been grooming Dean to replace him when he moved on at the end of his stint, but after Wednesday’s spectacular meltdown …
Let her walk.
The firm could well do without high-maintenance attention seekers.
Yet here he was, cap in bloody hand, sent to persuade her to reconsider, because she’d walked on his watch. Which apparently made getting her back his responsibility.
The tense anger of Broadmore’s human resources director, Rifkin, yesterday afternoon echoed back at him. Implying, but never saying outright, that Dean’s hasty departure was somehow his fault. As if her inability to accept constructive criticism and cede to authority weren’t the bulk of the problem. He’d argued that, but Rifkin had challenged him with a list of staff they’d lost since he’d come aboard and asked how they could all develop such terminal flaws after years of working together well.
Implication: his fault.
Harry’s interpretation: dead wood, well rid of.
Just because someone had been around for a while didn’t mean they were still adding value.
Even if she was the most talented person on his team.
Then again Rifkin hadn’t seen the words on the glass of his office wall …
‘Eyes forward, handsome,’ the vixen in his lap purred as if he’d been checking out her rack, not her friend serving celery sticks to the ravenous hordes. He dragged his focus reluctantly back to her eyes, which were more than a little liquor-glazed.
He was definitely off his game.
‘Are you sure you’re not uncomfortable?’ he tried, again.
‘No, I’m great.’ She wiggled her butt down further, which only served to make him significantly less comfortable.
A tiny brunette flopped down into the empty half-space next to them. Not quite big enough for her, leaving her pressed closely to him and, for half a moment, he feared his troubles had just doubled.
But then her eyes filled with casual sparkle and she leaned around him and said, ‘All right, Tori?’
Tori. That was what she’d mumbled while he was busy staring at Izzy Dean. And the little brunette was not a flanking assault; she was the extremely welcome cavalry.
‘Fantastic, Poppy.’ Tori waved her friend’s concern away with dramatic sweeps. ‘Having a great time. Have you met Harry?’
The brunette thrust out her hand. ‘Hello, Poppy Spencer. This is my flat.’
Which was pretty much polite social code for ‘who are you and who invited you?’ Just because he’d been out of the scene for a few years didn’t mean he’d forgotten the rules. Shaking Poppy’s hand was the perfect excuse to ease Tori into a slightly more upright and appropriate position without causing offence.
‘Nice to meet you,’ Harry hedged, unwilling to give away too much. ‘So this is your party?’
‘My flatmate’s actually. She’s just out of a dreadful job.’
‘Do you always celebrate employment changes?’
‘This one we do. Izzy’s been miserable for months. Lousy job, lousy new boss. She’s well out of it.’
Lousy?
‘Maybe a job is what you make it,’ Harry defended.
‘She made that one long enough.’ Tori pouted prettily. ‘You can’t polish a turd.’
To have his entire career aspiration and management expertise summarily written off stung. Like a bitch.
‘Would you like a drink, Harry?’ Poppy offered, though he wasn’t sure how she thought he would manage a glass with both hands full of busty, wriggling woman.
‘I’d love one,’ he said. ‘And I wouldn’t mind meeting your flatmate. Congratulate her on her … new-found freedom.’
Drag her back to the firm kicking and screaming, if necessary.
‘Conveniently they’re in the same place. Izzy’s hiding in the kitchen.’
Hiding? That wasn’t the woman he knew. Isadora Dean was always the centre of attention in any space. Laughing and shaking back her dark blond mop and generally being delightful to her adoring audience.
And thoroughly distracting to him.
She should have been in her element at a party that was all about her.
He set Tori to her feet and she happily took him by his loosened tie and led him through the crowd to the kitchen.
‘Izzy,’ she gushed dramatically, entering with him and Poppy in tow. ‘A man without a drink is a tragedy not to be borne.’
The woman in question emerged from behind the fridge door, a warm smile on her face, and turned automatically to the sink full of ice and beer. But the smile died the moment she saw who stood in her kitchen.
‘What the bloody hell are you doing here?’
‘Izzy!’ Poppy’s shock could have been for the language as much as the tone.
‘Dean.’ He nodded, cautiously.
‘What is he doing here?’ she hissed again, as if he weren’t in the room. Kind of desperately.
‘He’s a guest …’ Tory squinted, then twisted to look at him. ‘Isn’t he?’
‘He’s my boss!’ Dean sputtered.
Tori dropped his tie and it fell, flaccid, against his suit. Both women turned on him and there was a surprising amount of unity in the three angry female faces now facing him.
‘Ex-boss,’ he reminded her. Though hopefully not for long. He thrust his hand out to finish the introductions Poppy had started. ‘Harry Mitchell.’
‘You’re really him?’ Poppy squeaked.
‘But you’re gorgeous,’ Tori helpfully contributed. ‘I imagined you hideous and old.’
Dean’s face flamed. ‘Tori! Bad enough you’ve been giving him a lap dance—’
She rolled her eyes. ‘I didn’t know, Iz. Obviously.’
Dean reached for her glass and clutched it, white-knuckled, like a weapon. ‘Why are you here?’
‘To see you.’
‘I hope you’re not planning on begging her to come back.’ Poppy laughed. ‘You could have saved yourself the tube fare.’ Begging. Cajoling. Bribing. Little Miss Potty-Mouth had suddenly become Britain’s most wanted. As galling as that was.
‘There was an email circulating,
