Fringe Benefits

[OOC: This is a closed thread for laceandcogs and I. We both hope you enjoy the tale.]

The opulent boardroom was populated by small groups scattered far enough apart to give the perception of privacy, while close enough together for moral support, and quick gathering when the managers, or partners, came in. All the talk was low, quiet within each of the groups.

"Well, it looks like they got Hell Bitch's replacement at last. God, I hope whoever it is, that they are more human than Suzanne was."

One of the women dressed in a very conservative business suit looked at her male counterpart with a faux shock expression. "Oh, come on, Paul. As if they could find someone less human than that bitch." She took a sip of water, waiting for whoever was the reason for the disruption to turn up. She glanced over at the furthest group, barely hiding her disdain. "I wonder if team Ass Kiss will swarm over Super Bitch's replacement, or is they will continue to mourn her loss?"

"Probably both. You know, after they have had a chance to settle in, the newcomer will probably kick a few people out. It'll be interesting to see who winds up on the scrap heap. All I can hope for, Sandra, is that our new boss recognizes talent and hard work, rather than empty flattery."

"Well, that should be easy if our Boss has -"

The door opened to let the Senior partner enter the room, followed by a younger looking man. Both were in tailored suits, with just enough conservative fashion elements to display reliability. As the two men walked around the room to get closer to the other staff, the staff quickly closed ranks and formed one group.

Clive Albertson stopped a few paces from his staff, bringing himself to attention. The elder man had served in the army, including actual combat, and the training received there left a stamp on him that stayed ever since. He stood straight, his eyes forward and level while he waited for the staff to settle down. Even closer to 70 than 60, he was fit, healthy and was still very sharp between the ears.

"Good morning, everyone. Firstly, I want to thank you for how well you have performed your duties without someone being on the receiving end of your work and attention. As most of you are aware, Suzanne Taylor has taken up an offer that she found impossible to refuse. She is now," he looked at his watch, " touching down in England in preparation to become Mrs Samuel Bath, full time wife and mother."

"God help her children," Paul muttered.

"After much effort, we are proud to announce that Mr Tyron Smythe has accepted our offer to join the firm, replacing Suzanne. He has similar legal experience as Suzanne, and we also feel that he will fit in well with the entire team here."

Clive turned to Tyron, looking up at the younger man who was about four inches taller than his boss. Unlike Clive, Tyron's dark brown hair was shot with a small amount of gray, rather than a small amount of not gray. Both men had similarly short hair cuts, clean faces that showed signs of outdoor life. He was also fit, if the lacking padding in the outline of the suit was anything to go by.

Tyron cleared his throat. "Hello, everyone. As Mr Albertson has said, I'm Tyron Smythe." His voice was rich, with a deep timbre to it. It was a voice well suited for court rooms and judges chambers. "I have a good idea of how things work normally in offices like this, but I also know that each have their own special ways of getting things done. I hope that you will help me as I ease into the role and learn the specifics of this office. I probably wont get the time to speak to everyone today, but I will by the end of the week.

"So, since it is an hour to end of normal business hours, I thought we would hang around here, relax, have a chat and get home early for a bright start tomorrow. If that's alright with you, Mr Albertson?"

"Tyron," Clive chuckled, "call me Clive, son. You're a partner, so we're on name basis now. Sure, get to know the people. When it's over, swing past my office and we'll get the last little bits out of the way." The two men shook hands, and Clive left the room so Tyron would get to know his team a little better.

"So, can someone show me where the drinks are? I'm dying of thirst here."

Dawson Grady had taken care to look good today. She'd selected a modest, if slightly tight, black skirt, and a black sweater with a wide, draping neck that dipped off her shoulders while simultaneously downplaying the generous lines of her chest. That chest, along with her youth and her lack of interest in office power coups, had made Dawson extremely unpopular with Suzanne. A normal woman might have dealt with that seething dislike by thrusting Dawson into a dusty cubicle on the far side of the floor and setting her to researching precedent on the most unappealing cases. However, Suzanne chose to keep her enemies close, and had taken on Dawson as personal assistant, reducing a rather brilliant junior partner to a glorified secretary.

This history did quite a bit to explain why Dawson now stood slightly apart from the rest of the flock, watching the jockeying going on as Tyron was swarmed by the rest of her "team". It brought just a hint of a smile to her lips, one she did little to conceal. Turning on her thoroughly impractical pumps, Dawson took the long way around the crowd, catching snatches of the witty, desperate attempts to impress.

It didn't matter much, in Dawson's opinion, if Tyron was an absolute horror. She'd smiled and nodded through worse. She'd typed and collated and copied for Suzanne, she'd picked up her dry cleaning and reminded her of her anniversaries with Mr. Wonderful, she'd listened to the two of them fuck on Suzanne's desk while she finished the next morning's motions and briefs. It had all been thankless, demeaning work, not at all the sort she'd expected but exactly the kind she was used to.

After all, Dawson had stripped her way through undergrad and law school- perhaps the only girl in the whole bar who could use that old "paying for college" chestnut honestly. She'd gone to morning classes smelling of smoke and cheap whisky, scrubbed free of glitter and hairspray, presented in layers of baggy shirts and boring jeans. She'd felt no shame, and in fact enjoyed her comparative wealth, but it had been hard work.

Hard work that had bought her what? The opportunity to shadow-write for a bitch and turn down invitations to dinner so she could wait in line for Suzanne's tickets? Dawson opened the minifridge and retrieved a bottle of water, taking Tyron's question as a command- she'd learned well enough under Suzanne how to read the want between the lines and scamper to fill it. With a dancer's grace, she slid her way into the crowd, and offered the bottle to Tyron, only now bothering to look up at him.

Shit. Probably a mistake. He was a bit more handsome than she would have liked, and not in the way most of the other partners were- men who spent more time in the spa than Dawson ever dreamed of, men who wore cologne that cost more than her car payment. Her bottle-green eyes managed to hold his only for a moment, and to conceal their widening and the slight flush in her cheeks, she nodded curtly. Take the water, idiot, she thought. No one here likes me anyway, and I'd rather slip away from the razor tongues and laser eyes before the real feeding frenzy of pandering begins.

Tyron was making the most of this time to gauge what kind of people his predecessor had working for her. He spotted a number of them that seemed desperate to get to know him. He put them on his watch list to see what the actually did. Normally, the least productive ones would be those that overtly tried to get in the good books. Others were eager to say hello, get in the initial good first impression.

But one woman put herself ahead of the crowd in a positive way. Beyond the fact that she wore a figure hugging skirt that declared her lower torso and leg shape in a subtle manner, she had acted on his question without trying to claim any credit from it. The way she smoothly navigated the crowd to deliver the bottle of water was also worth seeing. He almost did a double take at the size of the heels of her shoes. The fact that she managed to remain upright was an achievement in and of itself. As she closed, he saw that her choice in top was rather cunningly hiding more of what could have been a stunning figure.

When his own sapphire coloured eyes met her green eyes, he caught the slight showing of shock, followed by the colouring of her cheeks. That reaction from her gave him a slight warm, tingly feeling that was totally automatic and largely lust driven. The slight nod was a simple affirmation that she had fulfilled his request.

"Thanks," Tyron said softly, screwing the lid off the bottle and re-hydrating a rather dry mouth. Before he could say anything more to the rather attractive young woman, he was dragged back into a conversation with one of the male staff members.

"... so I was able to find a recent precedent in another type of court case that actually applied to the one that Suzanne was working on, allowing her get successfully settle out of court for a rather healthy compensation amount."

"That's great to know, umm, John? James, right. Sorry. I'll definitely remember that for later. Now, who was it that gave me the drink?" He lifted the bottle to help prompt James into answering him.

"Oh, that was Dawson. She's kind of Suzanne's secretary. Actually yours now."

"Dawson. Ok, thanks James." Tyron took a sip from the drink, and continued to be grilled and told tales of usefulness by other members of the staff. The remainder of the hour was spent in what he considered idle chat, all the while trying to catch glimpses of Dawson again. All he could tell was that she had artfully concealed her feminine assets, and made him hunger a little to get a better idea of just how deadly the curves were that were hidden beneath her clothing.

"OK, everyone. Time to head home. As I said, I will speak with you all over the next week. Thanks for the warm welcome. We'll be down to business as normal tomorrow."

Tyron waved back at those that waved to him, shook hands with a few staff before he turned to walk back to the bar and grabbed himself a cola to enjoy for a few minutes before going to meet his boss. In the silence of the room, he looked out one of the windows, and allowed himself to picture how Dawson would look in something less obscuring. He would definitely enjoy working with her, if only from the visual aspects.

Dawson had made her escape from the conference room as soon as possible. Tyron was adrift in a sea of ass-kissers, and she would play neither the wave nor the life preserver. She paused in the office just long enough to grab her purse and coat, and to briefly consider the fact that she'd be spending a great deal of time with him here tomorrow.

Her improbable heels clicked a sharp rhthym on the sidewalk as she made her way home. Walking always cleared her head, and walking in such shoes was just one of the activities she could credit with granting her a truly spectacular ass. She'd lingered long enough at the festivities to hear that shrimp James refer to her as "Suzanne's secretary", and the memory made her temper flare hot. Secretary? She was a junior partner, and James knew that goddamn well! Perhaps he was still bitter about the way she "spilled" her drink down his front at last year's Christmas party- ruining a three-hundred-dollar cashmere v-neck had seemed far preferable to actually letting the handsy little prick kiss her, though she had mourned the loss of such a piece.

Locking her apartment door behind her, Dawson went instantly to her own rather extensive closet to select tomorrow's outfit. A habit since childhood, laying out her clothing for the next day also allowed her to thoroughly enjoy the extensive stock of designer labels and expensive frills her paycheck purchased. Growing up as poor as she did had instilled in Dawson an insatiable love of the finer things, and though she kept a healthy savings and paid her bills on time, she would also drown her sorrows in a spree at Sak's without a second thought.

Tomorrow she would have to make her case for more responsibility to Tyron, and that called for an outfit that spoke of intelligence and seriousness. A flurry of shirts and skirts were tried and discarded as unfit- Dawson's figure, equal parts genetics and hard work, made even the dowdiest cardigan speak of bitten lips and muffled groans. In disgust, she stood in her bra and panties before the mirror, hands on her round, sleek hips, for a full survey.

Her tits were the showstopper, and she had no desire to argue with that. The creamy, lush curves had raked in the tips, and now, well-beyond those years of heaved sighs and sequined, velco-fastened tops, they still worked. The right set to her shoulders, or a single expressive shrug, and many a man had given over the fight. Dawson didn't use her sexuality if she could avoid it, but she did think that any man dumb enough to crumble in the face of a pretty pout and a peek of lacy camisole deserved to lose.

She turned to admire the rear view. Peeking over her shoulder, Dawson considered critically the arch of her back, the fine lines of her shoulderblades, the sleek, dancer's muscle of her thighs and calves... and that gorgeous ass. She could just see the edge of her tattoo over the lace lines of her panties- a leaping rabbit in kelly green ink, the knotwork in a simplified Book of Kells style. It was the product of an angry, drunken night, though she loved it wholly. None other had had the ocassion to appreciate it, yet...

Frustrated and suddenly tired, Dawson pulled on her pajamas and threw herself into bed. She'd be in the office very early tomorrow, the better to be ready for Tyron- the battleground belonged, after all, to the first to arrive.

* * * * * *

Coffee in hand, Dawson swiped her magni-key and let herself into the suite of offices. It was very quiet, as well it should be- no one would be here at seven in the morning, save maybe the janitor. She'd chosen a shirt-dress, a knee-length belted affair in light blue that buttoned from collar to hem, flaring just slightly from the waist, with a cloud-soft grey cardigan over top. Her curly hair was caught back in a matching blue ribbon at the nape of her neck. Though the buttons over her chest strained slightly, a judicious application of double-sided tape assured they would hold. Sheer skin-tone thigh-highs disappeared into another pair of unreasonably high heels, this time pearl grey patent affairs with delicate ankle straps and retro styling. Confident, composed, and ready for a subtle sort of war, Dawson tapped down the hall to Suzanne's... no, Tyron's suite.

The brass plaque set into the handsome wood of the door had already been changed to read his name. Dawson smiled just a little to see this- the nightmare of her subjugation under Queen Hell Cunt was well and truly over. Pulling the door open, Dawson paused to see a light on in Suzanne's inner office- had she left that on last night, or had she been beaten already?

Tyron walked over to Clive's office. His secretary was gone, but the old man was sitting in his office reading over a few documents. The old man looked up, and gave a short flick of his head, indicating that Tryon could enter. Tyron walked in, and took a seat in the chair furthest from his desk. Clive finally finished the document, placing it neatly on the table.

"So, what are your thoughts son?"

"Well... some interesting personalities in there. But, it's how well they work that's important."

Clive nodded. "That's true. In some ways I am glad I didn't have to fire her sorry ass out the door, but damn it I wish I had. She screwed that team up in ways I can't figure out yet. Anyway, here's the deal, Tyron. You have clearance to fire anyone that is not pulling their weight. Get rid of the lot of them if that is what it will take. Keep 'em all if you think you can make 'em all work. I want you to be a better performer than Suzanne was, and that means having a team that works well."

Tyron sat back, letting everything sink in. Having the permission to get rid of people as he saw fit was a great sign of trust. That, or that what he had been given was that bad.

"I'm not expecting you to read all of this tonight, but these are the files on your team. Have a read, it will help you out a bit to start with. You know, a base line to work from."

Tyron took the tied up stack from Clive, holding it and not knowing what to do with it exactly. Tyron stood up, waving goodbye to Clive with the stack. He swung past his office, dropping the stack on his desk as he headed out the door.


The night passed without problem, and he had got himself ready early and got into the office to get some reading done before the day started proper. He already had been given a day or two's grace before he needed to get down to normal business.

He had adjusted the chair to better suit his needs. Comfortable, he looked through the stack of personnel files he had been given, looking for one in particular. Dawson Grady. Apart from her eye catching appearance, the one thing that stood out was that she took the initiative in getting his drink for him. When he opened her file, his jaw dropped. He double checked the file's title, and reread the initial contents. Tyron shook his head as he continued to read the contents of the file, noting that the young woman was being disgustingly underutilized.

He heard the outer door to his office open. Tyron put the stack of files into the lowest draw of the desk, locking it before standing up and walking over to the door to his own personal office. He opened the door, surprised to see Dawson stand in the middle of outer office looking at his door.

"Good Morning, Dawson. Could you please come into my office and close the door behind you." Without waiting, Tyron turned and walked back to his chair sitting down and waiting for Dawson to join him. When she came in and closed the door, he pointed to one chair. "Please, take a seat, Dawson."

He watched her as she followed his request. He took in everything he could about her reaction to his being there, as well as what he was going to do. He decided that he would test her before he made any of the offers that he had been thinking of prior to her arrival.

"Dawson, can you tell me what you did for Suzanne, and what you can do for me?"

Dawson fought not to show her irritation at being beaten in in the morning. One fine line of muscle in her jaw twitched, but she nodded curtly, setting her purse and coffee down on her desk. Without a word, Dawson followed Tyron's direction, making herself comfortable in the offered chair and crossing her legs demurely. Still, a bit of nerves showed themselves in the way she bounced her upper foot in its pearly-gray spike heel.

As she began, her voice soft and a little husky, with none of that courtroom-shaking timbre that Tyron himself could boast, she noticed the bouncing heel. "I was Suzanne's personal assistant, Sir. I took her dictation, did her typing and filing, ordered her lunches. To be quite fair, I did everything an intern would do while drawing the paychecks of a junior partner." One long-fingered hand moved slowly as she spoke, pretending to fuss with some detail of the strap on her shoe- anything to not look at Tyron. Satisfied with her fabricated adjustment, she straightened her back and resumed.

"While I do not presume to decide what I could do for you, Sir, I would advise you that I feel my skills were rather wasted in my previous position." With kelly-green eyes still avoiding his, Dawson ticked off her points on her fingers. "I graduated second in my class at Harvard Law. I was valedictorian of my undergraduate class at Boston University, where I presented at three symposiums on the legal and ethical context of the Nuremberg Trials."

These accomplishments, while impressive, were listed with almost no self-consciousness, and definitely no extraordinary pride. "I write very well, I speak three languages other than English, and I have a talent for putting witnesses at ease. Suzanne might have used me as an expensive intern, but Mr. Albertson hired me, trained me, and saw fit to bring me up to junior partner within three years of my hire date. I can do much more than order sandwiches and type motions, Sir, and I hope you'll let me show you that."

Tyron listened as Dawson made her pitch as to why she should be doing more than she had under his predecessor. Her list of reasons were impressive, and the notes on her file showed she was being wasted in role she had occupied. He liked the way she presented him with information, rather than recommendations or even demands. She was letting him decide without overtly appearing to direct him.

He also liked the sound of her voice. It had that wonderful rasping sound mixed in that suggested long bouts of screaming. Of course, with a body like hers, he could clearly imagine why she would have been screaming, and where. It was the second time he had seen her, but again she dressed herself to obscure her main part of her figure, while showing off her incredible legs and her unnatural ability to walk in incredibly high heels.

But there was one other thing that caught Tyron's attention, and stood out like a lump of coal on a field of snow. Dawson was not looking at him. She was avoiding eye contact the entire time she was looking at him. His training immediately put it into two different possibilities. One, she was lying, or two, she was embarrassed about something. His gut was telling him she was being truthful, mainly because of the non boastful manner that she listed her achievements in University and in her initial time with the firm. He started to wonder what she was embarrassed about.

"That is a very good series of points you raised, Dawson. But, why would Suzanne, who for whatever faults she may have had, have put you into the role you're in now? She was not lacking in intelligence, and she would have know what you were truly capable of. Somehow, I can't see her having made such a move unless there is some reason for it.

"Which leads me to my next point. Mr Albertson made you a junior partner in three years? I have been in many a law firm, and that is almost unheard of. Unless, of course, you have an in with the people who make those decisions. Naturally, all evidence collected in the field suggests that women make the best use of their fullest range of abilities to enhance their career prospects. I am not saying that this has occurred, but given the apparent demotion coupled with the advancement in your career, I believe that you can see why there is an element of doubt.

"During your entire presentation, Miss Grady, you hardly made eye contact with me, which is a well established sign of a lie being presented. That too adds more weight to the notion that you might be more suited for the role you current have, rather than the one you think you should have."

Tyron got out of his chair and walked around his desk until he was leaning against it right in front of Dawson. He got a close up look at her legs as they disappeared under her skirt. But as he dragged his eyes towards hers, he caught the telltale bulge at her bust line, surprised and impressed at how big it appeared to be.

"One last thing, Dawson. Why would a junior partner do a fetch and carry for someone, when there were other people who were better suited to do that? Nice as that was, is that the kind of behaviour we expect of a junior partner? Even on the first day for a senior partner?"

Everything he said was meant to test her, challenge her and have her show him if she really believe everything she said to him.

Ruffling Dawson was not easily accomplished. Provoking her temper, unfortunately, was. She listened to Tyron's questions until he was quite done, and then raised her eyes to his. The green pools had darkened perceptibly, and flashed with an anger kept, forcibly, at a simmer.

"Your curiousity, Sir, is understandable. Your powers of observation are admirable." The volume of her voice was unchanged, though the pronunciation had become clipped and careful. Now, she was not just making eye contact, but in fact refusing to break it, her gaze locked on Tyron's. "Suzanne was, as you stated, an intelligent woman. She was perfectly aware of what I could do, and of the waste of both talent and money that resulted from my 'demotion'. However, Suzanne lacked the ability to look at the larger picture, and so became quite hung on small details. My youth. My superior educational credentials. My...full range of abilities."

His own phrase, spun back at him. Two small dots of red had risen in her cheeks, though they were not the blush of arousal, rather the flush of anger. Still, her voice was level, pleasant, calm, and her eyes fastened to his.

"If you'd like to know why Mr. Albertson made such an unusual choice in promoting me- and yes, Sir, I know it to be unusual- I suggest that you ask him. I'm certainly not privy to the man's thoughts, though I often wish I could be, because he is brilliant. I would humbly suggest, Sir, that you take care to avoid any insinuation that it had anything to do with 'evidence collected in the field'. Mr. Albertson would likely take more offense to that than I. I'm relatively certain you know that, though, as you seem to be well-versed in various strategies of questioning. I can see why Mr. Albertson was so pleased to take you on."

"Of course, you must also be aware of Mr. Albertson's military record. He has fascinating stories to share. Thrilling. Did you know, Sir, that one of the traits Mr. Albertson values most in a person is the ability to accept the orders they've been given, whether they're pleasing or not? I'm sure that many of the men previously under his command in the fields- hell, Mr. Albertson himself, I'm sure- could have thought of many things they would rather do than charge up a hill into the fire of an enemy. But they were ordered to do so, Sir, by a superior officer. As I was ordered to fetch and carry. They obeyed because they understood their rank."

Still without breaking eye contact, Dawson stood, fully aware of the limited space this put between them now. Maybe a foot, not exactly indecent, but closer than she would have liked. Still, Tyron had made the offensive thrust, entering into her space- to back down would be admitting surrender. She would not do that, not now, not ever. She kept her hands at her sides, her shoulders squared, her hips pointed at him- unwilling to give in to the impulse to fold her arms over her chest and guard herself from him. "I do earnestly hope, Sir, that I have fully answered your questions. If you require any further clarification, please do not hesitate to ask."

For all the bravado, for all the control, Dawson's anger at his line of questioning was clearly visible in her face. Those little red spots in the cream fields of her cheeks, the spark to her emerald gaze, the rigid line of her back as she remained standing. With the benefit of the heels and Tyron's perch on his desk, they were nearly matched at eye-level- of course, if he straightened and she took those off, she'd be scant of his shoulder. It was even more admirable, then, that she remained so cool and collected, knowing, as Tyron could, how badly the questions had pricked at her composure.

Tyron stayed still as Dawson responded to his questions. He noticed that she locked her eyes on his, never breaking the contact through her entire reply. He saw the fire burning within, being held back by her. He was interested to see what would happen if that fire was unleashed. He would bide his time, but one day, he would expose himself to that blaze that she had mustered so well.

He also took note of the way she changed in her talking to him. Precision. Clearly enunciated words. Level speaking voice. But it carried a power to it. Wielded like a fencer's foil, rather than a warrior's axe. She would pick her point and hit it, rather than crashing into just anything. Few people would pick it up, unless they spent a lit of time questioning people, or they got to know her well.

Her responses were the kind he expected from someone of her background and education. She had replied to each of his points in a similar manner that he had raised his questions. She made her point clear on a few topics, in a way that was not threatening to him, but let him know she would fight every inch if things progressed down that path. If that fire he saw in her was anything to go by, it would be a particularly nasty fight too.

There was one action of hers that he took as a challenge to his authority, and that was when she stood up at the end of her reply to his initial line of questions. Her entire stance was a challenge to him. She faced him squarely, fully erect and in a posture that denoted dominance or a willingness to fight. As luck would have it, given his lean on the table, Dawson was able to look him in the eye when she stood. It took all of his willpower not to stand up straighter and regain the advantage of height. He was sure that such a move would not be as intimidating to her, as she was naturally short in stature, and used to having to physically look up at people.

"I do earnestly hope, Sir, that I have fully answered your questions. If you require any further clarification, please do not hesitate to ask."

"No, Dawson, you haven't answered them fully. Now, sit down." His voice was calm and level like hers, but buried in it was the steel of command. The kind of voice that cut through to the subconscious and had most people in motion before they knew what they were doing.

"I am more than aware of Mr Albertson's military history, as one of my uncles was one of those men that he commanded to 'charge the hill'. I know all about following orders that you don't like. But you would also know that most soldiers don't just blindly follow orders, even those that appear to be blatantly wrong or just plain stupid. Yet, a supposedly smart woman, working for a supposedly smart woman, did nothing to bring to light the waste of resources that was occurring? To casual observer, that is not the sign of a worthwhile junior partner. To the same observer, it might appear that someone in that situation was coasting and taking advantage of the situation.

"And on a similar topic, at the party, I didn't command anyone to fetch for me, Dawson. I merely asked for someone to point it out. But you got me a drink. plain water, which is a safe call. But it was not done as a measure to arse kiss, to promote yourself or deliberately make yourself noticed. You just got it, delivered it, got the acknowledgment that I received it, and then simply walked away.

"Why did you do it, Dawson?" He kept his eyes on her, watching her while she replied.

"Which reminds me, Dawson. Why didn't you make eye contact with me on both occasions when we spoke prior to answering my questions? I am sure I know why you maintained it after I asked the questions. So, before I pushed your buttons and got you pissed off with me, why couldn't you look at me?"

Tyron was certain that Dawson was good at what she did, but there was something holding her back from doing the right thing. She seemed to be content letting her extensive skills languish, performing duties for someone lower paid than herself. If she was what she claimed to be, then he would give her the chance to fly. Whether it was like an eagle or like Icarus, that would be up to her to decide.

Tyron asked a difficult question, one that Dawson did not particularly wish to answer. Of course, the fact that she sat down almost instantly upon his command, and once again was having a great deal of trouble looking at him, communicated almost half of the information.

How was she supposed to explain that she took Suzanne's degrading orders both as a challenge and a... a thrill? Of course she loathed the copying, the typing, the endless and complicated orders for sandwiches and coffee, and the hell that would be raised if one of the items came back incorrect. Yet, on the rare occasions when Suzanne could invent no flaw with her work, the grudging, backhanded praise she'd offer would light a warm little glow in Dawson's soul.

Of course, that was only part of it. While it was the larger part, it was also not the one she was afraid Tyron would discover. The red circles of rage in her cheeks streaked down into her throat now, and though Dawson felt herself coloring there was nothing at all she could do about it.

"Suzanne made... comprehensive investigations into the backgrounds of her employees. She came across some information from my college years that would be very embarrassing to me, personally and professionally. Of course, she threatened to go to Mr. Albertson with it if I didn't play along."

Dawson shifted uncomfortably in her chair, and forced herself to look up at Tyron again. "I understand that you might be curious, even concerned, but I assure you that it involved nothing illegal. No cheating on exams, no drugs, nothing like that. It's simply something that I'd rather no one at the firm was aware of. Suzanne very much enjoyed having me under her thumb, both because she disliked me deeply and because she's... just that sort of woman, I guess."

Dawson could have gone into much deeper detail there. The things she'd heard from this very office, late at night...they made her shiver to think on. Of course, Suzanne wanted her to hear. That bitch could play a game of cat and mouse for weeks, dropping phrases, echoing positions, just to watch Dawson squirm and blush. Once, she'd dropped a whole box of paperclips and demanded Dawson pick each one up, kneeling on the floor and crawling. The color in the older woman's cheeks had been pure arousal then, and when Dawson stretched to reach a clip under Suzanne's desk, Suzanne had seized her jaw, forced her to look up, and whispered "This is exactly where a slut like you belongs."

The recollection only perked the blush in Dawson's own skin, and she had to drop Tyron's gaze. "I brought you the water because you wanted a drink. I knew no one else was going to stir for it until they'd gotten their pets on the head, and I didn't want you to go on thirsting. As far as why I don't look at you, I..." Dawson paused. There was no good way to explain that Suzanne's constant put-downs, shamings, and busywork had been some sort of training that eased only when she learned "lessons", the first being not to look into the eyes of a superior.

"I will work on that, Sir, as it clearly bothers you." Tilting her head slightly, Dawson made herself make eye contact with Tyron, though he could see the effort it took. The spark had not died at all, but it had rather dimmed. Whatever it was Suzanne had held over her, she was truly afraid of it being found out.

For all of Dawson's fire, when he told her to sit down, Tyron was surprised to see her do just that without any sign of resistance. It caught him off guard slightly, but he didn't let it show on his face. Furthermore, she had return to her original state of no maintaining eye contact with him. He was certain that there was more going on than met the eye. The blaze that burned within seemed to go out, draining her of her liveliness and colour.

"Suzanne made... comprehensive investigations into the backgrounds of her employees. She came across some information from my college years that would be very embarrassing to me, personally and professionally. Of course, she threatened to go to Mr. Albertson with it if I didn't play along."

Tyron adjusted his lean a little, sitting up a bit straighter at the news of potentially compromising circumstances. He saw that Dawson was clearly uncomfortable about what was being hinted at, but he was not going to back off from finding out more about it. If it had the potential to cause problems, he needed to know about it so it could be neutralized as best as possible. With some effort, Dawson looked up at him again. He wasn't sure, but the look she gave him was almost pleading. He wasn't sure that he was interpreting it correctly, but his first guess would have been 'pleading'.

"I understand that you might be curious, even concerned, but I assure you that it involved nothing illegal. No cheating on exams, no drugs, nothing like that. It's simply something that I'd rather no one at the firm was aware of. Suzanne very much enjoyed having me under her thumb, both because she disliked me deeply and because she's... just that sort of woman, I guess."

Tyron sat still for a few moments, letting the words sink in. His eyes flickered in all directions as he processed the limited information he was given. Like every client he had dealt with, Dawson was trying to hold back valuable information simply because it was deemed embarrassing. Yet that very information would help them with their case. Dawson's issue had become just like that, a case in his mind.

Again, her face coloured and she broke eye contact again. Tyron was getting both concerned and confused by the rapid changes in Dawson's demeanor. One more confident, the next extremely timid, then tentatively self assured, then timid again. He was starting to wonder if Suzanne had anything to do with Dawson's current social instability.

"I brought you the water because you wanted a drink. I knew no one else was going to stir for it until they'd gotten their pets on the head, and I didn't want you to go on thirsting. As far as why I don't look at you, I... I will work on that, Sir, as it clearly bothers you."

"Yes, it does bother me a little that people who are working for me are loath to look at me when it is appropriate.

"Just to give you a little idea of where this next topic is going, Mr Albertson has given me the all clear to fix this team however I deem fit. Up to, and including, sacking everyone and starting fresh." He paused to let that sink in. In the silence, he bent forward a little, looking straight into Dawson's eyes, trying to hold her gaze by willpower alone.

"Now, you have informed me of something you feel is a compromise to yourself and possibly this firm. Your options are clear, Miss Grady. You can either tell me what this alleged compromise is, or you can go pack your things as I write up your termination letter. I am not going to have some unnamed matter threaten this firm, or the ability of it to represent its clients.

"Further to that, if there are any other potential conflicts of interest, you had best be forthcoming with them, or the door won't have a chance to strike that ass of yours as you are leaving this office."

Tyron's anger was from the state of his team. If the most senior member of those who worked for him was this bad, then it bode badly for the rest. And all of that rested on the shoulders of his predecessor. He felt slightly bad for taking it out on Dawson, but her timid behaviour seemed to bring it out of him, particularly for a supposedly well qualified junior partner.

"There is only one way to deal with it if you wish to remain working here, Dawson. I need to know what it is so I can deal with the matter in such a way that it is no longer a problem. Since it's not illegal in any form, then you can safely divulge it. Unlike my predecessor, I will not use it against you."

He waited for her to either make up her mind and tell him or start walking. To Tyron, the time seemed to drag on, and it made him even more irritable. Finally, he gave up waiting, and made the decision for her.

"Tell me what Suzanne found out about."

Holding Dawson's gaze was not going to be a problem for Tyron. She kept her eyes on his as he held forth. When he mentioned the possibility of firing the lot of them, Dawson paled, her creamy skin turning a shade not dissimilar to paper.

Unwilling to retreat from the challenge of Tyron's unbroken stare, Dawson presented a very entertaining show of fidgeting and subtle, fluidly changing facial expressions. The ultimatum she had just been issued was more than clear, but she could not quite force the words to come out.

What Suzanne found out. Four little words. Interesting, really, how they could encompass the secret Dawson had so degraded herself to keep. Cheeks heating with shame, Dawson's delicate throat worked as she attempted to swallow past a lump of pure panic.

When Tyron repeated himself, it was clear that his already limited patience was at an end. Now or never, duckling, Dawson thought, and drew her spine straight. Feet flat on the floor, hands folded loosely in her lap, head held high- suddenly she posed as though she were a queen, and the chair she occupied a throne.

"While I was in college, I worked as a stripper." In keeping with her proud, newly regal bearing, Dawson kept her voice level and soft. It was a sharp contrast to the riot of fear that clenched her stomach and beat her heart in double time, but to her great credit she hid the outward effects of such nervousness expertly. A slight widening of her pupils, a hammering pulse at the base of her throat, a little extra tension in her spine- these subtle physical cues were beyond her conscious control, but all else was masterfully suppressed.

"I will not pretend that I am proud of that work, but nor am I ashamed of it. I made a great deal of money while still having plenty of time to focus on my studies. I was able to minimize the loans I needed to take out, even in law school, and make payments well before my post-graduation grace period ended, saving myself thousands in interest. I never had to eat ramen or spend a night before a final folding sweaters at the mall."

"There are very many here who would be less inclined to view my work charitably. I know myself to be an attractive young woman, and I know that I am not taken terribly seriously by many of my coworkers- the men wish I would give in and sleep my way to the top, and the women assume I do. If they were to discover my secret, they'd feel validated in their dismissal of my intelligence and my talents."

Though she refused to drop Tyron's gaze, Dawson felt absolutely tortured. Those beautiful eyes widened and her lashes fluttered. Her skin had returned its normal, if still rather pale, porcelain shade, save for the two brilliant dots of shame-flush on the apples of her cheeks. Her hands were white-knuckled in her lap, her spine unnaturally stiff. It was painfully clear that Tyron's next move would mean a very great deal to her.

"I will, of course, go along with whatever decision you make regarding my continued employment, but I would ask that you try to consider first what I do, not what... what I did."

Tyron watched quietly as Dawson seemed to go through an array of emotions and facial expressions before she finally responded.

"While I was in college, I worked as a stripper."

Years of practice came to the fore, allowing him to keep his expression fixed while the rest of his system went haywire. Two divergent lines of thought raced through his head while he fought to hear everything else she said.

The first line of thought was dealing with how to minimize the impact of the revelation. Fortunately, it was not something too bad, and with a little time and creative thinking, it could be dealt with without too much effort or fallout.

The second line of though was painting all kinds of images of what he thought she looked like, transposed into a variety of seedy backgrounds. It went a long way to explaining her figure, and the heels she wore so easily. He put most of his effort into crushing those thoughts before other things happened that would not be useful at that time.

"I will, of course, go along with whatever decision you make regarding my continued employment, but I would ask that you try to consider first what I do, not what... what I did."

"Hmmm." Tyron bought himself some time while he rapidly went through everything else Dawson mentioned.

"Right. Don't worry about that for now. You want to be treated like a Junior Partner, then you will start acting like one. Starting tomorrow, I want you dressed more professionally. Jacket, skirt, good blouse and shoes that will not induce altitude sickness. Knock a couple of inches off those heels.

"Now, before you can fill the role of a Junior Partner you will continue to fill the role you have been performing for Suzanne. But you will be responsible for the replacement. You will define the role, including all the salary conditions. You will advertise the role, screen all the initial applicants and produce a shortlist of viable candidates. Then, you will interview them, with me sitting in, and finally present the best three candidates for my final decision, along with your notes on each of the candidates.

"Once that seat is filled by someone else, then you will be a Junior Partner again." Tyron leaned forward until his nose was an inch away from hers. "When that happens, you will be putting in a minimum of two nights a week of unpaid overtime to make up for the large amounts of money we paid you for work you were not performing. And one last thing, Dawson. While you are working for me, I will be riding your ass hard to make sure that you are doing exactly what is required of you."

He stood up in front of Dawson, looking down at her as she sat in the chair. "Now, you have work to do Dawson. I suggest you get to it ASAP."


Tyron waited for as long as he could before making his way to Clive's office. His secretary smiled and nodded as Tyron approached, which he took to be clearance to continue into Clive's personal office. The older man was looking out the window, deep in thought as the door opened. He slowly turned his chair, breaking into a smile when he saw Tyron. Tyron closed the door, and took a few steps in.

"Clive, I have just got some potentially bad news. Concerning Dawson Grady."

"Oh? Did she tell you that she was a stripper during college? Well, son, that was the main reason I hired her in the first place." Clive laughed at Tyron's reaction. "Oh, get your jaw of the carpet and sit down, son. Dawson was hired not for what she did, but why.

"When she started, I ran a background check on her finances to make sure that she was sensible with the loans and debts she'd have. Much to my surprise, she had none. She had no money in her background, so it had to have come from somewhere. So, while she started, I plowed through her background until I discovered how she paid everything off.

"Now, that kind of work takes courage, self confidence, careful management and the ability to work under some pressure from adversarial clients. All of those factors make for a good partner in this firm. I kept a close eye on her while she was here in the first three years. She's good as what she does for this firm. That's why she's a junior partner.

"Now, my question is, son, what are you going to do about it? Forget what I have done, but what will you do?"

"I was going to investigate how to neutralize it, so if it is brought up it wont be damaging to either her, the firm or any cases she has had a hand in. It is a little unorthodox, but she hasn't done anything that would keep her from doing her job here."

"Good, son. I have things in place to deal with it. That news is not to be a concern for her, or anyone else here in the firm."

"Ok, son. Then why don't you get back to work, and getting things back to some form of normality and productive nature." Tyron took his slow turning of his chair as a dismissal. He walked back to his office, returning his train of thought to business matters.

Nothing energized Dawson quite like a good task. Though the rest of the workday passed in a blur, having direction gave Dawson a good excuse to keep her head down and avoid Tyron with a graceful but studied consistency. Every time he stood up from his desk chair, Dawson was out the door with something that absolutely had to be copied, or on the phone speaking in muted, urgent, productive tones. The fact that there was no one on the line not just once, but twice, hardly mattered. She was working, and working hard.

Something that became perfectly evident when she arrived the next day. Dawson had taken Tyron's instructions to heart, and spent quite a bit of time- and money- before making her way home and to bed. Moving sleekly and quietly on a much-subdued pair of black mary-jane heels, Dawson held her chin up and her back straight. She felt conspicuous in this new outfit, which was strange, given its calculated lack of conspicuous features.

A fitted french-blue button down lay over her...inspiring chest with a carefully tailored fit, the structural integrity carefully reinforced with hidden double-sided tape. Her skirt, a midnight black tweed cut to hint at yet conceal the luscious curve of her ass, fanned out only slightly around her knees, and though she had had to leave the jacket that completed the suit set unfastened for the sake of the buttons, she thought she looked rather smart.

Her glossy hair bounced in sweet curls around her face, pinned back on one side with a plain black clip. It made her look young, of course, but she was- and, with the glow of productivity and hope that lit her complexion from within, she was quite the picture.

Her knock on Tyron's door, however, was timid. She knew he was in, and she cursed herself six ways from sunday for letting him beat her in, but her nerves had kept her up a bit late- and she was still on time, of course. Composing herself, she startled only slightly at the curt "Yes?" that invited her to get on with it and open the office door.

Leaving the door half-open behind her, Dawson stepped into Tyron's office. She wasn't at all sure why she felt the need to leave that half-escape route, but she knew that her pulse nearly hammered in her throat, and that it took nearly every ounce of her stored bravery to meet Tyron's eyes directly as she spoke.

"Sir, I have the job description you requested, as well as a proof of the ad I'd like to place. If you have a moment, I thought you might care to review them?" Good girl, she thought distantly, hearing the only slight quaver of nerves in her voice. He's been angry, but you did exactly what he wanted, and you did it well. If he's going to eat you for breakfast, it won't be this morning.

Tyron returned to his office, and continued to read the personnel files of his team. Each file revealed a new surprise concerning the make up of the team which left him further puzzled about the recent performance prior to his arrival. By the end of the day, he had an accurate vision of the team, which would allow him to progress matters faster than he first thought.

The following morning, Tyron was in his office before any of his team had arrived. He was wanting to get a few thoughts down on paper before people showed up and started to disrupt his thought processes too much. He dropped his pen after filling 5 pages of notes in his A4 sized notebook. A long exhale bordering on a sigh escaped him as he slumped back in his chair. He allowed himself to relax for a few moments before starting on his next task. The knock on the door annoyed him somewhat, his replied carried enough of that annoyance to be detected.

He looked up at the door, seeing Dawson timidly ease her way through. He was impressed at the suit she wore. Her entire appearance was one of a professional member of the firm. It was conservative enough to fit the corporate theme, while working a balancing act of showing off her natural assets without detracting from the professional air. He found himself looking at the blouse and how it was straining slightly where trying to contain her bust. He was also aware of the jacket that had been left open as well. His mind wandered slightly, seeing her starting a strip tease involving her current attire.

"Sir, I have the job description you requested, as well as a proof of the ad I'd like to place. If you have a moment, I thought you might care to review them?"

Tyron brought his immediate response to a halt. He hadn't requested to look at either, mainly because he had little knowledge of her exact role, plus he wanted her to act independent of him so he could focus on the matters that were more important. Yelling at her, or even putting her down would not be constructive.

"Good morning, Dawson." Tyron smiled, letting him mind try and visualize her chest only clad in something lacy and red, or black. It helped to ease his earlier bad reaction. "Yes, bring them over please." His internal focus shifted to what her ass would look like as she walked over to him. How it would feel naked in his lap. How smooth it might feel in his hands as he caressed her there.

He took the documents from her, reading over them in a cursory manner. He noted no grammar or spelling errors, and nothing looked out of place. He handed them back to Dawson with a smile.

"Thank you, Dawson. Now, either do up the buttons on the jacket, or take it off. When you have finished with that task," he pointed to the documents in her hands, "send out an email to the team. We're having a team meeting in the conference room at Ten. Everyone is to be there. No exceptions. Missing out will not reflect well on those that miss it. Thanks, Dawson."

He turned his attention back to the stack of paper work on his desk, until he noticed Dawson walking out of his office. He let his eyes drift over her ass and legs as she walked out, enjoying the view in a typically lustful male manner.

Dawson kept her composure as she left Tyron's office, shutting the door behind herself as quietly as possible. Internally, though, she fumed. He'd asked her to dress more professionally, and she did- but fashion advice was beyond the pale.

Sitting down behind her computer, she fired off the email Tyron ordered. Fortunately, her experience with Suzanne had sharpened her ability to write "between the lines", and she made certain that Tyron's dire intensity about required attendance was conveyed. That task done, she considered the jacket.

She wanted, badly, to leave it exactly as it was and force him to drop it- or, alternatively, to fire her over an unbuttoned coat. This answer appealed to her inner child, the one who responded to every "You can't..." with "Watch me."

This spirit had served her well through a particularly terrible childhood: when it seemed impossible that a seven-year-old keep house and shop for groceries, cleaning up behind a mother whose vices rendered her more childlike than her child, Dawson did it. When it was declared verboten that a fourteen year old girl move out on her own and work a forty-hour night-shift week to get away from her mother's increasingly bold and lecherous "friends", Dawson pulled it off. And when the sick, dark, undercutting voice in Dawson's own head told her "If you become a stripper like mom was, you'll never, ever walk away, you'll end up hooked and empty and sagging just like her", she won that contest of wills as well.

At least, sometimes she thought she had. Yet Dawson was a bright girl, and one used to more than her fair share of received lust. She was aware of Tyron's admiring glances, and knew what he must be thinking- the same thing every man thought when finding out what she used to do. The whole thought made her cringe inwardly, and the shame served only to fuel the deepening dislike she felt toward her new boss. Suzanne's blackmail had been successful precisely because of this shame, this heat rising in Dawson's cheeks even know- she hated being found out.

It was so distracting, this train of thought, that Dawson hardly noticed herself working the jacket off her shoulders and hanging it neatly over the back of her chair. Subconsciously, she'd chosen one of Tyron's two options.

When she discovered this, ten minutes later and ninety percent of the way down the hall to the conference room, it hit her like a bucket of icewater. Her spine straightened and her hands clenched tighter around the portfolio she carried, but she would not go back for the jacket. She knew Tyron was still in the office, waiting, no doubt, to make a grand entrance, and if he found that he had ruffled her enough to care about the fucking jacket...

It would be like he won. He wouldn't win, not a single battle, not a lonely inch. Not over Dawson's dead body. Taking a seat at the conference table, Dawson looked straight ahead and thought pleasant, soothing thoughts.

She was buying -three- pairs of shoes tonight.

Tyron sat at his desk, going over all the main points of his team meeting, making sure that he had everything down pat in his mind, and that he was ready for any of the inevitable questions that would come his way. He had a feeling that a couple of them would ask questions, if for no other reason of being remembered for taking note of what was said and being a good team member.

He paused for a moment, his thoughts going back to Dawson. She was a good team member to the point of being counter productive. She allowed her boss to force her into a role she was ill suited for, and waste her talents in the process. What was even more interesting was the fact that Dawson allowed it to continue. Further work on that line of thought was shelved as he saw the time. He grabbed the pile of folders and headed out for his team meeting.

Tyron started moving so that he would be there five minutes before the designated start time. He wanted to see who got there earlier, and potentially wasting valuable time in the process, and who turned up late. Of course, a majority of the team members leapt into action the moment he appeared from his office, heading to the conference room so they would be there before him. He managed to suppress the grin caused by the thought of school children running for their seats in class before the teacher arrived.

Tyron managed to walk through the door before the last two members of the team who were in discussion about the case they were assigned to. Tyron took the ends of the table, noting that Dawson had got there before the stampede. She had decided to not do up the jacket, which was simply ignored after that. He did catch a number of the other staff taking a number of sideways glances at Dawson's chest.

"Good morning everyone. Thank you for all getting here punctually. Now, to clear the air as to why I called you all in. Firstly, this Friday will be a casual dress day, along with an early knock off for us to hit the local."

Tyron was impressed at the way the obvious enthusiasm was controlled. As he thought, the combination would be popular, and would make for a good time for the team to get to know each other a little better.

"Now, if you are meeting with clients, you will be in professional attire. As a guideline for the casual attire, if you feel comfortable wearing it out in public, then it's fine to wear on Friday. Plus, plain common sense. When we hit the local, I'll be getting some food, and at least one round for everyone."

Tyron adjusted the positioning of the pile of folders he brought in with him to clear some space for him to rest his elbows on the table.

"Now, the other reason for this meeting. On paper, this is one hell of a team. There are people here who a really good at what they can do, and together, we can get some spectacular results. In reality, I wonder why that isn't happening.

"Mister Albertson has given me the clearance to clean up this team however I deem fit, up to and including, sacking the lot of you and starting from scratch." Tyron could almost feel the temperature drop in the room, along with hearing the rapid hammering of hearts against rib cages. "But from what I have seen, that is not necessary. But, there will be some changes. Some people will be promoted, others demoted. People may be given other duties or roles. There may even be some new faces in the team. All of this will occur based on what I have read, and what I have observed.

"I am not expecting there to be a miraculous turn around overnight, but I will be looking for positive changes in most of you. There are one or two who are working at their peak, but the rest of you are not. Some of that is due to being in the wrong spot, doing the wrong type of work.

"Everyone here will be given a good chance to prove their worth. No one will be sacked straight away, unless they do something that is in clear breach of the corporate rules. I will give anyone a warning that they are at risk of having their employment here terminated, and explain why they are at risk. Failure to do anything about it will see that individual released from their duties here.

"Now, any questions?"

Dawson chose to remain quiet and pokerfaced. The invitation seemed promising, potentially even fun. In the worst case, she'd get free beer and nachos, and that was one hell of a worst-case scenario. Still, something about it felt...wrong. Perhaps it was simply too much of a system shock to go from Hell Bitch to Friendly Fred, but she didn't trust this. And she didn't trust him.

Still, the general mood of the room seemed to be one of hope and excitement, and she tried to get into that spirit. A few people asked questions, in those overbright eager-beaver voices that broadcast their fear for their jobs. Dawson took a moment to consider if she was afraid of being "sacked". It seemed that, honestly, she wasn't. It would be inconvenient, yes, and put a dent in her shopping for a while, but she'd certainly saved enough to survive. Besides, getting out from under Tyron might not prove to be the worst thing to ever happen.

Except... she was afraid of Tyron. Not of being fired by him, but of... him. At least, she thought it was fear. It was definitely something that shared a border with fear, and, more disturbingly, also one with arousal. He made her stomach flip and her ears burn, frequently at the same time, and the question of the jacket still galled her.

It was a thought she had to push aside, and quickly. As the meeting ended and people began to stand, Dawson closed her still-blank notebook- and heard Mr. Albertson call her name.

He stood in the door of the meeting room, looking a bit angry- a face Dawson knew well. Something was going on. "Dawson, a moment?"

Nothing cleared a room like a senior partner looking irked. Even Tyron attempted to leave- until Mr. Albertson caught his arm. "Tyron, I don't have time to explain exactly what's happening, but Dawson is going to be involved in a very important piece of play-acting right now. I need you to follow her cues and play it very natural."


Within moments, the office had been suitably rearranged. Tyron's name had been slid out of the plaque on the office door, and replaced with Dawson's. His nameplate and business cards were on her desk, hers on the large desk in the private office. Said office was also occupied by a portly, older gentleman, stuffed into a suit of obvious luxury- worn poorly. His collar was unbuttoned to flash a thick gold chain, his hamlike hands bedecked in far too many, and too large, cocktail rings. He reeked of cologne- expensive cologne, yes, but still too much of it. And he carried himself with that air of "do you know who I -am-" offense that spoke of very freshly printed money and minimal breeding.

Dawson had just left a private conference with Mr. Albertson, one that Tyron had been excluded from. She looked straight ahead as she walked down the hall, her movements projecting power, intensity, and a sense of... ownership. With a clipped "Mr. Smith, after me, please," she beckoned Tyron to follow her into "his" office.

A very young, very pretty, very pregnant girl stood listlessly in the anteroom, clutching a purse and a wad of tissues. She looked up at Dawson with all the trust, hope, and fear of a recently beaten puppy, and emotion arced almost visibly between the two young women. Dawson checked quickly that the door to Tyron's office was closed before grasping the other girl's hand and squeezing it firmly. "It's all right. Don't look at him, and don't talk. Just watch me. This is Mr. Smith, he's my boss, and he's here to help us -sell- this."

Releasing the young girl's hand, Dawson closed her eyes for a moment and composed her battle face. It was...fearsome. She seemed to grow three inches, and her eyes became almost feline in cunning. Her lips found a curve just this side of a smirk, the condescension and distaste almost palpable.

She strode into Tyron's office like she owned it, not even looking at the man as she walked behind the desk and sat. Well, -claimed- the chair- spine stiff, eyes on random pieces of paper, every inch the queen who could not just this moment be bothered with the peasant requesting his audience. The pregnant girl found a chair as far as physically possible from the man, and waited.

They all -waited-. Silence held sway for a moment as Dawson considered the contents of a folder with deep concentration, as though it held the very secret of life itself- not a random brief on an agricultural border case, chosen specifically for its thickness. Closing the folder with a dismissive flick of her fingers, Queen Dawson the Malevolent finally deigned to look up at the visitor.

And what a look it was! Disgust and revulsion mingled with ice and scientific curiosity in a punch so powerful that the puffed brute recoiled just a bit. He fought for mastery, and came up with bluster.

"Listen, sweetheart, I don't know what the little slut's been saying, and how much of her earnings she's throwing at you, but that kid is not mine and I'm not-"

It was nearly funny, the way Dawson's upraised hand, slender and delicate in the universal sign for "stop", could halt a conversation of such conviction. The man actually blinked, and blushed, but fell silent nonetheless.

"Do you know my name?" It was an innocent enough question, and Dawson delivered it in a light, conversational tone, with a borrowed but extremely convincing British accent. Her eyes did not move once from the man, two pins of vibrant green that skewered and studied as though he were a particularly interesting specimen on her microscope slide.

The portly man recovered- almost. "Never heard of you, gorgeous."

"Of course you don't know my name. Because I'm going to make it- on her case, and your ruin. I'm young, I'm smart, I'm a real vicious bitch and I look fantastic on the five o'clock news. Which is where I will be, tomorrow night and every night, broadcasting your systematic, slimeball ruination of an innocent, beautiful young farmgirl. I'm going to make Cassandra look like Mary-Sue Cornhusker, and I'm going to make you look like the unwanted lovechild of Tony Soprano and Pamela Smart, and I'm going to make -me- look like an avenging angel of justice and purity with a flaming sword made out of your own dick. In the end she has your money, I bill at five hundred an hour, and your own mother will close the door in your face and call you a scumbag."

Again, silence. Except, of course, for a forcibly muffled laugh somewhere just outside the door- a masculine laugh, mangled into a fake cough.

"Now we can skip all that, and you can sign the -very- generous child support arrangement my assistant Tyron is going to write up and send over tonight. I promise you, Mister... Ditucci? De-tuki? irrelevant. I promise you, it's going to go down a lot better on your wallet and your wife than the suit that shows up tomorrow if I -don't- get your signature. Capice?"

Perhaps the throwaway of calling Tyron her "assistant" was unnecessary, but it was certainly satisfying. Dawson placed her palms flat on the desk and stared at the man, one eyebrow raised in an expression that was ten percent question and ninety percent dare.

"Ehhh, whatever. Whatever. Whatever it takes to get her skinny ass out of my life- forever." Mr. Delticci didn't even hazard to correct the deliberate mispronunciation of his name. Though the brass and bluster remained in full force, every set of eyes in the room could see the pallor under his sweat, the gradual slide down in his chair as he fought to slip under that gaze.

"Excellent. The document will be at your office by three. It best be back at mine by five. Your home number remains the same, I believe, and if I haven't seen the papers by five-oh-one I'm going to ring up and make sure that nothing tragic has occurred to delay your signature. Help me, Mr. Ditucki- am I pronouncing 'Carmela' correctly? It's ever so embarrassing to get a man's wife on the line and mangle her name."

Though Dawson had finally granted Mr. Delticci's newest and most sincere prayers by looking back into her folder, her message was still quite clear. His swallow was audible. So was the strangled note of impotent, misogynistic rage in his voice. "You'll have them by quarter past three."

Without looking up, Dawson made a waving gesture with her hand that he correctly- and quickly- understood as a dismissal. With a speed that seemed incongruous to his size, the man scuttled from the office, nearly knocking Tyron over in his haste- and banging the door open so quickly and so forcefully that it completely concealed Mr. Albertson.

Only when the elevator tone signalled Mr. Delticci's departure from the offices did Clive slide into the inner room, a smile of paternal pride and great mirth creasing his face. "Beautiful. -Bea-ut-iful-. Where'd you get that accent, Dossie?"

Dawson blushed and, with the same effortless transmutation that made her into the British Dominatrix, returned to her normal size and appearance. "My gram, Mr. Albertson. Copied it right off her. May Cassandra and I be excused?"

"Of course. Brilliant. Beautiful. See you at dinner, Cassandra." Mr. Albertson gave the pregnant girl a quick, familiar hug and peck before watching both young ladies depart. "Sorry to have sprung that on you, Tyron, but there was no time to explain. That damned scum-in-a-suit was banging down our doors, and it needed done. Questions?"

The questions fired back at Tyron were all ones based around a common theme - can I please keep my job. He answered each one to help mollify the nerves of the one asking the question, as well as a few others with similar thoughts. The remainder of the meeting wound up quickly with a few reminders of the status of the team, as well as Friday's events.

As people headed to the door, it was opened by Clive, who looked rather angry. He caught out of the corner of his eye the reaction to the team, and they were like crippled mice before a cat.

"Dawson, a moment?" His voice was low, and carried just a hint of the anger showing on his face. Everyone else relaxed slightly, though wasted little time leaving the room. Tyron decided that he would leave the two of them alone, and get back to his work when Clive signaled for him to stay.

"Tyron, I don't have time to explain exactly what's happening, but Dawson is going to be involved in a very important piece of play-acting right now. I need you to follow her cues and play it very natural."

Tyron was surprised by the request, but since the most senior partner had made the request, while being rather angry, he simply nodded and followed the two of them to see what was going to happen.


While he assisted in the rearranging of his office to make a suitable backdrop to the facade to be presented, he ran over in his mind his thoughts of Dawson. There was little doubt that he found her physically attractive, and had entertained a few quick fantasies about revealing what was hidden under her clothes and seeing how much enjoyment could be had with them. She was intelligent, otherwise she would be where she was within the firm. But there was something else that touched him in a way that made him slightly uncomfortable. He hadn't been able to put a finger on it, and that annoyed him greatly. For a moment he considered that her rapid elevation, along with the role reversal for this 'play-acting' may have smacked his ego about, but he was more curious than anything else.

The man who turned up was a classic case of new money and fragile ego within the moneyed crowd. He projected his new found power and wealth with gaudy displays that he undoubtedly gained from bad TV shows. Tyron had an immediate dislike of the fellow. But he played his part as the good personal assistant, doing his best to look after a client that was not interested in anyone who was not a lawyer. After a few minutes, he left the room to let his 'boss' know that the man arrived. Tyron felt better them moment he got into clearer air.

Tyron found Dawson just after she left her meeting with Mr Albertson. Her entire air was different to the one that she normally presented. If he hadn't seen her before, he would have totally believed the powerful image she showed.

"Mr. Smith, after me, please."

"Yes, Ms Grady," Tyron replied in the proper way an assistant responded. He fell into step behind her, doing his best not to stare at her arse while she walked to 'her' office. He succeeded. Mostly.

Tyron concealed the surprise at the young woman waiting in the outer office. She was barely a woman, legally, by her appearance. She was definitely a woman by the fact that she was close to term. But the two women seemed to know each other, and the pregnant woman drew strength and confidence from Dawson as they briefly held hands.

"It's all right. Don't look at him, and don't talk. Just watch me. This is Mr. Smith, he's my boss, and he's here to help us -sell- this."

Tyron gave her a quick, friendly smile and a nod. He waited to follow his lead. Again, Dawson transformed into the powerful legal woman, and strode into the office. Tyron briefly wondered if he ever acted in that manner, but quickly dismissed the thoughts before they derailed him. He liked the way she treated him with a similar contempt that the man had given to Tyron. He helped the young woman to sit, then stood back to watch the theatre.

He could tell that Dawson was acting, some deep sense telling him it was all a show, but the other man in the room was buying it completely. She was clearly setting the terms for the meeting, and the other man was having troubles trying to think of how to gain the initiative. But no sooner than he opened his mouth, Tyron knew that the man was in trouble, and slipping deeper with every passing second. He gazed on as Dawson dominated him in their meeting. Words, actions and stance were enough to keep the man off balance and her in control. She ran proverbial rings around the man as she detailed exactly what was going to happen, including what he was going to do in the proceedings. She pressed home her advantage, and had the matter resolved to what he believed was her satisfaction before she rather blatantly ignored him. The swiftness of the retreat showed exactly how much damage Dawson had caused the man's ego.

Clive walked in looking like the proud father of the efforts of two wonderful daughters. Both Dawson and Cassandra looked happy and relived at the outcome.

"Beautiful. -Bea-ut-iful-. Where'd you get that accent, Dossie?"

"My gram, Mr. Albertson. Copied it right off her. May Cassandra and I be excused?"

"Of course. Brilliant. Beautiful. See you at dinner, Cassandra." Tyron watched as Clive gave Cassandra a very familial hug and kiss, and the two men watched the women disappear.

"Sorry to have sprung that on you, Tyron, but there was no time to explain. That damned scum-in-a-suit was banging down our doors, and it needed done. Questions?"

"Can I have more notice of one of these scenarios are played out again?"

Clive laughed deeply. "Sure, son. If I could have, I would have. But there was barely enough time as it was to get everything readied. Thanks for following along, Tyron. You were a great help in supporting everyone there."

"Well, until Dawson gets my office back to the way it should be, I will be in the library doing some prep work for one of my cases." With a nod to Clive, Tyron headed off to the library.

The room was full of legal books, and collections of court rulings associated with various legal matters that the firm had an interest in. It was also quiet, out of the way, and if it were visited, most people quickly found what they were looking for, and vanished.

"What is it about Dawson that's got me a little flustered? Something in the mix is not adding up. She put on one hell of a show before with Mr Delticci, but it was just that - show. Well, the disgust and anger were all real. Can't blame her there." He sat still and silent for a while. He went over everything he could remember of how she behaved, the things that she said and did. "Damn it! I know I have the answer in there somewhere, I just can't make the proper connections. Ah, fuck it. I'll figure it out sooner or later. Just tomorrow, then Friday and two days to recover from the week just gone."

Tyron sat back in the chair, letting his thoughts slip into something more pleasant. "I wonder what Dawson will wear on Friday." In his mind, he pictured her in a cliched stripper's outfit, including the perilously high heels, making everyone in the office drool, like he did at the thought.

Though Dawson's performance in the office could have earned an Oscar, her skillful avoidance of Tyron for the bulk of the afternoon merited a different award. Perhaps the International Fraternity of Spooked Forest Critters offered a lifetime achievement medal? Fortunately, there was plenty for her to do, and a great many excuses to dash out of the fully-restored office whenever Tyron's step could be heard in the hall.

In fact, by the end of the afternoon, Dawson had a stack of resumes to pore over, all candidates who would be quite qualified to replace her. Her hesitance and unusually intense scrutiny was baffling, then- why was she looking so hard at these men and women? Why did she attempt to convince herself that the use of certain fonts indicated a flighty personality, that the conflation of "affect" and "effect" was evidence of a truly unforgivable sin? Why was she now attempting to extend her stay in this office, behind this humble desk, just a little bit longer?

Dawson did not handle self-created mystery well. Her cheeks glowed with little circles of flush, her motions became quick and half-violent. She crossed and recrossed her legs, straightened in her chair, adjusted the ribbon in her hair... she fidgeted like a schoolgirl told to wait in this chair until the principal had time to deal with her. It was ridiculous, it was wholly unsuitable, it was beneath her and her title.

It was lust. The realization was hardly world-shattering. Dawson knew herself well enough to have noticed her interest in what Tyron thought of her outfit this morning. She had felt her heartbeat double when Tyron stood in front of her yesterday, forcing her to admit the blackmail Suzanne perpetrated. She had known her own shame, her own frustration when the truth was revealed, and the prickly heat in her stomach when she felt Tyron's eyes on her now. She wanted him, and she wanted him to want her- and then, she wanted to deny them both.

Why? Look, Dossie, one moment of introspection a day. Puzzle on that one tomorrow.

Sometimes, one's internal monologue provides great wisdom, and Dawson chose to believe that now was one of those times. She focused only on immediate concerns for the rest of the evening. Like those shoes she'd promised herself.

And so she had many new choices to consider in front of her mirror that night before bed. It was with great satisfaction that she settled on a pair of dark-wash jeans with silver buttons down the calves, the denim clinging to every curve needily, hungrily. A tunic-length charcoal sweater, lightweight and modestly scoop-necked, with a thin black leather belt looped twice around her waist- just in case you had temporarily forgotten how narrow and tight it was, under that knit. And the shoes- a new purchase, of course- black leather boots with chunky, gravity-defying heels- more biker babe than stripper, but perfect, just...perfect.

Giddily, Dawson could not help but notice a certain kinship to Sandy in Grease. Her smile was a great deal less innocent, though, as she shimmied her hips and pointed into the reflection- "You're the one that I want, hoo hoo hoo, honey!" So what if Olivia Newton-John had those baby-blues and sun-streaked blonde locks where Dawson could offer only catlike green gazes and decidedly unruly brown curls? "Give me five minutes with a young John Travolta, and he won't even remember your name, Sandy." Self-esteem restored, Dawson stripped and threw herself into bed.

With a spring in her step and just a touch of lip gloss on that luscious pout, Dawson made her way into the office with the morning's first coffee in hand- and an extra. She had made a point of discovering Tyron's preferences secretly, and committed his standard coffee order to memory- should she ever be captured by the enemy, she would repeat only "Dawson Grady, Junior Partner, black with two raw sugars."

Knocking lightly on his door, Dawson held the coffee in front of herself as if she were Jonathan Harker, Tyron Count Dracula, and a steaming disposable Starbucks cup a crucifix. She had an apology primed on her tongue, and all she needed was for him to open the door and give her sixty seconds.

Well, maybe she needed him to like the outfit, too.

Tyron ventured back to his office two hours after lunch, seeing the pile of job applications on Dawson's desk while Dawson was no where to be seen. A slight frown marred his face as he continued into his restored office. The little scene from earlier in the day rolled in his mind. He could see how Dawson got to be elevated to a Junior partner so quickly given how she handled Mr. Delticci. He sauntered around his desk, the finger tips trailing along the top as he tried to reconcile the differences in her behaviour between that scene, and when he dealt with her.

Tyron sank into his chair, turning it slightly to look out the window. he absently reached for a pen, doodling on a piece of paper while he worked through the "problem" that was Dawson.

"Suzanne blackmailed her into being her personal assistant. Dawson never spoke of it to anyone, not even Clive." Dawson, Suzanne and Clive were written on the paper, in the chain of command. "Whenever I have been in boss mode, she goes timid. She follows orders without hesitation. She also tries to avoid me afterward. And what about that reaction when we first met?" 'Rosy cheeks' was scrawled down. "Then, she's all defensive when I hinted at sleeping her way up the ladder, which is something that Clive would never do. But after that, she's once more timid. She never did up the jacket as I thought she would, and that drew a lot of attention to her.

"Gods, she has an impressive pair of breasts. She must be beating the fellows off with a club. Now, the all important question about this line of thought is - does this have anything to do with the knowledge that she was a stripper, or is it that she is just plain hot as is?"

His pen dropped from his fingers with a clatter. He rubbed his face and let out a sigh. With a slight shake of his head, he turned around to face his desk proper. He saw the sheet of paper with his 'thoughts' written on it. He stared at the sheet, his mind draining of all thought. The pen was in his hand again, and he wrote one last thing before shoving it into his personal drawer of his desk.

'Control her'

The remainder of the day was a blur for Tyron when he looked back on it Friday morning. He went through his normal routine, mainly on autopilot, until he got to getting dressed. He stopped himself from grabbing his professional attire, and went with a casual button down short sleeved shirt, black jeans and a pair of sturdy hiking shoes which fell just short of being boots.

The two words from the previous day scared him, but they felt right for some strange reason. He continued to wander around in a slight daze due to the amount of thinking he was doing about the revelation of his. Tyron was rather surprised that he made it into work on time that morning, given how distracted he was.

He sat at his desk, the scribble sheet once more on his desk.

"What is it? How did I come to that conclusion? Why am I so concerned about it anyway. Dawson's a work colleague, not some woman I'm trying to pick up."

There was a light knock on the door, and he knew that it was Dawson. His pulse cranked up a notch, and he was not feeling too comfortable as he approached the door. When he opened it, he took a step back and stared. Trying as had as he could, he couldn't stop himself from slowly working down the full length of her body, admiring everything he saw. The tumble of rich brown curls framed her nicely pale face, allowing the green eyes to shine more prominently than usual. That morning, he really noticed the shape of her mouth, and the softness of the lips that he thought would feel great kissing any part of him he cared to name.

Her bust was once more carefully, and subtly displayed by her choice of top, which was tightly constrained around her waist by the eye catching black belt. He choice of jeans left nothing to the imagination concerning her ass, hips and legs. His first thoughts to seeing her involved him more or less throwing her on his desk, and putting her body through its paces, closely followed by pressing her hard against the wall, kissing her while manually testing the firmness of the trapped body.

"Come in, Dawson." The invitation carried more than a little undercurrent of command. Tyron stood back, openly watching her walk into his office, closing the door without taking his eyes of her glorious rear end. He pointed to one of the chairs in front of his desk. When she sat down, he once more perched himself in the desk right in front of her.

"Dawson, there have been a few lingering questions I have to ask you. You will answer them, and answer them honestly." Tyron swallowed hard, before settling into the right frame of mind for the questioning.

"When you worked for Suzanne, you were her personal assistant. You did all kinds of tasks for her, including some that were well below what you would be required to do. Why did you do it? I know you were being blackmailed, but you obviously had the favour of Mr. Albertson. I suspect you could have gone to him at any time, and he would have set things right. But you didn't. Why, Dawson, why did you allow her to continue to treat you that way?" He tilted his head to one side, almost trying to stare into her head and see what was going on within. "Did you like it? Did she do something that appealed to you, that made you want to remain where you were?"

His eyes narrowed slightly as he straightened his head, a slight grin forming on his face. "What do you want from me, Dawson? Tell me, plain and simple, what do you want from me?"

Dawson expected to be thoroughly lashed for her behavior yesterday, and so when he commanded her to sit, her defenses instantly went up. Though she did as told, the flush of fear and rage lit her cheeks, and her grip on the two coffees became a little tighter.

Mindful of Tyron's last rebuke, Dawson fought to keep her eyes on his- looking away only briefly when he'd asked if she liked the treatment she'd endured under Suzanne. It took all of her will not to dump his drink on his shoes just then, her hand literally twitching with the desire. Just as well- the prig probably wouldn't feel it through those tacky-ass urban explorer boots anyway.

A catty comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

Noting that a grin played at Tyron's lips, Dawson collected herself before answering. Extending the hand with his cup, she inclined her head slightly.

"So many questions, Sir. I will answer them in order, for logic's sake, but first please take your coffee. And accept my apology for yesterday. It really wasn't my idea, and I am truly sorry if any of that offended you."

Taking a sip of her own drink, she paused to collect her thoughts. Eyes once again finding his with disturbing clarity and confidence, Dawson began.

"I could not go to Mr. Albertson because I could not... I ... I still can't stand to think that he might find out about my...previous employment. I respect Mr. Albertson and I want him to respect me, and I simply don't think that would be possible if he knew what I used to do. He's a kind man, but he has the firm's reputation to consider."

The redness in her cheeks deepened as she considered the next question. "And no, Sir, I did not like what Suzanne did, how she treated me. I don't think anyone could. I tolerated it because I didn't think I had a choice, and because at least I knew what to... what to do. I knew where to look, what to say, what she wanted. It was always clear whether I had pleased or angered her. There's one kind thing to be said about Suzanne, and it is this- she never, ever let you think you were getting on when you weren't."

Dawson had to drop Tyron's gaze at this point- memories of being made to crawl across the rug, of being degraded verbally and physically at every possible turn- once, at being forced to take off her sweater and use it to mop up Suzanne's spilt coffee and then put it on again, spend the rest of the day feeling caramel and sugar stick to her skin... It was too fresh to think on comfortably.

Softer, now, and still not quite looking at him, Dawson went for the final question. "What do I want from you, plain and simple? I want to be respected. I want to do the work I know I can do, the work I was hired to do. I don't need you to like me- Lord knows I'm used to being unpopular with the boss- but I'd enjoy it if you did. I'm really a lot less terrible than I must have seemed over the last few days."

And I want you to stop making me look at you. I want you to check out my ass more often, and I want to slap you every time you do it, too. I want you to ask me out so I can say 'no', and then I want you to trap me between your body and the wall and convince me that I really meant 'yes'. I want you to respect me, and then I want you to bend me right over this hideous power-desk and fuck me until 'respect' is a meaningless clump of letters like 'please' or 'more' or 'stop'. But I'm not going to tell you any of that, Tyron. I'm going to make you figure it out the hard way.

If Dawson understood how clearly our silent thoughts are spelled out in our bodies, in our movements, in our faces, she would have schooled herself to control it. Yet, she was still young, and contrary to her own belief, a bit naive. So while her eyes avoided his, her teeth worried the full plump flesh of her lower lip, announcing her frustrated and unwelcome lust. The stiffness of her spine and the set of her shoulders screamed of challenged pride and intentionally maddening flirtation. The way her thighs were kept tightly together despite the fact that she wore jeans, not a skirt- well, it writ out her desire to close herself to him, to hide the tender secrets of her mind as well as her body from his probing questions, his cocky confidence, his irritatingly arousing body.

And so it was that Dawson unintentionally provided the answer to just a few questions Tyron hadn't yet asked aloud.

Tyron took the coffee from Dawson, taking a sip. He masked his surprise at tasting the beverage exactly as he would have ordered it himself. She had taken the initiative to find out how he liked his coffee, and proceeded to get it for him without actually being asked. That piece of the puzzle dropped into the maelstrom of thoughts in the back of his mind.

"And accept my apology for yesterday. It really wasn't my idea, and I am truly sorry if any of that offended you."

"There is no need for you to apologize about what happened yesterday. It was Clive's idea, and his request."

He watched Dawson rally herself, displaying a confidence that was reassuring to him. It was more in keeping with someone selected to be a partner of the firm.

"I could not go to Mr. Albertson because I could not... I ... I still can't stand to think that he might find out about my...previous employment. I respect Mr. Albertson and I want him to respect me, and I simply don't think that would be possible if he knew what I used to do. He's a kind man, but he has the firm's reputation to consider."

"So, someone like Suzanne, who has nowhere near the resources that Clive has, managed to find out about your prior work history. What makes you sure that Clive doesn't know about it too?" Tyron took a sip on his coffee. "Do you think he lets just anyone become a partner without doing a little background checking along the way? I know for a fact that he dug into my past, which was one of the reasons why I accepted the job here. I knew that he wanted to be sure about me, and took the time to do the work. It was also a reassurance to me that I was of enough interest to warrant such attention."

Tyron decided to leave it there, before giving her the good news about the level of knowledge Clive actually had. It would give him a better understanding of how Dawson reacted to unconventional unearthing of news. Of course, Dawson was still embarrassed about the fact that her past was coming back to haunt her, or so it appeared to Tyron.

"And no, Sir, I did not like what Suzanne did, how she treated me. I don't think anyone could. I tolerated it because I didn't think I had a choice, and because at least I knew what to... what to do. I knew where to look, what to say, what she wanted. It was always clear whether I had pleased or angered her. There's one kind thing to be said about Suzanne, and it is this- she never, ever let you think you were getting on when you weren't."

Tyron put his coffee cup down, well away from his perch. He saw the deepening of the flush of her cheeks, coupled with the taking of her bottom lip between her teeth. His eyes started to narrow, but he caught it in time to make it the barest of noticeable twitches.

"Dawson, there is one thing worse than lying. That is lying to yourself. I don't believe that you just tolerated it. Not all the time. I think that there were times when you liked it, and liked it in ways that scared you at first. Not even being conditioned into a certain mode of work explained the way you got the water for me the first day. I now know that there was a degree of deep satisfaction when you did that for me, which made you rather uncomfortable.

"I have also seen how well you respond to my commands as your boss, then how you desperately avoid me afterward. You're afraid that you will be as pliant with me as you were with her. But it's worse now, because I am a man. You're afraid of how far things may go. Aren't you?"

"What do I want from you, plain and simple? I want to be respected. I want to do the work I know I can do, the work I was hired to do. I don't need you to like me- Lord knows I'm used to being unpopular with the boss- but I'd enjoy it if you did. I'm really a lot less terrible than I must have seemed over the last few days."

Tyron leaned forward, almost encroaching on her personal space. He fixed his gaze on her eyes, and didn't blink as he spoke to her in a soft, calm and almost steely voice.

"You want me to respect you? Respect you as the person that Clive hired and appointed? For starters, stop hiding from me whenever I tell you to do something. I know you can be busy from time to time, but I can tell when there is no one on the other end of a phone call, Dawson. I can tell the difference between a legitimate getting out of a chair in a hurry, and a "shit, here he comes, I have to run" maneuver.

"After that, you had best get a damn fine replacement for my personal assistant. Because I will expect you to fulfill that role until such time as you are replaced, and fulfill it properly and to the best of your ability. Within reason, you will also be the first point of call for your replacement when there are any problems.

"After all of that, then you will be a junior partner in my team. Then you will get the chance to earn the respect you feel you're due."

Tyron leaned back again, relaxing a little as he went. His eyes dipped to her chest, enjoying trying to imagine what was being hidden within her top, before returning to her face.

"Now, as for liking you, I can safely say that is not an issue. I like you as much as you like me, it would seem. Your choice of clothing is very good, purely from a male point of view. It shows you off very well, and I like what I see. I like it a lot. Personally, I would prefer to see you in skirts. I much prefer the look of your naked legs." 'And whatever else of you I can get to see naked.'

"Anything you would like to say, Dawson?"

How could he make such awful little assumptions about what she liked, about what she found fulfilling? Dawson's cheeks darkened again, and she pressed one hand to the soft, bright curve of her cheek, as if the feel the heat there. Her eyes danced to avoid his as her tongue whetted itself for vicious barbs, the sort of satisfying, deliciously eloquent verbal blades that would see her fired in an instant. He was right, of course. He was right and that was awful, that was infuriating, that was sickening and wicked and...

"You're right, Tyron."

Just three words, words she meant wholly but never intended to say, never meant to say. Far from the slings and arrows she'd intended, yet satisfying still, disturbingly satisfying... Her eyes met his steadily for a long moment, her fingers still pressed to her cheek as she felt the heat of shame drain from them. It was very calming, to have conceded that point. Her blush surrendered and she lowered her hand, regarding Tyron almost serenely.

"I have some resumes on my desk right now. I can have them in for interviews Monday. If you trust me to go through the first round on my own, I will only bother you with second interviews of the more promising candidates."

Dawson stood, finding herself curiously steady on her feet. She felt so much better! Admitting, both to herself and to the irascible, smug Mr. Smith, that he was correct, that she liked it, sometimes, that she never enjoyed enjoying the treatment, that she worried, frequently and half-hopefully, that it would be worse with Tyron because he, he could do so many things to her that Suzanne could not, would not... it was a weight off her shoulders.

And it won Tyron a hard-fought and truly singular prize- a warm, sincere, free smile, a girlish and slightly wild affair that had been the end of many a male admirer.

"It's always nice to start a workday with a clean breast, Mr. Smith. Thank you. I look forward to tonight." Turning, Dawson moved to the door, allowing Tyron the benefit of watching that signature walk, still holding muted but delicious catwalk switch and swagger. "And your opinion on skirts is duly noted, and will be taken under consideration."

Letting herself out, Dawson took a long sip of her coffee and sat down to check Mr. Smith's messages.

Barbed retorts, flesh shearing words spoken with high precision and enunciation or even a bewildering storm of words amidst a shower of tears. All of those Tyron expected to hear from her rather than her actual response.

"You're right, Tyron."

He stayed on guard, in case it was a ploy to throw him off guard for the actual counter to be delivered. The longer he waited, the more he came to realize that there was going to be no further response to what he said. If he was seeing things correctly, Dawson might even be feeling better for the revelation. On that one, time would tell.

"I have some resumes on my desk right now. I can have them in for interviews Monday. If you trust me to go through the first round on my own, I will only bother you with second interviews of the more promising candidates."

Tyron digested what she said, noting how it went against what he had told her. But she was showing some initiative in a good way, and she was thinking of the impact the process would have on him. He decided that he would allow Dawson to continue with that course of action, nodding to her without being aware of it.

"That sounds good. Once you have finished the first round, we'll meet and determine when to conduct the second round."

He watched her rise from the chair, enjoying the play of her body as she finally stood up. Ignoring her choice of educational financial support, she was one very good looking woman. The smile she graced him with one that made his knees go a little weak. Luckily, his perch prevented anything bad from happening. That was a smile that would start pub brawls between those who thought it was for them. He hoped that he would have the chance to see a few more of those in the future.

"It's always nice to start a workday with a clean breast, Mr. Smith. Thank you. I look forward to tonight."

Tyron's poker face was put to the test, as well as his ability to control where he looked. Dawson's reference to a 'clean breast' made him want to check the body parts in question just to make sure. The she turned and walked out of his office, her hips swaying in a manner that was deliberately teasing. He couldn't help but stare in awe as she made her hips and arse move in such a provocative way.

"And your opinion on skirts is duly noted, and will be taken under consideration."

The door closed softly behind her, and Tyron let out a long, soft half whistle, half sigh. He stood up, grabbed his coffee and sat down. That little discussion turned out nothing like he thought it would. He knew that a fire lurked deep with Dawson, one that she tapped a few times. He honestly expected her to roast him alive. But the way she agreed with him, that was something else.

The remainder of the day was a battle for him to concentrate on his work. Throughout the day, two separate memories vied for his attentions. Three little words 'You're right, Tyron.' and the wickedly naughty swish of hips going out his door. Dawson was not the only woman worthy of second and further looks in the office, but none of them called out his more primal side like Dawson did.

"She admitted to liking being bossed around at times, bring under Suzanne's control. Seriously, would I like a woman like that? A woman who liked to be taken charge of, particularly in the bedroom?" The noticeable tightness in his jeans was all he needed to confirm that it had appeal. "And if she looked for that in me..."

He closed his eyes, enticing a greater level of control over himself until he was not being distracted so much by Dawson. The memories only returned whenever he saw her, and then only after he left her presence. Tyron was pleased that he managed to get some work done, and had an enter weekend to work through his thoughts about his rather attractive team member.

It was fortunate for him he set a reminder for himself to drag his team down to the local watering hole, and have a little team bonding. Or at least let the team sell themselves to him. possibly, one or two of them would let their hair down and he'd get to see other aspects of them that would help him manage them better.

He closed down and locked up his personal areas of his office. As soon as he opened his door, he let his voice carry through the office.

"All right, team! Pencils down. Time to go." He noticed everyone scramble to close down and head off. Not one of them seemed to have been poised to hit the final button. That made him feel better about them as a group.