Free The Underwriting by Michelle Miller Page B

do a third of our holdings. Will that raise any eyebrows?”
    â€œThat should be fine,” Tara said.
    â€œCan I talk to Tara alone, please?” Josh cut the conversation short.
    Tara’s head snapped to the CEO. Josh was nondescriptly white: a distinctly American blend of European heritage that resulted in medium-toned skin, an average-sized body, and facial features that were neither too prominent nor too proportionate. Light brown curls gripped his head, which was a little too narrow, as if someone had put metal plates on his ears and squeezed them together. What kind of animal was Josh?
    â€œWhat do you need to talk to Tara abo—” Todd started.
    â€œYou are not interesting to me,” Josh interrupted bluntly. “She is.”
    Tara looked at Todd, who looked at Rachel, who was consumed in a side conversation with Phil and didn’t notice.
    â€œProbably better for us to talk through everything off-line anyway,” Nick said, standing. “Since I’m the one who’s going to be running the show on this.”
    â€œI—” Todd struggled, but finally stood. “Yeah, sure.”
    Tara felt her palms start to sweat as her colleagues left the room, her skin hot as her brain raced for what about her was “interesting” to Josh Hart. She sat forward in her chair.
    â€œGet the shade, please,” Josh commanded Nick, who hit a button on the wall that caused a screen to drop, blocking the view of the room from the employees in the building back on the mainland, before leaving Josh and Tara alone in the room.
    Josh sat back in his chair, his hands folded in his lap, and studied Tara with the apathetic diligence of a dermatologist scanning a patient for signs of disease. For the first time in her life, Tara wished she were less attractive.
    His tongue shot out from the corner of his mouth and moistened his lips. A lizard, she thought: he looked like a lizard.
    â€œWhy are you here?” he finally asked.
    She glanced around. “You asked me to—”
    â€œI mean, why are you
here
,” he said. “What is your purpose?” His words were pointed, with a tinge of spite.
    â€œI work in Equity Capital Markets,” she said, “which means I coordinate—”
    â€œWrong,” he interrupted, like a game show buzzer.
    She looked at him for an indication of what he was looking for, but found nothing. “The price you can get is only as good as the price you can sell,” she said carefully, “and I’m here to provide data on the markets so that—”
    â€œStill wrong,” he said, tapping his thumbs in his lap.
    â€œI’ve worked at L.Cecil for seven years, so I have a solid understanding of how the bank and these deals are supposed to run, and will use that to be sure—”
    â€œWrong.” He slammed his open palm on the table, his irritation breaking. “Are you actually this stupid?”
    Tara’s breath caught in her throat. “I—” she started. “I’m sorry, but I really don’t know what you’re looking for.”
    â€œYou’re here to distract, Tara,” he said.
    She looked at him but didn’t say anything.
    â€œYou are an attractive woman, and you are here to use that attractiveness to blur objective thinking so that investors will be more likely to do what you want them to do.”
    â€œI take great pride in ensuring my reports present the—”
    â€œWhich you know,” he ignored her protest, “because you’re wearing tight jeans and heels and makeup.”
    She stopped, sitting straight in her chair.
    â€œI like to look nice,” she said, “for myself.”
    â€œNo,” he said, “you thrive on external validation. ‘For yourself’ simply means men turning their heads makes you feel better about yourself. How small are women’s brains that you actually convince yourself of these