The Bridal Suite. Sandra Marton
“I’d hate to see this become an obsession, Ms. Anderson,” His voice was polite, but his smile, this time, was cool. “You’re a valued employee, but so is Forrester. And he’s the man in charge.”
“Exactly,” Dana said before she could stop herself. “He’s the man in charge.”
“He is the right person for the job, Ms. Anderson. His gender has nothing to do with it. As for you... I suggest you rethink your position. Data Bytes would like to keep you— but if you’re not happy being part of the team, perhaps you might wish to move on.”
Dana had always prided herself on being a clear-thinking woman. She knew it was one of her best attributes, that cool, rational approach to life. It was why she’d succeeded at virtually everything she’d attempted, from the A’s she’d collected in elementary school straight through to the Phi Beta Kappa key she’d proudly acquired at Harvard.
And yet, at that moment, she wanted nothing more than to tell Griffin McKenna what he could do with his advice and his job.
But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. Her life, and her career, were moving forward just as she’d planned, or they had been, until the despicable McKenna came along. And she’d be damned if she’d let him derail all her plans.
“Ms. Anderson? Do I make myself clear?”
Dana forced herself to meet his cold glare with equanimity.
“Perfectly,” she said calmly. “Good afternoon, Mr. McKenna.”
And she turned on her heel and marched out of his office without a backward glance.
Dana banged open the door to the ladies’ room.
McKenna wasn’t despicable, he was detestable.
“The bastard,” she said between her teeth. She stalked to the nearest white porcelain sink, turned on the faucet, cupped her hands under the flow and splashed cold water over her burning cheeks. “The thick-skulled, insensitive lout!”
She yanked a paper towel from the dispenser, scrubbed it over her face, then balled it up and dumped it into the waste receptacle.
Was he blind? He’d bought his success with inherited money, but he did have some degree of talent. Everybody said so. Even Arthur, who knew about such things, said so.
“My dear,” he’d informed her after McKenna’s takeover, “the man is a financial genius.”
Dana had been so ticked off at hearing Arthur, of all people, say such a thing that the “my dear” had slid past her, instead of making her clench her teeth as it usually did.
“Financial genius, my foot,” she’d replied. “He’s a spoiled brat, born with an 18-karat spoon in his mouth.”
Arthur had set her straight, explaining that McKenna had been born to money, yes, but that even the most conservative analysts figured he’d tripled his inherited wealth by now.
“If you’d read the Journal,” Arthur had said kindly, “you’d be aware that the man knows all there is to know about leveraging stocks and corporate takeovers.”
Well, maybe he did. Dana leaned back against the sink, arms folded, and glared at the row of closed stalls. But he didn’t know spit about computers, or computer programs, and it was painfully obvious that he didn’t know spit about her boss, either. Dave was running their department into the ground, but when she’d tried to tell that to McKenna, he’d damn near laughed in her face. And why?
Because he and Forrester were pals, that was why. Because she could never qualify as anybody’s “pal,” not so long as she was a woman, and never mind McKenna’s remark about gender having nothing to do with it. Dana might have come out of college naive enough to believe that sexism in the office—especially in the programming field—was a whisper of the past, but five years in the trenches had taught her otherwise.
If you were a man, the sky was the limit. But if you were a woman, there was a glass ceiling. And she had reached it.
The only kind of female the McKennas of this world could deal with were the ones who knew how to flutter their lashes. McKenna, especially. If he hadn’t been linked with every beautiful female on the planet, it was only because, at thirty-five, he hadn’t yet had the time to get around to them all.
One Down, a tabloid headline had read the day after John Kennedy Jr. tied the knot. One to Go.
Even Arthur had understood just who that “one” was.
Dana stamped her foot. If she’d swooned at his feet, he’d have paid attention to her. If she’d been a man, bringing him bad news about the new code, he’d have listened. But she hadn’t swooned, and she wasn’t male, and so he’d shooed her off as if she were a bothersome fly.
“The idiot!” Dana said, swinging toward the mirror.
The door swung open and Jeannie Aarons walked into the room.
“Don’t even speak to me,” Dana said crossly.
Jeannie’s brows arched. “And a bright and cheery hello to you, too.”
“How does that man live with himself? He is, without question, the most thick-skulled, miserable son of a—”
“Arthur? Thick-skulled, yes. Dull, yes. But miserable’s going too far,” Jeannie leaned closer to the mirror, eyes narrowed, and peered at her chin. “Wonderful. I’m getting a zit, and tonight I’m seeing that guy I met at that singles dance. What do you think, huh? Should I try popping it?”
“I’m not talking about Arthur. I’m talking about McKenna. Who does the man think be is? Who in hell does he think he is?”
“A hunk. That’s who.”
“A jerk. That’s who. The smug, miserable, rotten—”
“My grandma always said that repetition was the product of a non-creative mind.”
“Your grandma never met Mr. I-Am-God McKenna. Jeannie, what are you doing?”
“Squeezing this zit. I cannot possibly go out tonight with a zit the size of Rhode Island on my chin. It’s gross.”
Dana sighed. “No, it isn’t.”
“Yes, it is. I look like the poster child for leprosy.”
“Do you have any concealer with you?”
“Does an elephant have a trunk?”
“Well, give it to me. And your compact. I’ll fix it so your zit will disappear. I just wish somebody could do the same to His Majesty McKenna.”
“Now, Dana.” Obediently, Jeannie let her face be tilted up toward the light. “Wanting to fix McKenna isn’t nice.”
“Why not? Fixing that man’s butt would be doing the world a favor.”
Jeannie grinned. “Ah. Well, fixing his butt is okay, I guess, but fixing him, as in the way a vet fixes a randy tomcat, would make legions of damsels weep.”
“Frankly,” Dana said coldly, “I don’t give a hoot about his personal life, though the way he goes through women, he might just deserve it.”
“I take it you’re not one of his fans,” Jeannie said cheerfully.
“If you mean that I’m not taken in by his press, his money or his looks, you’re right.”
“There’s no sense in arguing over his looks. Only a troglodyte wouldn’t find the guy hunky. As for his press... according to what I’ve heard, Griffin McKenna bought up and turned around a lot of troubled companies last year.”
“Great. First Arthur and now you, giving me the same speech.”
“Please! Don’t put me in the same sentence with Arthur. I’m liable to fall asleep from boredom.”