Bad for the Boss_A BWAM Office Romance

  BAD FOR THE

  BOSS

  by

  Talia Hibbert

  A Dirty British Romance

  What a way to fall from grace…

  Theodore Chamberlain is notorious for his razor-sharp focus, his terrifying temper, and his anti-social tendencies. What most people don't know is that the powerful businessman is just as demanding in the bedroom as he is at the office.

  So when model employee Jennifer Johnson stumbles into his life, Theo turns his infamous intensity towards a masterful seduction. The plus-sized knockout may be the office's angel, but only Theo sees the flames simmering beneath.

  Will Jen remain a good girl with a rebel's heart... Or will she give in to her desire and be bad for the boss?

  Bad for the Boss is a steamy office romance with a guaranteed HEA, red-hot love scenes, and NO cheating. It stars a BBW Black British heroine and a British-Chinese hero who will make you melt.

  Copyright

  BAD FOR THE BOSS: Talia Hibbert

  Copyright (c) 2017 by TALIA HIBBERT

  Cover by Cosmic Letterz

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or within the public domain. Any resemblance to actual events or actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  No portion of this book may be reprinted, including by any electronic or mechanical means, or in information storage and retrieval systems, without express written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

  For the teachers who said:

  “Make sure you mention me when you

  start writing novels one day!”

  I bet this isn’t what you had in mind, but

  thanks for the encouragement.

  Prologue

  2001

  Shanice kissed her husband’s forehead. “You’re tired,” she murmured.

  “No, no,” he yawned. “I’m fine. Let’s finish the film.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t be silly. It’ll be on again tomorrow, anyway.”

  “You’re not wrong. Bloodclaat Christmas re-runs.”

  “If you didn’t want to watch it, you should’ve just said.”

  But Herbert gave her an indulgent smile. “I know you love this Muppets nonsense. We’ll try again tomorrow, yeah? Just need a sleep…”

  “Alright.” She kissed him again. “Lock up. Remember to turn the Christmas lights off.”

  “Do I ever forget?”

  With a private smile, Shanice elected not to answer.

  She left him to deal with the evening routine—though really, it was morning. Somehow, they’d stayed up until 1 a.m., like they used to when they’d first met. Back when they were teenagers. Lord knew how they’d had the energy; she was absolutely shattered, just like Herbert.

  Shanice padded up the stairs and headed to the bathroom, ready to brush her teeth and sink into bed. Tomorrow was Saturday, and one of Jennifer’s little friends was holding a birthday party. They were going ice skating. Shanice would take her, and the parents would all go for coffee while the kids had a lesson. Jenny was nervous, so she’d be awake at the crack of dawn, worrying herself. She’d never been skating. Now that she was eleven, embarrassment lurked around every corner.

  In fact, Shanice should look in on Jenny now. Such an anxious child, she was. Always having bad feelings and worries. Shanice hoped her daughter would relax with age—preferably soon.

  After rinsing off her toothbrush, Shanice nipped into Jenny’s room quickly. She had Herbert’s mobile phone, a Sony Ericsson, and she used the tiny, glowing green screen to light her way.

  All seemed well. The little room was quiet and still. Shanice stepped close to Jenny’s bed, bent down, holding up her improvised torch. She was only a little surprised to find two big, brown eyes staring back up at her.

  “Jenny,” she sighed. “You should be asleep, love.”

  “Sorry, Mum,” Jenny mumbled.

  “Try to relax. It’s very late. Your dad and me are about—“

  A shout interrupted Shanice’s lecture. The words were unintelligible, but the voice was unmistakeable: Herbert. Shanice frowned.

  Then the shout was quickly followed by a series of sounds that made Shanice’s insides feel hollow. A crash; more voices, ones she didn’t recognise. Men. Grunts, and a sickening thump.

  “Oh, Lord,” Shanice breathed. Terror bloomed like fresh blood.

  “Mum?”

  She looked down, unseeing, at the source of the word. The mobile phone’s screen blinked into darkness. Automatically, she pressed a button and brought it back to life.

  Jennifer.

  Jennifer was here. Her baby. And there was somebody in their house.

  The thought was like a slap. Shanice blinked, once; then she got her arse into gear.

  “Baby,” she whispered, her words precise and rapid, “you listen to me now. Do exactly as I say. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, Mummy.”

  “I am calling 999.” She pressed the buttons as she spoke. “I am going to give you this phone, and you are going to get up and hide under the bed. When the lady answers, you say that you are a little girl and someone is in your house, and your parents are downstairs.”

  “Mummy?”

  “And then you will be silent. Do you understand me? Tell her that, and then you stay utterly silent. Tell me you understand.”

  Jennifer only stared. The glow of the phone bounced off of her brown eyes, and in an instant, Shanice remembered an entire lifetime. A very short lifetime. From screaming, crying birth to this moment. Eleven years. She prayed her darling would see more still.

  “I love you, Jennifer. Do as I say.” And then, when there was no response: “Jennifer!”

  “O-okay, Mummy.”

  Shanice turned from her daughter all at once, and did not look back. She went into the cupboard on the landing, eased it open, and retrieved an uncle’s cricket bat. She gripped it with both hands and tip-toed down the stairs. She peeked around the bannister and saw a snatch of the kitchen, just a corner of linoleum floor and the bottom of a cupboard. And a hand. A hand that had held hers, that had stroked her hair, but was now completely limp. Bloodless, Shanice walked the rest of the way with bold steps. More of the kitchen came into view. The hand was attached to an arm, a shoulder, a body. Her husband’s body. Her mind stuttered on the thought, playing it again and again like a scratched record

  Then a man stepped into view, his face covered—but she saw the precise moment that he noticed her. His eyes widened. He opened his mouth to speak, or cry out, and Shanice could not have that. Her baby was upstairs, afraid. There could not be a sound.

  So Shanice ran down the short hallway, her cricket bat aloft, and leapt over her husband’s body, and beat an intruder bloody without saying a word.

  She did not see her daughter, peeking with wide eyes through the bannisters as she herself had done moments before.

  And she did not see the second intruder. All she saw was his knife.

  Chapter One

  2017

  I need this job. I need this job. I need this job.

  Jen tapped her pen against her desk. Tap. Tap. Tap. Maybe the movement, combined with her internal chant, would subdue her urge to physically attack a colleague.

  She looked up at the colleague in question: Oliver Hatton, AKA Ollie, AKA a pain in her damned backside. He gave her pen a significant look, then arched one blonde brow.

  “You know what they say about that sort of thing,” he drawled.

  She stared back dully, her mouth clamped stubborn
ly shut. Unfortunately, he didn’t require any encouragement.

  “It’s a sign of frustration,” he continued, bending over her desk.

  Yep.

  “Of a… Certain kind.” He murmured. She had the distinct impression that he thought he was being seductive. “You know what I mean?”

  “Certainly not,” Jen said. His face fell—but only for a moment. As usual, he recovered quickly. Ollie possessed a level of self-confidence that would be admirable in anyone other than the office sleaze. As he mounted his next line of attack, Jen gave up on the notes she’d been writing and turned to her computer.

  “What are you up to after work?” Ollie asked.

  “Not a lot.”

  “I’m going out for a drink with the lads.” He winked. She had no idea why. “Of course, there’s always room for a female or two…”

  “Mmmm.” She pinned a vague smile on her face as she pulled up her emails and hit ‘Compose’.

  Re: UGH!

  Pri,

  Copy is going well but I’m being slimed all over by wannabe Johnny Bravo. Again. Currently plotting ways to make my feelings clearer. I may come in tomorrow with NOT INTERESTED written on my forehead. Or possibly FUCK YOU.

  I’m thinking red sharpie, to make an impact. Do you think that’s too much?

  Let me know,

  Jen

  “You should come,” Ollie was saying.

  “Oh, no thanks.” She’d forgotten to add a recipient. Of course. Only half-listening to Ollie’s wheedling, she began scrolling through the company list.

  “You never join us for drinks. Come on, Jenny, live a little.“

  “Don’t call me that,” she said automatically. C for Chaudry. There we go. She hit Send.

  “Why not?” Ollie leaned closer and—oh, sweet baby Jesus in a manger. The slimy pink curl of his tongue flicked out from between his paper-cut lips, like a worm after a spring shower. Jen watched in horror as he slid his gaze from her face to her cleavage, then back again. “You know, Jen—“

  But, happily, he never managed to finish that sentence. Priyanka appeared in the doorway of her office and bellowed “Oliver!”

  Priyanka did not have an inside voice.

  “Priyanka!” Ollie straightened, putting a blessed few feet of distance between his mouth and Jen’s face. Thank God. His breath was almost as offensive as his personality.

  “Get me the numbers on that latest account, will you?” Pri was tiny—she couldn’t be more than five feet tall—but her authority was as mighty as her foghorn voice. Ollie cleared his throat and adjusted his suit cuffs.

  “Of course, Priyanka. Right away.”

  “Off you go, then.”

  He cast one last, lingering look at Jen before hurrying off across the room to his own, smaller office, skirting desks as he went. How a man like Ollie Hatton had ended up a junior exec with his own office, while Jen toiled away with nothing but a desk to call her own, she had no idea.

  Wait—yes she did. Life wasn’t fair.

  What else was new?

  Priyanka rolled her eyes at Ollie’s retreating back before scurrying over to Jen’s desk, hefting a pile of paperwork in her arms.

  “Thanks, Pri.”

  “No problem, darling.”

  “Seriously, five more minutes and I might have lost it. Thank God you got my email.”

  Priyanka laughed, flicking her long, greying ponytail over one cardigan-clad shoulder. “No you wouldn’t; you’re a good girl. But I don’t have any emails from you, Jennifer. I just came to dump this on you.” She smirked and slammed the stack of files down on Jen’s desk. “You’re welcome.”

  “Oh.” Jen grimaced. “Is it too late to take back my thanks?”

  “Far too late,” Pri replied, already heading back to the comfort of her corner office. “I will take my credit, Jen. You know that.”

  Jennifer heaved out a sigh as she eyed the mountain of work. She even grumbled under her breath a little bit, but her heart wasn’t in it. Becoming friends with one’s manager made it difficult to stay resentful.

  Not to mention the fact that, when it came down to it, she was beyond grateful to have this job at all—sleazy junior execs aside.

  Resigned to an afternoon of dreary admin, Jen picked up her pen and slouched down in her chair. There was a big old potted plant right by her desk, and if she kept her head down, she’d be almost invisible from certain angles. Maybe, if Ollie ventured out again, he’d think she’d gone to lunch.

  But as she opened the first file, something nagged at her mind. A vague sense of worry, one she couldn’t quite catch. It nudged her back to her computer screen. She tapped her mouse, brought the monitor to life, and saw a new message in her inbox.

  From: Chamberlain, J. T.

  Re: UGH!

  Wait. What?

  Dread settling in her stomach, Jen clicked over to her ‘Sent’ box and scanned the emails anxiously. No. No, no, no, no, no.

  There was no way she’d just sent that email to Chamberlain instead of Chaudry. No way. Because, while Chamberlain and Chaudry may both begin with ‘Ch’, there were several key differences between them.

  For example, Chaudry was the name of her friend and manager. Chamberlain was not.

  Chaudry was the name of a woman who understood exactly how annoying men in the workplace could be, and was therefore a safe haven for anti-Ollie rants. Chamberlain was not.

  But most importantly—Jennifer stuck her pen between her lips and chewed, good intentions be damned—most importantly…

  Chaudry was not the name of a partner at the advertising firm where she worked.

  And Chamberlain was.

  Jen’s biro burst between her teeth, leaking bitter ink. With a stifled cry, she spat it out and swiped clumsily at her mouth like a child. Jesus Christ. Grabbing her water, she sucked up a mouthful, swilled, and spat it back into the bottle. Then she looked furtively around to see if that utterly tragic display had been witnessed.

  Paige, two desks down, was staring at her in open astonishment.

  Crap.

  Jennifer cleared her throat, straightened up in her seat, and turned pointedly back to her computer. Mentally, she steeled herself. Then, her heart in her throat, she opened the Email of Doom.

  Dear Ms Johnson,

  I’m glad to hear that copy is going well. I wasn’t aware that we employed anyone named Johnny Bravo here, but if I do find him, I’ll be sure to reiterate the company policy with regard to sexual harassment.

  In the meantime, perhaps I might offer some advice? You could try telling him to fuck off verbally, rather than risk staining your forehead. Of course, should HR contact me about such an incident, I will deny all knowledge.

  But if that’s not your style, I think red sharpie is an excellent idea. Inspired, really.

  Best of luck,

  Theo Chamberlain

  Oh, Jesus. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.

  Jen opened her desk drawer, found a fresh pen, and stuck it firmly between her teeth.

  ◆◆◆

  Theodore Chamberlain leaned back in his chair and smirked at he read the email that had just landed in his inbox.

  “What are you up to now?” Demanded his secretary, Martha, from the doorway.

  He turned to the older woman with a look of innocence. “Up to? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Why do you ask?”

  “You look like you’re plotting,” she grumbled, adjusted her glasses as though better vision might allow her to see through his bullshit.

  “Me? Never.”

  “Oh, of course.” Rolling her eyes, she left and shut the door behind her.

  With a rueful shake of his head, Theo returned to the email that had captured his attention.

  The intriguing Johnson, J., had replied.

  Dear Mr Chamberlain,

  Please allow me to sincerely apologise for my error. My previous email was not intended for you, and I am so very sorry for my mistake, and for my unprofessional behaviour.

  W
hile I thank you for your advice, I feel forced to remind you that a woman should not have to resort to foul language in order to reject a man in the work place. A woman should not have to reject a man in the work place at all, in fact!

  But needs must. I’ll definitely go with the red.

  Best,

  Jennifer Johnson

  P.S: Johnny Bravo is a cartoon.

  Despite himself, Theo barked out a laugh. ‘Johnny Bravo is a cartoon?’ How old did she think he was?

  Then again, he knew that he had a reputation around the office for being… How had Richard put it at their last meeting? Ah, yes: a boring fuck. He could see why people thought that. It might even be true. But being a boring fuck had made him rich as Croesus before he hit forty, so he couldn’t quite manage to care.

  Only, right now, he didn’t feel boring. He felt… Intrigued. This Jennifer Johnson woman combined prim and proper indignation with a sharp, sarcastic sass that piqued his curiosity.

  Theo had no idea who she was, but that wasn’t surprising; he rarely left the office before 7 p.m. He didn’t attend employee gatherings, he didn’t loiter for lunch in the cafe downstairs, and unlike some members of staff, he didn’t waste his time harassing female employees.

  But perhaps he should rectify his ignorance. After all, as a partner at Brown Cow, he really should know all the staff. Shouldn’t he? Before he could think better of it, Theo found himself pulling up the internal company files and searching through a list of employees.

  Ah. There she was: Jennifer Johnson, social media marketing, copy editor. A recent employee; she’d been hired in December of last year. And as a part of the social media department, she’d be working on the floor below his. No wonder he’d never seen her before.

  And he wasn’t seeing her now, either. Where a company photograph should be, there was only a grey box containing a generic silhouette. No image available. Unreasonably irritated, Theo went back to the email and began typing.

  Dear Ms (Miss? Mrs?) Johnson,

  You’re most welcome. I like to think of myself as a mentor figure within the company. Should you need any further advice on man-repellant, please don’t hesitate to ask.