she figured if he was so focused on results, he would appreciate someone who was goal-oriented and hardworking and ambitious.
And nervous. Don’t forget nervous.
Because even though she was prepared to do her damnedest to prove herself—including waking up at the crack of dawn to make a positive first impression—if Whitman ran true to form, there were going to be a lot of retrenchments in the next weeks and months, and there was a chance she might be one of them. Which was why she’d updated her résumé this weekend, too.
She might be an optimist, but she wasn’t stupid.
She checked her watch. One of the articles she’d read claimed Henry Whitman started work at six-thirty every day, without fail. Which meant he should be arriving any second now.
She gathered an armful of papers and strode toward reception. No matter where he entered, Whitman had to pass through the foyer to get to the executive offices, and she planned on being very visible when he did so.
She felt more than a little foolish as she took up a position to the rear of the foyer. For all she knew, Henry Whitman might not even register her when he arrived. Or maybe he’d see right through her ploy and mark her down as a horrible little suck-up.
She glanced over her shoulder, wondering if she should give up on this crazy idea, go back to her desk and use her early start to put a dent in her workload instead of trying to manipulate events.
She wavered for a moment, but something inside wouldn’t let her back away from her plan to be noticed. Probably it was the same something that kept her at her desk many nights when most of her colleagues had gone home. If she had to try to distill it down to its component parts, she guessed it would be one part making up for lost time and two parts sheer grit and determination to carve out a useful, productive niche for herself in the world.
She might not be a doctor or a lawyer, but she was damned good at what she did, and that counted for something. Well, it did with her, anyway.
The sound of the door from the underground parking garage opening and closing echoed up the corridor. Lifting her chin, Audrey tightened her grip on her papers and stepped briskly into the foyer, trying to look as though she was on her way somewhere vital and important and urgent.
She pulled up short when she caught sight of the tall, broad-shouldered man striding toward her.
Not Henry Whitman, but Zach Black, fellow buyer and all-around thorn in her side. Why was she not surprised he was here ready to grease up to the new head honcho? The man oozed ambition; it was a miracle he hadn’t set up camp outside Whitman’s office in order to get a jump on everyone else.
She ignored the little voice that pointed out she was here to do exactly the same thing and cocked an eyebrow. There was the smallest of hitches in Zach’s stride as he saw her, then his mouth settled into the familiar, amused curve he always wore around her. As usual, he looked ridiculously, almost offensively handsome in a charcoal pinstriped suit, his pink-and-white checked shirt and pale gray tie managing to somehow straddle the fine line between professional and stylish.
“Mathews. You pulling an all-nighter or something?” he asked as he joined her.
Funny. Not.
“You read the Business Review Weekly article, didn’t you?” she guessed.
“Of course.” His dark blue eyes scanned her body. “New shoes. Nice touch.”
She fought the urge to squirm. So what if she’d put her best foot forward—literally—today of all days? It wasn’t a crime to be keen to impress your new boss.
“You had your hair cut,” she pointed out.
“It was due.”
She arched an eyebrow again. Who was he kidding? Like her, he’d clearly come prepared to smooch maximum butt this morning.
“Is he here yet?” he asked, glancing over her shoulder in the direction of the CEO’s office.
“Not yet.”
“Hmm.” He frowned and checked his watch. “Maybe he’s taking meetings off-site today.”
“Maybe.”
“Talking to some of the key suppliers.”
“Could be.”
A lock of almost-black hair flopped over his forehead, lending his good looks a more approachable, boyish appeal. An illusion, of course. Zach was a shark in a suit. He’d been recruited to Makers six months ago, bringing with him a reputation as a wunderkind who’d gone to the right schools and rocketed his way up the corporate ladder at light speed. She’d recognized him as her only real competition for the next category manager’s job that came up the moment she laid eyes on him, and time had done nothing to prove her instincts wrong.
Zach checked his watch again. “Might as well get some work done, I guess.”
She watched as he walked away, her gaze gravitating to the firm muscles of his backside. She had a running bet with her friend Megan that he had his suits specially tailored to flatter his rear. That was the only explanation for how good his butt looked and why he was universally known as the Man With the Golden Ass among the women in the building.
Good thing she was more of a leg woman.
She returned to her own office, frustrated that her grand plan had gone astray—and that she wasn’t the only one who’d had the genius idea of ambushing the new CEO.
Bloody Zach Black.
It took her a moment to get past the prickliness he always seemed to inspire in her to see the humor in the situation: the two of them getting up before sunrise to race into work to impress each other. If it was anyone else, she’d be laughing with them in the staff room over a cup of terrible instant coffee.
But it wasn’t anyone else; it was Zach. It didn’t help that he was three years younger than her with many years less experience in the industry, yet thanks to impressive academic qualifications and a short but stellar CV, had walked into a job on the same level and was probably getting paid more than her. She knew that was the way the world worked—that women, on average, earned 78 percent of what their male colleagues did in equivalent roles, and that the business community tended to value academic qualifications over working-your-way-up-the-ladder, hands-on experience—but it didn’t make it any easier to swallow.
Nor did his fancy suits and sleek European car and general air of swanky-well-groomed-well-bred-ness. The way he spoke, the way he dressed, even the car he drove seemed designed to let the world know he was that little bit better than everyone else.
Even if it was true, she didn’t need her face rubbed in it.
She also didn’t need to sit at her desk brooding over him. A few hours from now, the office would be buzzing with people who all wanted a piece of her busy schedule. In the meantime, she had a full in-tray to work her way through. More than enough to keep her mind off her pesky colleague.
* * *
ZACH TRIED TO concentrate on the spreadsheet on his computer screen. He was developing a new store-brand power-tool range with one of Makers’s big suppliers, and the information in front of him was important. Unfortunately, all he could think about was Audrey Mathews in her navy suit and new shoes.
She’d beaten him in. If he’d taken the time to think about it, he might have guessed she would do her homework on Whitman, that she’d note the man’s six-thirty start time, and that she’d be here early to impress the man, the same as him. As a general rule, though, he tried not to think about Audrey too much. Not only because he preferred to run his own race. There was something disturbingly distracting about her shiny brown hair and warm golden-brown eyes. Then there was the way she looked in her neat little suits. He shook his head and refocused on his computer. There were too many offerings in the cordless battery range at the budget end of the market. It was crazy to waste shelf space on what was essentially the same product with some minor tweaks.
Maybe