My Own Worst Enemy

Dad asked me if I wanted to look for another job. "I'm not sure, Dad. I will, if it comes down to that. I thought I had been doing so well. Evidently ... not well enough."

My voice started to quake and I wiped my hand furiously over my eyes. I was not not going to cry.

He cleared his throat. "Well, sweetie, I know whatever you do, you'll be fine. You're the strongest person I've ever met. You know that, right?"

"Th-thanks, Dad."

I admit, after that phone call, I did feel a little better. Thinking about it further, I laughed at myself. I had never run from a challenge in my life. I wasn't about to now.

I spent a lot of time pondering my outfit for that Monday, and finally settled on a navy jacket and matching knee-length pencil skirt with a white blouse. I left my hair down and wore a push-up bra. I was going to make damn sure that Mark Vandergaard never knew what hit him.

Seven-thirty Monday morning found me in my office. I knew Chuck would be making the rounds with the new guy before long and I wanted to be in place. Everything in the office was spotless, including me. I waited and just before nine, I heard voices in the hallway.

Chuck paused at the open door. "Sophie?"

"Good morning."

"Meet Mark Vandergaard." He stepped aside to allow another man to enter the room.

My first impression was that I was not impressed. I'd been hoping he'd be a handsome, dashing giant of a man with dreamy eyes, a killer smile, and muscular enough to break a two-by-four in his hands. At least then, I would have felt on a level playing field.

Mark Vandergaard stood about just under six feet tall, or maybe three inches shorter than me. I guessed he was in his late thirties. He wore a tailored suit that suited his average build. His wavy brown hair was cut short and his hazel eyes were unremarkable. He was conventionally handsome without being remarkable. I would have rated him as "above-average," but no more than that. In other words, he was no different than hundreds of other men I'd met in New York.

I donned a condescending smile. Men shorter than me were so much easier to intimidate.

He stepped forward and offered his hand as I stood. "Hi. I've heard a lot about you, Sophie. Or do you prefer Ms. Driscoll?"

"Sophie's fine," I said, my voice cool and calm. I gave him a firm shake of the hand without breaking eye contact. To his credit, his grip was confident and strong, without crushing my fingers. He held my gaze, his eyes offering an unspoken challenge.

I smiled again, though I have no doubt it wasn't a pleasant smile.

As if reading my mind, Mark released my hand. "Sophie, I don't want any difficulty. I understand what was planned but—"

"There are no difficulties, Mark. I am only thinking of the office. I hope Stackford's faith in your managerial skills proves justified." My tone indicated that I was certain it wouldn't.

His lips curled in a sardonic smile. "I guess we'll see." His own tone suggested that he had read my intent, was amused by my disdain, and wasn't at all worried about it.

The feeling ignited my anger. This smug son of a bitch! All right, it is on, motherfucker.

But before I could process the feeling, Mark spun and walked out without a further word, leaving me fuming.

#

I tossed open my office door, walked inside, and slammed my briefcase on my desk. The noise echoed down the hallway but it was early enough that no one else was there.

That was good, because eight weeks of dealing with Mr. Mark Vandergaard was enough to make me scream at the next person I saw.

I'd been waiting to pounce the moment he fucked up but he hadn't; in fact, Mark had been a pretty damn competent portfolio manager, though I'd never admit that to him. And while he'd been professional and focused on the job, he'd maintained a cool distance from everyone in the office, especially me. He declined to engage in casual conversation or socialize with anyone, which made it difficult to ferret out anything I could use against him, no matter how much I tried. And I did try, though not too hard. Everyone agreed that he was a good guy and I didn't want someone deciding to play concerned citizen and rat me out, saying that I was prying into his business. I'd already gotten some looks after making a snarky comment about his height and I didn't want to push it.

Somehow, Mark had convinced Chuck to work half-days on Fridays and make up the time the rest of the week, though no one knew why. I heard that he had been married once but had no kids, neither of which gave me any insight. And I learned that he went to the gym every day, which also was of no help.

I'd caught Mark's eyes on me here and there but never lingering. I guessed that he was trying to figure me out and that made me feel some better. At least we were even on that front. I sensed that he was a decent guy, with a similar work ethic to me. In different circumstances, I suspect we would have gotten along well.

His attitude toward me wasn't a major issue, in the sense that the position of Senior Manager had no real authority over the rest of us. We still all reported to Chuck Smith. Aside from a slight increase in pay and the choice office with a great view of Upper Manhattan, the real perk of the position meant that Mark pretty much had the right of first selection of any new clients, which had already landed him the account of a venture capitalist out of Atlanta. That pissed me off in a major way because that account had as much upside as any I had ever seen come through our office and it should have been mine.

Then, during our weekly round-up, he'd pointed out a minor tweak I could make on one of my portfolios, and he'd done it in front of all the other managers. What infuriated me more than anything is he'd been one-hundred percent correct and it was an oversight I should have spotted on my worst day.

All I could conclude was that Mark's presence was messing up my professional life in every way possible. So, that day, I walked in with a plan.

While I waited, I brewed myself a pot of coffee and scanned our info feeds for anything I needed to update or adjust for my clients. It was a calming ritual, like a samurai meditating prior to going into battle. Before I knew it, I was ready.

At seven-thirty sharp, I spotted my nemesis pass the office. I downed the last of my coffee, stood, doffed the jacket of my suit, and followed him. Mark didn't close the door to his office unless he had a client present or on the phone, so I rapped my knuckle against the door frame. "Morning. Got a moment?"

I caught the flicker of suspicion that crossed his face before it resumed its neutral expression. "Sophie. What can I do for you?"

I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. Without waiting to be asked, I sat in the chair across from him. Mark scoffed but also sat.

"Look, Mark, I don't want to beat around the bush. You know how I feel about the circumstances of you coming to work here."

"Yes, you've made that abundantly clear." He leaned back in his chair, that same infuriatingly calm expression still locked on his face.

I'd thought about how I wanted to approach this. Despite what Chuck had said, I didn't want to leap to accusing Mark of getting the job because the CEO was looking out for him. I had to admit that Mark had proved his competence and in any other situation, I would have thought he was a good fit. I said, "Before I get started, I want it to be clear that I'm not accusing you of anything shady. I think you're a good investor."

He raised an eyebrow. "But?"

"But you're not as good as I am. This job, this office—" And, I added silently in my head, the prestige, "—should have been mine. I know it, Chuck knows it, everyone knows it. Including you."

Mark stared at me.

"So I want to challenge you. I want you to prove you belong here."

He laughed. "I don't have to prove anything to you, Sophie. Stackford seems to think I should be here and that's good enough for me."

"What's the matter, Mr. Vandergaard?" I adopted a winsome smile and fluttered my lashes. "Don't tell me you're afraid of a little head-to-head competition with little old me."

"Not at all."

"Then let's make this a friendly competition. The new fiscal quarter starts in two weeks, and we're both starting from a fresh earnings perspective. You and me, one on one, working with what we have now. Any new portfolios added don't count. Whoever earns the best quarterly bonus based on their portfolio returns wins the challenge."

"Okay?"

I took a deep breath. "If I win, you give up the office and the title of Senior Manager. Not your salary, just the position."

Mark's eyes widened. "Say what?"

"I've already discussed it with Chuck and with HR. They agree it's unusual but that if we both sign a document agreeing to shield the firm from fallout, they'll allow it."

He stared at me for a moment. "This is ridiculous."

"Let me finish. That's if I win. It literally will mean nothing to you save switching offices and giving me the first option on our clients."

"And if I win?"

"If you win, I will sign over my quarterly bonus to you."

His eyes widened at that. For the best managers in our firm, that usually meant something in the thirty-thousand dollar range and I was one of the best. Of course, so was he, so I was really talking about roughly doubling his own bonus if he won.

Some people would say I was insane for wagering that kind of money but I didn't see it that way. For one, I had more money than I needed. Rising head and shoulders over my peers was more important. Money was a way of keeping score more than anything.

Besides, it was a moot point. I knew I was going to win.

I saw him struggling with it, so I played the next card in my hand. "Also, I will come to your apartment on the Saturday after the quarterly results are announced and clean it while dressed in lingerie."

"So? I can have my apartment cleaned by the best professionals in Manhattan for a couple hundred. Why would I want that?"

"Yeah but think of the memories of having your biggest work rival humiliate herself by doing that manual labor in nothing but a skimpy bra and panties." I stretched my arms over my head and thrust my breasts out. I'd purposefully not worn a bra that morning and the girls strained against my form-fitting silk blouse, which is why I'd left my jacket in my office.

Mark's eyes flicked to my chest, then back to mine. There might have been a hint of desire in his eyes but I can't whether I was only seeing what I wanted to see.

I could see he was still on the fence, so I moved in for the kill. "Besides, this would quell the rumors you only won because Stackford fudged the numbers on your behalf." There had been no such rumors but I gambled he didn't know that.

His face hardened and for a moment, I thought I'd pushed the wrong button. He glared at me for a moment before looking away. I waited to see what he'd do.

When Mark's eyes returned to me they were calm and collected again. "If we do this, Sophie, will you leave me the hell alone afterward?"

I blinked. The hostility in his tone belied his neutral expression. But if I believed his words, he was on the verge of accepting, so I said, "Yes. This will be the last of it."

He sighed and looked down. "Fine. We'll go see Chuck when he gets in and make sure this is above board."

I couldn't help it; I broke into a broad smile and all but jumped out of my seat. "Thanks, Mark. May the better woman win."

He gave me a vague nod, though his eyes were fixed on the far wall.

I hustled back to my office, humming to myself. I'd done it, I'd gotten him to commit. The corner office was as good as mine. Already, I was picturing myself moving in and seeing the title Senior Portfolio Manager alongside my name. I made a second cup of coffee and sat at my desk, inordinately pleased with how things had gone.

Now just have to wipe the floor with him this quarter. No problem.

Three months and change later, when Chuck announced the manager performances and quarterly bonuses, you could have knocked me over with a feather.

I lost. He beat me.

#

I flipped through the spreadsheets with increasing dismay and anger. There's no way, I thought, no fucking way he won this legitimately. I scoured the pages but there was nothing. Every transaction had the correct codes, every report looked legit. There was no padding of numbers, no "favorable" errors.

My frustration boiled over. I hurled the packet of printouts against the wall and slumped in my chair. "Fuck!"

Burning heat crept up my cheeks at the looks from the other managers when the announcement was made. Terms of the bet had gotten out—from the gossiping harpies in HR, I'm sure. Those looks had ranged from shocked to smug. I guess those wearing the latter were amused to see the office queen get her comeuppance. The smirks from the men were the worst. I never dated in the office, despite some interest, and a couple of the men had been salty about it. I know some of the men were picturing the Iron Broker on her knees in her underwear, scrubbing a toilet. I snorted, wondering if any of them were beating off to the idea.

Mark himself had not shown a strong reaction, other than accepting congratulations for both his performance and for winning his challenge. He hadn't spoken to me or ever really looked my way ... which made me grind my teeth.

I kept waiting for him to call, text, or simply stick his head in the office to condescendingly remind me of the terms of the challenge. He had done none of those things. In fact, he seemed to be ignoring me as much as he always had.

My lip curled at the thought, as it did at the idea of giving up. I was going to pay off my loss and challenge him to another round with the same stakes. I'd simply have to redouble my efforts. Determined to learn from my mistakes, I spent the rest of my day pouring over my portfolios, looking for any possible thing I might have missed, that would help me get over the top in the next round.

The announcement had been made on a Thursday afternoon. I stayed late, working on my clients' needs, and was back in the office early on Friday. Mark did not speak to me either day. I knew the bastard was waiting for me to come to him.

Tomorrow's Saturday, so he'll be expecting me. I'll clean his damn apartment. If he thinks I am going to grovel, he can go fuck himself.

I woke early Saturday, ran through the shower, and considered what I wanted to wear. I finally selected a lingerie set I'd bought the year before, when I was dating the backup quarterback for the New York Giants. It was a lacy red half-cup bra with matching bikini-cut underwear and garter belt. I'd searched the internet until I found fishnet stockings and high heels in the same shade of scarlet. When I modeled the set for my then-boyfriend, the guy had been so awestruck he'd been unable to speak.

I shivered at the memory. That had been quite a night.

Normally, I never wore lingerie for more than one lover but this set was too lovely to get rid of, and I sometimes wore everything but the stockings under my normal clothes, when I wanted to feel sexy or good about myself.

But this was just Mark. He didn't deserve me buying anything new when all he was getting out of the deal was my humiliation.

A small voice in the back of my mind whispered, Then why are you wearing your favorite, sexiest outfit? That brought a frown. I told myself that I just wanted him to get a tantalizing eyeful of what he could never hope to have. Still, the question troubled me.

After applying a little light make-up—just enough to enhance my natural features—I bound my hair in a messy bun, then I pulled my calf-length Italian wool coat over my outfit and called for a cab. Mark's apartment was less than a mile from mine. He'd given me his address in the paperwork we signed as a condition of the challenge. I grimaced at the thought, never having expected to need to use it.

I told his doorman I was expected. He called up, then let me in. I took the elevator to Mark's floor, fighting back my mounting nervousness. Look him in the eye. Challenge him with your boldness. You've shown this much skin on the beach. That's all this is. Nobody will ever see you do this except you and him. Just get through this and get ready to kick his ass next quarter. That corner office belongs to you, Sophie. Eyes on the prize.

His door was at the end of the hall. I stood in front of it, fought to calm my nerves, and knocked.

Mark answered the door a moment later, a scowl on his face. I noted he wore knee-length shorts and a tee shirt. He certainly wasn't dressed to seduce, for which I was grateful, though I noted his arms and chest were quite a bit more muscular than I'd imagined. My eyes lingered a little more than they should have.

Not bad.

He glared at me. "Sophie? What the hell are you doing here?"

His words brought me back from checking him out. I blinked and looked down my nose at him, which was easy due to our height difference. I undid the belt of my coat and held it open. "Paying off the condition of my challenge. Don't get used to this view, since this is the only time you'll ever see it. Now, are you going to invite me in so I can get to work?"

I felt a surge of satisfaction as Mark glanced down my body—then a shock when his eyes just as quickly rose back to mine. I almost recoiled at the disdain I saw there.

"Are you mental? Did you really think I expected you to follow through on this? Do you think I want to humiliate you? Get out of here."

I was so stunned that it took him stepping back and starting to shut the door to galvanize me to action. I slammed my hand into the panel to halt it. "Wait!"

"What?"

"Mark, I'm here to honor my word. There's no trick involved or anything. It's what I said I would do."

"No."

"Are you serious?"

He shook his head. "Sophie, I'll admit you're brilliant when it comes to finances but when it comes to reading people, you have no idea what you're doing. Let me spell it out for you: I don't want you cleaning my apartment. I don't want you bothering me, period. Go home, watch TV, or do whatever you do on weekends but leave me the hell alone. Oh, and I haven't even decided if I want to take your money. If I do, it will go to some worthwhile charity but I don't want it. Now, if you don't mind, kindly fuck off."

When he slammed the door this time, I was too gobsmacked to even think of stopping him. I stood there for a moment before I slowly returned to the elevator, wondering what the hell had just happened.

#

I spent most of that weekend chewing on Saturday morning's events. None of it made sense to me. I mean, I hadn't expected a man like Mark Vandergaard to immediately fall at my feet and become my willing slave simply on seeing me in my underwear; he wouldn't be in the position he was if he had that flimsy a spine. But his reaction had been outright hostile. I wondered why he had even bothered to accept the challenge if he was only going to turn it down if he won. I mean, I certainly would have pressed for my winnings if the shoe had been on the other foot.

At the same time, there had been a slight sting in his rejection. He'd barely even glanced at my body, which had reduced other men to gibbering fools. He hadn't shown any interest or even a hint of lust. While I'd been relieved not to have to mop or scrub toilets, the casual way he'd sneered when I'd been dolled up had hurt, just a little.

After turning it around and over and revisiting everything that had been said, I concluded that there were three possibilities. One, Mark was playing some kind of reverse-psychological game and was screwing with my head by kicking me out. I discounted that as unlikely as that did not match his character. Based on what I knew of him, he seemed to favor direct, open communication. Two, he hadn't actually expected me to arrive and had something in his apartment he didn't want me to see. I thought that theory had some merit. And three, that he was trying to bury the hatchet at work and figured a magnanimous gesture would buy him cooperation and peace from me and ease tensions. That seemed the most likely cause of his behavior.