3 Pushy Women Don't Work Here

Dane

Dane slammed the door of his office and stalked back to his desk. But he was so angry he couldn't sit down. So he paced back and forth, breathing through his teeth. There was a strange feeling in his chest and he couldn't shake it. It wasn't the rage that had driven him for the past ten years. And it definitely wasn't embarrassment—he didn't care what anyone thought of him. But . . . despite his burning anger, a very, very small part of him was impressed. She hadn't backed down.

Delilah Farris. Lila.

How could he call that woman "Lila" with a straight face? It sounded like some precious flower, or the name of perfume. But Delilah Farris reminded him more of a horrible stink. He'd never met a woman as strong as her—certainly not one who would stand up to him the first time they met.

That thought made the uncomfortable feeling in his chest get stronger. Which just made him even more angry.

He paced across his office, not seeing the beautiful panorama of the city below his floor-to-ceiling windows. He couldn't stop thinking about the way she'd spoken to him. Her finger pointed at him as if he were a child. And the oddly warm feeling that had crept up behind the anger at the sheer balls she had to have in order to speak to him like that.

He ran a hand through his hair and shook off thoughts of the troubling woman, forcing himself to face the thing he didn't want to think about. That was what a sharp mind did: It refused to ignore the hard truth.

And Dane Daniels' hard truth was, women were afraid of him. Oh, sure, some of the crazy ones wanted to sleep with him. And in the past couple years, women seeking fame had agreed to be seen on his arm. And of course, everyone wanted his money. But they always watched him out of the corner of their eyes—like they were worried he might suddenly tackle them to the ground and pull out a knife. And beyond the time it took to enjoy themselves in bed, even the crazy ones never wanted to be alone with him.

No one invited Dane Daniels to dinner. No one sat him on the couch for a movie. No. He was a date for the red carpet, or a quick screw before heading home, texting pictures to her friends on the way. And always, always they whispered about him. He'd heard the rumors. He knew what the stories said he might be. It didn't seem to matter that the stories were lies. Everyone wanted to believe them. So instead of fighting it, he'd used it to his advantage. After all, who better to have protecting you against criminals, than another criminal?

That thought made him grind his teeth. He'd only started this business because he'd watched his own mother and sister hurt. He'd been so determined not to become his own abusive father, so angry when the rumors followed him, that he'd decided to do the exact opposite of what his father did.

Dane Daniels had made a fortune out of keeping important women safe. The irony was glorious.

He knew he was intimidating despite the good looks he'd inherited from his father. He knew most women found him attractive—but also scary. Most days, the only reason he had to smile was because he knew he was the strongest man in the room.

But sometimes . . . just sometimes . . . it was lonely. In his softer moments it made him sad that no one was ever comfortable around him.

Which made him think of Delilah again.

The way she'd taken control of that conversation when he and Chris had been so clearly about to fight. The way she'd faced him down as if he didn't frighten her at all. If she hadn't been telling him how to run his business (no one told him that) he would have applauded her. He'd been so surprised by her pure guts, for a moment he'd even forgotten how angry he was.

Which reminded him: He was angry with her. Very, very angry.

With a tense sigh he turned to the largest wall in his office—almost twice as tall as he himself, and running the entire length of the already massive room. Normally if someone entered, it appeared to be a wall covered in television screens and art. But when he pushed a button under the lip of his desk, the wall peeled back in panels, revealing a huge bank of television screens, a few computer data screens, security camera feeds, and a touch screen that could show him any client's face and details within three clicks.

Pushing the button at his desk, he was filled with satisfaction as the fruits of all his hard work was revealed, and he immediately walked to that client screen and began tapping, searching out the file for the woman who was currently trying to ruin his life.

Rebecca "Becky" Hanson had only been a client to the company for a few months. She'd gained a small amount of fame on one of those live talent shows. She'd had a genuine need for their help at first. But her star was already fading. Soon the public would have forgotten who she even was. And maybe she knew that. Maybe that's actually why she'd secretly met with a journalist and provided phone records and copies of their confidential contract. Maybe that was why she was accusing them of taking her money, then not coming to help when she activated the panic system.

It was basically the only action a client could take that could truly threaten their business at its core.

Dane frowned at the screen. He'd always had a bad feeling about the woman, but had never been able to discover why. And now it was grating on his very last nerve. With his history, if rich and famous women couldn't be certain Daniels Security would show up for them when they were scared, Daniels Security wouldn't exist anymore.

How had it come to this? He'd only ever had one rule: Stay on your toes. The staff knew their job was to be checking and double-checking their clients to make sure everyone was safe. Because Dane himself made twice-daily, random checks. It could be on any client, at any time. And even if the client didn't know a ball had been dropped, Dane would know if his staff weren't doing their jobs. And he'd make them pay.

This system had been flawless—until last week. Because one women got under Christian's skin and now . . . but it didn't matter. Dane couldn't change the past. But he could change the future. His staff needed to be terrified of him. It was the only thing that would stop them becoming lazy. Because security was ninety-nine percent boredom, and one percent life-threatening.

Anyone who took the edge off the staff's fear of him--their commitment to making sure he had no reason to be angry--was a danger to the whole business.

So, no matter how impressed he was, he had to fire Lila. Otherwise they'd all be putting their fingers in his face and lecturing him like that. And it was the clients who would really suffer.

His teeth ground as he took another circuit, pacing the office. There was no question. She couldn't stay. But just for a moment, before he fired her, he'd stay here, alone, and appreciate the fire inside her. The balls it took to stand up to him at all, let alone when he was already raging.

A little part of him would be sad to see her go. She was a firecracker. And he was a night sky. He would have liked to see how bright and long she could burn.

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