ROCK HARD
By Nalini Singh
New York Times Bestselling Author
Table of Contents
ROCK HARD
PART ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
PART TWO
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Author's Note
About the Author
Other Books by Nalini Singh
Copyright Information
1
Charlie-mouse Meets T-Rex... and Things Happen
Charlotte closed the final updated folder with a smile.
Pushing back from her desk after shutting down her computer, she stretched to loosen up the kinks, then decided to visit the restroom before heading out to catch the 6:15 bus home. It was a good bet it'd be blissfully empty this late on a Saturday since most people were coming into the city while she was heading in the opposite direction.
She could sit against the window and people-watch as the bus snaked up and out of the city's central business and entertainment district. Maybe she'd read the little booklet that described the spa treatments she planned to indulge in tomorrow. Her best friend had given her a gift card months ago, back on her birthday, but with work being so frantic as the interim management team tried to hold things together, followed by all the prep for the arrival of the new boss on Monday, she'd had no chance to use it.
Nudging her wire-framed glasses farther up her nose as she exited the restroom, she let herself back onto the floor, her mind already on the spa treatments she'd booked. The idea of a therapeutic mud bath had her close to a giggle--she'd chosen that one just so she could tell Molly she'd blown the gift card on fancy mud. Her friend would get a kick out of it.
Tonight, however, she had a date with the oven; she was itching to try out her new recipe for banana-nut cupcakes with buttercream frosting. All she had to do was grab her purse and coat and catch the elevator down. An easy five-minute walk to the bus stop, and if the service was running on time, she'd be on her way home soon afterward.
It was as she passed the fourth cubicle down that she heard it. A door slamming lightly against a wall, as if someone had pushed it a little too hard... or bumped it while trying to move with stealth.
Impossible.
There was no one else here. And no one was likely to have come in during the few minutes she'd been away from the floor. The others who'd been in today were long gone, their workstations silent. She had to have imagined it.
Another noise, this one duller. The kind an overstuffed manila folder might make as it fell to the carpet.
An invisible hand choked her throat.
Her body shook.
And her mind threatened to blank.
No. She straightened her shoulders. I am not a victim. Not anymore. Not ever again.
Repeating the mantra that had kept her sane for the past five years, she reached into a pants pocket to retrieve her phone. She never went anywhere without it, not even into the shower at home, having bought a waterproof case the same day she'd bought the phone. It was a crutch, but as Molly had said, so what?
If having the phone within reach allowed her to function, to step outside into the world, to not live in a cage, then no one had any right to judge her. It had taken Charlotte time, but she'd stopped judging herself for the need, too. In the grand scheme of her screwed-up psyche, her reliance on the safety net of a phone was a blip on the radar.
Unlocking the screen with icy fingers, she crouched behind the dark blue wall of a cubicle that belonged to a temp in Accounts and speed-dialed her best friend. "Pick up, pick up," she muttered near-silently as she chanced a peek around the corner.
When she concentrated, she was able to track the sounds of ongoing movement to the records room. As the records clerk, Charlotte had intimate knowledge of what was inside that room: computers full of sensitive commercial information as well as rows and rows of legal documentation including contracts and draft tenders, not to mention the personnel files for every employee who worked for Saxon & Archer Corp.
When Molly's answering machine came on, Charlotte realized she'd accidentally called Molly's home line rather than her friend's cell phone. She glanced at her watch. Molly was a librarian who worked Saturdays, but she should've been home by now, might just be in another room. "Molly," she said when the beep sounded, her voice trembling despite herself. "Please pick up."
Nothing. No response.
About to hang up and try Molly's cell phone, she heard the sound of the receiver being handled. Molly came on the line a second later, her tone sharp with concern. "Charlie, what's wrong?"
"Oh, you're home." Charlotte swallowed in a vain effort to wet a throat so dry it felt as if it were lined with broken gravel. "I just..." Taking a deep breath when her pounding heart threatened to drown out everything else, she said, "There's someone else in the office, and there shouldn't be. I came back from the bathroom and heard them moving around."
"Leave." Molly's voice was urgent.
It was good advice, but Charlotte didn't want to run, to hide. Didn't want to be a coward as she so often was.
Finding courage from the intense, painful frustration inside her, she said, "No." And though her skin was hot and her breath shallow, her pulse in her mouth, she rose from her crouch. "It's probably only the building security guard doing an unscheduled round," she added in an attempt to convince herself there was no reason to fear, "but could you stay on the phone with me while I go check it out?"
"I'm right here."
Grabbing a large stapler from the cubicle opposite where she'd been hiding, Charlotte slipped out of her low-heeled slides and padded down the beige of the carpet, trying to calm herself with rational thoughts. There was no reason for an intruder to break in to commit industrial espionage--everyone knew Saxon & Archer was in trouble; trouble so bad that even the sharks who usually circled dying companies had declared them of no interest.
That dire state of affairs was why the new CEO with his reputation as a ruthless negotiator with a razor-sharp mind had been brought on board. Rumor was the powers that be had been so desperate to secure his services they'd given him a chunk of the tightly held company as part of his pay package.
Of course, those shares would be worthless if he didn't manage the herculean task of hauling Saxon & Archer out of its death spiral--and Charlotte couldn't think about that, about the possibility of losing her job, without breaking into a cold sweat, so she shoved that line of thinking aside to focus on the here and now.
Right now it made no sense that someone would want to steal data on a floundering company. And there was nothing else here to steal. Unless this was one very aggressive recruiter who planned to poach Saxon & Archer personnel and was laying the groundwork. Yes, that was going to happen. Not.
It had likely just been files falling to the floor
, or a door moving because of a draft generated by an air-conditioning vent, or--
Screaming as she saw the shape of a very big, very muscular man move out from inside the records room, she threw the stapler.
He caught it in one big hand, stared at it with steel-gray eyes, then at her. A single raised eyebrow. "Perhaps you'd better answer that."
Charlotte realized he was talking about her phone. Her fingers had a death grip on it, and she could hear Molly yelling her name even from this distance. Bringing it to her ear as her face flushed to a no doubt horrific shade of red, she said, "I'm fine" to her best friend.
"I'm glad to hear that." With those words, the dark-haired and very familiar man across from Charlotte held out the stapler. "You might be needing this... Ms.?"
"Baird," she said in a croak of a tone. Coughing, she managed to clear it to a rasp. "Charlotte Baird." She held the phone against her chest and forced herself to meet the penetrating gaze of the six-feet-five, broad-shouldered, and dangerously gorgeous man she'd recognized a split second after she threw the stapler.
There were few people in the country who wouldn't recognize Gabriel Bishop, former pro rugby player, decorated captain of the national team, and holder of on-field records unbroken in the seven years since he'd been forced to retire because of a severe Achilles tendon injury. "Thank you... sir."
A nod, his hair glinting blue-black in the overhead light. He was gone a second later, a legal file held in his hand.
Walking back to her cubicle on shaky legs, Charlotte collapsed in her chair and buried her face in one hand, elbow braced on her desk. "I just met my new boss," she groaned into the phone. "Or more specifically, I threw an industrial-strength stapler at his head."
Molly laughed in open relief.
"Oh God, Molly, what if he fires me?" Charlotte didn't know how she'd find a new job. Interviewing for this one would've left her a nervous wreck if the human resources manager at the time hadn't been an older man on the verge of retirement who'd reminded her of her father.
"He's not going to fire you," Molly said. "You were in the office being a diligent employee, remember?"
"Right, that's right. I--"
"Ms. Baird."
Jerking around at the sound of that deep male voice, Charlotte said, "Yes." It came out a squeak.
"Have you been here all day?" Gabriel Bishop's eyes--cold, hard, incisive--pinned her to the spot, his big body blocking out the light.
She nodded, her voice having deserted her totally by this point. The man was a wall of pure muscle, like some Greek god carved by an adoring artist.
"In that case," he said, "I'm sure you're hungry. We'll go to a bistro I know nearby for dinner." It wasn't an invitation but an order. "You can bring me up to speed on certain issues." His eyes went to the phone in her hand. "Five minutes."
Waiting until his footsteps disappeared, Charlotte repeated his order into the phone, her stomach in knots. Even condemned prisoners got a last meal. Maybe Gabriel Bishop did the same for employees he was about to fire?
"Go," Molly said. "And order the most expensive thing on the menu."
"I'll probably throw it up." Her nerves twisted, then twisted again and decided to tie themselves into knots for good measure. "I better go--he said five minutes."
Molly wished her good luck and they hung up. Tidying herself up by redoing the ponytail in which she wore her barely shoulder-length blond hair, the strands so fine they tended to escape and curl around her face, she got up and slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder. Picking up her warm but shapelessly blocky brown coat afterward, she slid her feet into her abandoned shoes, then walked to the elevator.
She had a feeling her new boss intended for them to go to a particular upmarket bistro--the gossip pages liked to spy on him, though he didn't court the attention, and he'd been photographed there a number of times. Mostly with business associates. Every so often with a stunning model or pro sportswoman or heart surgeon. Once, he'd been seen with an up-and-coming member of Parliament. That had sent the gossip into the stratosphere.
His only "type" appeared to be tall and beautiful.
This would be the first time with a short, glasses-wearing blonde dressed in a badly fitting sweater.
At least she didn't have to worry a journalist looking for a scoop would snap a picture, Charlotte consoled herself. The fact she wasn't a date couldn't be clearer if she'd painted it on her forehead. Another piece of good news was that the bistro was only a two-minute walk away, so she didn't have to put on her coat; carrying the heavy brown mass gave her a way to hide her hands, which kept fisting and locking together when they weren't trembling.
"Ms. Baird."
Startled for the third time in seven minutes, she looked up to find her new boss--whom she'd attacked with a stapler--had taken the stairs to this level, when she'd expected to meet him in the lobby downstairs. "H-hi." Not so much a squeak this time as a croak.
Charlotte didn't think that was an improvement.
Pressing the elevator button, Gabriel Bishop nodded at her coat, his chiseled jaw bearing a hint of dark stubble. "It's windy out."
Hands feeling white-knuckled, she managed to say, "I'll be okay." It wasn't a total lie. Instead of her usual work outfit of a loose skirt-suit, she'd worn jeans and a round-necked navy sweater. Saxon & Archer had always been a little old-fashioned about appropriate office clothing, but everyone was more casual on weekends.
Even the boss wasn't wearing a suit, but well-loved jeans that had a rip at the knee and a stone-gray shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, his tanned forearms dusted with fine black hairs. What wasn't on display was the tattoo she knew covered his left pectoral muscle and his shoulder before flowing partway down his arm. Thick veins ran below the skin of his forearm, his strength apparent even at rest.
Gabriel Bishop was definitely not a "normal" CEO in any sense of the word.
The elevator arrived then, and he waved her in before stepping in himself. The cage had never before struck her as tiny, but then she'd never before been in it with a man whose shoulders were twice the width of hers; it was obvious he stayed in shape despite not playing professional rugby anymore. Not that she hadn't already known that from the photos she'd chosen for the new company brochure.
Anya was supposed to have organized that, but going through photos of the new boss was one task Charlotte hadn't minded handling for the other woman, even if she had allowed herself to get sidetracked by searching out images from his playing days. She'd thought she'd appreciated the impact of him, but it was different seeing him in person.
The photos didn't do him justice.
Gabriel Bishop wasn't simply strong and tautly muscled--he was a force of nature.
The photos of him on the rugby field were unbelievably hot, but the seven years since then had honed him, made him impossibly more gorgeous. No wonder women across the spectrum fell at his feet. Only last week, Charlotte had seen a report of a flirtatious blog post where a singer with a recent platinum album had named Gabriel Bishop as the one man she wouldn't kick out of bed for eating crackers.
Stepping out when the elevator doors opened on the ground floor, she gulped in a cool draft of air and managed a shaky smile at the security guard when Steven rose from his post behind what was the main reception desk during weekdays.
"Mr. Bishop, Charlotte, have a nice night."
"Thank you, Steven," Gabriel Bishop responded. "I'll see you tomorrow."
Then the two of them were walking to the sliding doors that led out onto the city's main street. It was relatively quiet outside, the tourists and shoppers having gone home and the retail stores closed or closing up, while the clubbers and partiers hadn't yet hit the streets. Before them would come the wave of people heading out to dinner at the restaurants in and around this area, as well as down on the waterfront.
Across the road, she glimpsed a group of men and women dressed in striped rugby jerseys, team scarves around their necks. It reminded her t
here'd been a special doubleheader at Eden Park today--it looked like fans who'd attended the first match had already started to trickle into the city for a post-match drink.
And all this mental procrastination wasn't doing anything to lessen her awareness of the large, powerful man at her side. Twisting her hands under her coat, she told herself to make small talk, lessen the chance of being fired, but every time she went to open her mouth, nothing came out.
Finally, frustrated with herself to the point that she could feel tears building behind her eyes, she blurted out, "I'm sorry. I thought you were an intruder."
"I survived." No anger in his voice, though the eyes he turned on her were assessing. "The stapler was too heavy for you to throw with any accuracy. Next time, try a hole punch."
Was that a joke?
Since she had no desire to rock the boat if he truly wasn't furious, she didn't say anything else and they were soon at the bistro where he was greeted by name and shown to a plum table by the window, though he couldn't have made the reservation any more than a few minutes earlier.
"Your coat?"
Coloring at being caught holding on to it like a security blanket, she handed the coat over to the male server who had the training not to turn up his nose at the distinctly non-designer cut. "Thank you," she said and pulled out her own chair before Gabriel Bishop could do it, not sure she could handle him at her back. He was too big, too overwhelming--and she hated strangers at her back regardless.
He watched her fight to pull the heavy chair back in under her but didn't comment.
Face hot, she tried to focus on the words handwritten on the thick, textured paper of the menu, but it might as well have been in Swahili.
"Have you made your choice?"
Because he was looking at her as if waiting for a decision, she pointed randomly at a line on the menu and hoped she wasn't ordering brains in a lovely mint sauce or something else equally unappetizing. The menu was whisked away a second later, water brought to the table.
"Now, Ms. Baird."
She looked up, hearing something in his voice that told her he expected attention. Those steely eyes were focused on her to the exclusion of all else. "Y...yes," she said, the word barely audible.
"Tell me about the current situation with the Hamilton land negotiation. It's obvious the potential buyers want the site of the old factory. It's equally obvious Saxon & Archer needs the capital. What's the holdup?"