him shit about his choices—like always—and he’d do whatever he wanted—like always. He valued their input, but his instincts had the final say-so. And while he respected their relentless pursuit of solid numbers, it was going to be one hell of a long meeting.
He stood, slipped into his jacket, and adjusted the cufflinks of his shirt, putting thoughts of everything non-work related out of his mind.
Regatti wasn’t thrilled with the numbers on the new hybrid sportster launch, wanted to re-eval the marketing plan and spend more time on foreign markets.
Martin had a shit-fit over the money he was sinking into Robbin Pharmaceuticals & Research. They believed RPR was a lost cause, neither spearheading nor manufacturing anything that wasn’t already available on the market. Finn knew the truth. Hollis Robbins’s research was invaluable, to the masses and to a very specific population he had a personal interest in. Dean’s investment was non-negotiable, and he made that clear.
When they left, neither was happy.
Finn glanced at his watch. Ten thirty. His irritation returned with a vengeance. He could only hope Jessa Talbot was the right one for the assistant job. He didn’t have time to fi
nd someone else. But his preliminary reading, and Brown’s thorough background check, had suggested she was the most likely candidate. Educated, well-liked, with excellent references and reviews. According to Brown, no one had a negative thing to say about the woman. But two key things stood out to Finn: Jessa Talbot was the primary caregiver to four younger siblings, and she was struggling financially—desperately. Meaning Miss Talbot had hands-on experience and compelling motivation to accept his offer.
He strode into the waiting room of his office, tense and wary. A new scent reached him, sending his senses on high alert. He scanned the room, his attention locking on a woman staring out the floor to ceiling window.
Long blond hair twisted into a knot with a pencil stuck through.
The collar of her white shirt was worn, but the garment was pressed and clean.
Black skirt that hugged an amazing ass and killer legs.
Her pulse was rapid—agitated. There was a slight waver to her breath. He listened, far too intrigued. He closed his eyes, reining in the purely primal response she stirred.
The silver chain he wore beneath his dress shirt felt hot and heavy, the instincts he fought against daily rising in challenge. His wolf was waiting, demanding to know who she was. But deep inside Finn wasn’t sure he liked the answer.
…
“Close the door, please.” Finnegan Dean’s voice was low, warm, but hardly comforting. She swallowed, hoping he couldn’t see how completely rattled she was by this abrupt summons. “Miss Talbot?”
Jessa closed the carved wooden door, drawing in a long, slow breath to settle the anxiety tightening her throat. It wasn’t every day she was called to Finnegan Dean’s office. As the head of Dean Industries, time was a precious thing. Invariably, she worst-cased things.
Was she getting fired? Her siblings’ future relied on her staying employed. Shelby and Harry’s tuition was coming due, and Landon’s college application fees were starting to roll in. Had she done something wrong? Yes, she’d come in late a few days, but she’d always made up for it—missing lunches or staying long into the night. She flexed her hands, smoothing her clammy palms along the seams of her fitted black pencil skirt. Surely not. It didn’t make sense. After three years of sterling employee evaluations, he had to know she gave her all to his company. She could not lose this job. She turned, assuming as calm a demeanor as possible.
Finnegan Dean waited, his bright gaze steady, piercing—unapologetically intense. The longer he stared at her, the more concerned she became. His expression was blank, only the firm tick of his jaw muscle revealed stress. When his gaze returned to the papers on his desk, she could breathe again.
“Please, sit,” his voice remained low, his attention never wandering from the document he was reading.
Jessa sat in one the large leather chairs opposite his heavy carved desk, feeling small and invisible. She tried not to stare at the man before her. He looked like a model. One of those ridiculously perfect-looking men. From a cologne ad, maybe. Perfect, chiseled profile. Clear, blue eyes. Dark blonde hair, tousled just so. He was big and broad—undoubtedly muscled and fit underneath his impeccably tailored suit—shrinking the room.
She stared at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap. But the agitated rhythm his long, tapered fingers tapped out on his desktop drew her attention back to him. Whatever he was reading, he seemed engrossed. His eyes narrowed briefly, the soft tapping stopped, and his brow arched. But then his features eased and he set the paper aside.
Cool, assessing eyes regarded her as he propped his elbow on the edge of the desk and rested his chin on his fist. Jessa prepared for the worst, every muscle tensing in anticipation. But, in a company this size, surely Mr. Dean wouldn’t summon her into his office just to fire her.
“How are you, Miss Talbot?” He paused. “Do you enjoy your work as Miss Ramirez’s executive assistant?”
She shifted in the chair, considering his questions. Miss Ramirez? Was this for her review? How to put it nicely? Eileen Ramirez wasn’t the worst boss she’d had, but Jessa would be hard pressed to say much positive about her current supervisor. It was a job. A job that paid well. A job she could not afford to lose. “I’m well, Mr. Dean. I’m very happy working here and being part of Dean Industries. Thank you.”
There. That was a safe answer.
From the tightening of his mouth and the narrowing of his brilliant blue eyes, he knew it, too.
