by Mary Campisi
“Ever think it’s just energy flowing between us, and maybe we need to harness it?”
The expression on his face said he was serious. “No, I’ve never considered it was unharnessed energy.” She scowled, narrowed her gaze on him. “I’ve always thought of it as more of a disaster to be avoided.”
He ignored her comment, pressed on. “Why don’t you give it a shot? What have you really got to lose?”
My common sense? My heart? “Now there’s a question. Do you really want an answer?”
“Look, I know you can use the money.” He must have realized what he’d said because he flushed and tried to rework the insult. “I mean, it’s not that you need the money…” He dragged a hand through his hair, tried for a third time. “You could start saving for Hawaii, and I could use the help. I’m still learning my way around this business and there’s a lot of paperwork.”
“Oh, so I’d be filing?” She scrunched up her nose. “I’ve never done it, but I’ve heard how glorious the job is.” As in boring, sleep-worthy, and horrible.
“There would be filing, yes, but you’d be making sure the files were in order.”
Charlotte raised a brow. “In order? You mean like by date or alphabetical?”
“No, not exactly, though there’s a knack to filing.” He laughed. “At least that’s what the office manager tells me, and I trust her. This would be more about checking to ensure the appropriate documentation was present.” Tate paused. “And if it wasn’t, you’d bring the file to me.”
She hadn’t missed the hesitation just now, or the way he chose his words, as though he were hiding something. And that intrigued her. What had he meant by appropriate documentation? People called Harrison Alexander a crook and a schemer and said they wouldn’t trust him if he spoke with one hand on the bible and the other hugging a child. Had Tate uncovered a bad deal, and was he on the hunt to uncover more? What would happen if he found evidence that his father was a cheat? Would he try to expose him? The old man might be out of commission with a stroke right now, but no one was safe from his reach, especially not his family. She still believed he was behind the whole mess in high school when Rogan’s girlfriend accused Tate of taking advantage of her. Convenient that any hope of Rogan and Tate becoming friends exploded with that accusation.
But why would a father do that? Had he been trying to drive a wedge between the boys, or had he simply wanted to show his oldest son he could control him? If there was a chance to catch the man in a misdeed, then she was in. And if Tate weren’t scrutinizing his father’s business deals for questionable transactions, that didn’t mean she couldn’t hunt for them. All she needed was access and there was only one way to get it. “I’ll do it,” she said before she changed her mind.
He smiled, his silver eyes narrowing on her. “My gut tells me you’ll be perfect for the job. I might have a lot of faults, but my instincts haven’t failed me yet.” His voice dipped, covered her. “What’s failed me is my inability to act on those instincts. But I’m working on it.”
What exactly did that mean? Something in the way he looked at her said he wasn’t just talking about business. Was he talking about her and what had happened between them?
Did Tate really regret not contacting her after that night?
And if he did, what then?
Could she trust him? Her gut said he was about way more than slick words and a handsome face, but would he show her the real Tate Alexander? The one who wasn’t so self-assured or perfect? The one who was just as scared as everyone else that he’d get hurt? Of course, working with him was a bad decision and she’d made enough of those to learn her lesson five times over. But what if she found dirt on his father? Wouldn’t that justify her reason for spending so much time with him? She refused to admit it could be anything else, like the secret desire to be near him. Ack. No, not that. Charlotte pushed aside her conscience and said, “Tell me more. Tell me exactly how this would play out.”
His eyes lit up, his voice spilled excitement. “I’ve got six cabinets with files that need to be gone through. Matching up the names with the projects, confirming the paperwork’s there. If anything looks off, you’d pull the file and bring it to me.”
“Oh, like an audit.”
“Exactly.”
“So, you and I would be working together on these projects?” Bad idea. Very bad idea.
There were no fancy smiles or double-sweet words when he spoke. “When we needed to,” he said, his tone serious, straightforward. “If you found something you’d bring it to me, but otherwise, you’ll run point on this.”
For someone who grew easily bored, this opportunity intrigued her. Well, not the filing, but the other part of the job, the one she’d created—finding dirt on Harrison Alexander. It was like going on a grand treasure hunt where you knew there were treasures somewhere, and it was a matter of locating them. Truth was, she liked the idea of this challenge, and that’s why her stomach had done a few flip-flops just now. It was because of the challenge and had nothing to do with Tate Alexander’s nearness…or his smile…or those long fingers that were at this very moment resting on his knee. Nope. Nothing at all. She crossed her arms over her chest and said, “It’s going to cost you.”
“I’m sure it will.” His smile brought out a dimple in his cheek.
She smiled back. “When do I start?”
Chapter 6
“Tate, what is that woman wearing?”
Frederick Strong stood in front of Tate’s desk, his small hands bunched into fists, face red, eyes bulging beneath his horn-rimmed glasses. Tate tossed his pencil on the desk, leaned back in his chair. “What woman?”
Fred pointed to the door. “The one who looks like she’s going to shovel out a stall.” Tate pushed back his chair, stood, and made his way to the entrance of his office. “You told me you were bringing someone in to work on some files, but I assumed this person understood business protocol and business attire. Not some, some—” his face turned redder, his fists bunched tighter “—wild woman.”
“Ah. I see.” Tate had been tied up in conference calls all morning and hadn’t been able to look in on Charlotte. He’d asked the office manager to get her set up in a cubicle and have her meet with Human Resources so she could fill out her paperwork. Tate had planned to swing by later and talk about the particulars of her job, which he’d labeled Special Projects. She’d report directly to him, and no one other than Fred would know her true mission—not even Charlotte. But apparently in typical Charlotte Donovan style, she’d already made a statement and started a buzz. “So, what exactly is Charlotte wearing?”
“Charlotte? As in Charlotte Donovan? Rogan Donovan’s sister, Jonathan Donovan’s daughter? Tate, what were you thinking?”
He hadn’t been thinking when he’d offered her the job; he’d only wanted a way to see her again and give her a chance to find out he was a normal, decent guy who could do the right thing. The more he thought about his proposal, the more he liked it, and soon it became more than just keeping her close. Who better than someone whose family had been betrayed to seek out inconsistencies in company files? Charlotte didn’t know his old man’s part in her father’s demise. One day, maybe Tate would tell her, but not yet. “I think it’s a good idea, Fred. We’re too busy running day-to-day operations to see what other misdeeds my father may have committed in the name of company business. We’ve barely touched the first file cabinet and have found three discrepancies. You know there are more, and I want them found so we can make things right. Charlotte can be that person.”
A sniff, followed by a shake of his head, and then, “Have you told the woman what Harrison did to her father, and why she’s looking for discrepancies? Or are you waiting until after the wedding to spring the news?”
Fred had been around the family a long time and he’d been Harrison Alexander’s right-hand man for many years, though he’d never been privy to the old man’s side deals—the bribes and the deception. He was a good man who could b
e trusted, and Tate needed him. But he didn’t want to hear a lecture on hiring Charlotte Donovan. “I thought she was a good fit.” And that’s all he was going to say about that.
“You thought she was a good fit? For what? I’ve known you a lot of years, Tate, back when you were just a boy playing with trucks and trains. You’re level-headed, kind-hearted, and logical. A great businessman. But this?” He pointed to the hallway again. “This woman? This is about a lot more than rooting out misdeeds. You care about her, maybe too much.”
Take shrugged, avoided the man’s gaze, and let the truth dribble out. “She’s not like anyone I’ve ever met before, Fred. I’ve got to see how this plays out. I screwed up bad, did all the stupid stuff a guy does when he’s trying not to act like he cares. I just want another chance with her, and if it means she runs around the office in overalls and boots, well, I’m okay with that.” He rubbed his jaw and held Fred’s gaze. “I’ll see what I can do about the wardrobe, but if I fail, I’d like you to be okay with that, too.”
Fred sucked in a breath, blew it out in dramatic style. “I have a bad feeling about this…”
Tate patted him on the shoulder. “It’ll all work out, you’ll see.” Of course, that was wishful hoping rather than fact-based conclusions, but right now, it was all Tate had going for him. There’d never been a woman who unsettled him or made him question himself the way Charlotte did. But then, there’d never been anyone like her: warm, passionate, alive. He wanted to wake up beside that energy every morning and fall asleep in the arms of that kind of loyalty every night, but it was not going to be easy. Nope. It was going to be a long road toward regaining her trust, but he was not giving up.
When Fred left his office with a lukewarm pledge to ignore Charlotte’s attire, Tate decided it was time to see what had gotten the man so riled up. He found her in the second cubicle, a stack of files resting near her elbow, head buried in an open one.
“Hey, how are things going?” Fred had not been underestimating his assessment of Charlotte’s attire. Her blouse was two sizes too tight, her jeans faded, and were those really moccasins? Like the slipper kind? He blinked. No. Couldn’t be.
She caught him staring at her feet and cleared her throat. “I haven’t finished unpacking yet. I do have shoes…I just have to locate them.”
Charlotte had been in town over three weeks. How long did it take her to unpack a few suitcases? “Oh. Sure. No problem.” He could imagine the office chatter now.
Isn’t it interesting that she gets to wear what she wants, and nobody says anything?
Does she think she’s going to clean out a stall?
This is an office, not a barn.
You know why she’s doing that, don’t you?
Why?
She’s got to have some special privileges with somebody. Pause. And I’m going to figure out who.
With looks like that, do you have to ask?
He’s not like his father…
When a woman looks like that, every man’s in the hunt.
Yeah, he could just hear the gossip.
Tate tried to think of a diplomatic way to address her attire. “I know you’ve been busy with your mother and getting settled, and…” What else had she been doing? With Charlotte, you just never knew… “Anyway, there’s a closet full of Meredith’s clothes and there might be a few things you could wear.” He darted a glance at her breasts. Not that he paid attention to his sister’s figure, but he was pretty sure the shirts would be too small for Charlotte. “It’s up to you, but you’re welcome to look.”
Those green eyes sparked like he’d suggested she go skinny-dipping in his pool. “I can’t do that. A woman doesn’t go rummaging through another woman’s closet. What would Meredith say?”
Tate shrugged. “Meredith couldn’t care less. Last I heard she’s on another kick about not wearing designer labels.” He hid a smile. “And if you remember Meredith and her style addiction, everything is designer.”
“Of course, I remember the best dressed girl in town. Who wouldn’t?”
Was that interest in Charlotte’s voice? Her eyes glittered when she mentioned Meredith’s clothes. If he could convince Charlotte she’d be doing Meredith a favor by wearing his sister’s designer labels, then the office could settle down and he’d save Fred bouts of indigestion and escalating stress.
“Seriously, Meredith is not going to wear those clothes, and even if she decides on designer stuff again, which she probably will at some point, she’ll go for the latest season.” He held her gaze, so he didn’t have to look at the too-tight shirt again. Not that he didn’t like it, because he did like it—a lot. Probably too much. “I can drop some off at your mom’s if you like or—” he paused, tried to act like his next offer was no big deal “—you can come by the house and check them out yourself.”
Charlotte hesitated, licked her lips, and frowned. This was a real dilemma for her. She wanted this, but she didn’t want to act like she did, or maybe she didn’t want to accept anything from him that looked like a favor. Tate was about to tell her to think on it and let him know, when she offered him a stingy smile and said, “I’ll come by your place tonight at seven, if that’s okay.”
Okay? Charlotte Donovan was coming to his house tonight? Play it cool. You don’t want to scare her. “Sure,” he said, acting like he wouldn’t give half his fortune for that answer. “That’ll work.”
Harrison Alexander ruled his family, his business, and his town with what he liked to call vision and grit. He’d never bothered to explain what that meant, and nobody dared ask—especially not his family. The man said there was no room for sentiment, especially where his children were concerned. Being soft on a child teaches him nothing but how to depend on other people instead of himself. Yeah, that was a nice thought to leave with your kid. Tate sighed, wished he could avoid seeing his old man right now. Charlotte would be here soon, and he wanted to be in a good mental state when she arrived. How long had he waited for a time when it was just the two of them? And at his house, no less? He couldn’t hope for more. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. If she ditched the boyfriend and told Tate she had feelings for him—real feelings that shouldn’t be ignored or denied—who knew where that might lead?
If he were lucky, he could end up like Rogan Donovan: married and sharing a future with the woman he loved.
Did Charlotte like kids? She liked dogs, but a child?
What if she didn’t? What if she couldn’t be bothered with their neediness and demands?
He could help. He wanted kids, at least two, though three or four would be nice. And if she’d be open to the idea of a child or three, he’d be right by her side. Why couldn’t he learn how to change a diaper or put a baby in a car seat? Maybe his own father had been a terrible example, but Jonathan Donovan had been the kind of father Tate hoped to be one day.
What was he thinking? The woman was coming over to look through his sister’s closet for work clothes, not debate the pros and cons of having children with him. Slow down and regroup, or you’re going to blow it. You’ll scare her away, and then what?
Tate opened the library door, slipped inside. Of all the places in this house, the library was where the old man had spent most of his time—when he was home. Tate and his siblings used to conjure up all sorts of stories about what their father was doing behind the closed doors: negotiating big deals with powerful people in foreign countries, planning his next scheme to squash his competition, or just counting his wads of money.
But it turned out Harrison Alexander might have actually been reading most of the time. How about that? It’s not like any of them would have known because unless they were being disciplined, they were not permitted to enter the library. And at some point, their father had become so despised and feared by most of the town that his own children didn’t want to know anything else about him, even if it was decent and halfway admirable. When Tate returned home after his father’s stroke, he’d avoided the library for a solid week, until
he needed an envelope and went in search of one.
That’s when he’d scanned the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, noted the volumes upon volumes of books on roses. He’d pulled out a few, discovered sticky notes and bookmarks inside. Some passages had even been highlighted. There were journals, too, stacked on separate shelves according to date. When had his father developed an interest in roses? Tate had spent the next few hours leafing through books and journals, looking for notes and other information that would lend clues to his father’s odd obsession with roses.
Tate studied the old man from across the room. Harrison Alexander sat in an overstuffed chair next to a bay window, an afghan covering the lower portion of his body. His silver-streaked hair had been slicked back, his once tanned face pale against the burgundy of his pajamas. The library shades had been opened to reveal fall gardens bursting with mums: orange, yellow, and gold. But the main attraction belonged to the cascades of roses that remained regal and noteworthy, despite fading colors and shedding petals.
Why was his father so obsessed with those blasted roses?
Had he ever walked among the gardens, noticed the bursts of color, the sights and sounds of nature, or had he limited his interest to the volumes of books in his library? The Donovans’ backyard was a patch of mismatched flowers compared to these gardens, but a person could tell they were tended with love. Tate's mother had loved the gardens, taught her children about the flowers and nature. She’d enjoyed them right up until the day before she died. Beauty has no need for words and can be found in the most unexpected places, she’d said, her voice wistful, eyes filled with sadness.
Too bad the old man hadn’t felt the same way.
Tate cleared his throat, moved toward his father, and eased into a chair across from him. Harrison had begun to regain his speech, but most of the words he produced were garbled and unintelligible. Nothing like the speech of a man who prided himself on enunciation and diction.
