She wanted to tell him that, years ago, he wouldn’t have. That it had taken one bad experience to put her on edge forever.
He continued, having stopped in his tracks at her silence.
“How long will you be here?” he asked.
“Let’s see.” Exhaling, she checked the amethyst-crystal clock on her desk. “Eternity?”
Grinning—and how lethal it was—he jerked a thumb toward the door. “Let’s grab something to eat at that café on the corner. Nothing untoward in my intentions, okay? I’m hungry, and I’m sure you are, too.”
She thought about all her problems at Macrizon. The worst of them had started when she’d had an innocent drink with William Dugan, then a business dinner. By the time he’d invited her on a trip to service a client, she’d trusted him. And that’s when he’d pounced, revealing that he’d booked only one hotel room.
With only one bed.
Derek’s voice cut in. “The café’s got great pasta dishes. You like Italian?”
Oh, did she ever. In fact, she liked food, period. And her stomach had grumbled about twenty-two times over the last half hour…
“A quick bite to eat?” she said. “And can I run a few ideas past you?”
“Yes and yes. We’ll be back in a flash, because I know how attached you are to your office chair.”
“Ha-ha.” She cut herself off from making a smart remark, but she was smiling all the same.
Minutes later, they were riding the elevator down in almost palpable tension, then strolling to the corner café.
It was a brightly lit place, with yellow awnings and a fern-strewn courtyard. The cooling night breeze was still nice enough for outdoor dining so, after ordering, they settled themselves at a white metal table where they could enjoy the spring weather.
See, she thought, sitting across from him and perking up her good old healthy salad with a splash of vinegar, then oil. This wasn’t so compromising.
No fodder for the corporate rumor mill.
As she contemplated her greens, dying for something more fattening, Rockwell dug into his lasagna. She couldn’t help watching.
Ummm. Layers of mozzarella with a white, creamy sauce. If she’d ordered it, she’d be jogging for hours at the crack of dawn just to work off the calories.
Mouth swimming with flavor-desperate drool, she realized that Rockwell had caught her staring.
His brown eyes gleamed. “Want some?”
“No, no,” she said, recovering, then depositing a leaf of romaine lettuce into her mouth.
“Lasagna hits the spot.” He continued demolishing his food. “Since I arrived in town, I’ve made a habit of eating here every day. Usually, though, I order up to the office.”
Was he another version of her? A workaholic?
“I try to stay healthy,” she said. “But I…”
Okay, time to shut up. He didn’t want to know how she secretly lusted after potato chips, buttered popcorn, raw chocolate-chip cookie dough straight from the fridge.
“Not a trace of junk food junkie in you?” he asked, taking a swig from a glass of bottled water. He set the beverage down. “With your physique, you can afford to splurge now and then.”
There it went again—the blushing. “I like salads. Really. And jogging. And I’m addicted to yoga.”
As well as anything covered in chocolate.
“I can tell.” He held up his hands. “Not that I mean to compliment you or anything. I know you don’t like that.”
She stopped, the fork halfway to her mouth. Sure she enjoyed the praise. Especially from Rockwell.
Not that she liked liking it.
Her blush intensified. Dang it. “I just…I don’t know. I just don’t know you very well, I suppose. And I’m used to keeping business as business.” She shoved more lettuce into her old talking hole.
“That’s a good philosophy.”
“Mmm.” Yup, that was her witty rejoinder. She was too busy eating and trying to pretend her salad was lasagna to offer anything more.
“But it can get kind of lonely thinking that way.”
Suddenly, she really couldn’t taste the food.
Neither of them moved for a second, and then they both went back to eating. Dean Martin, bless his heart, made up for the stilted conversation with his winking rendition of “That’s Amore.”
Saved by the good-natured lyrics, they ate and ate, pausing every once in a while to chat about Fortune-Rockwell, finding their footing in business once again.
By the time they’d cleared their plates, Christina was relaxed.
Discovering your groove with a new co-worker always took some time, she thought. They’d just needed to get over the initial testing of personal boundaries.
As they strolled onto the sidewalk, she breathed in the night air—crisp and laced with garlic from the café’s food.
She stopped walking. Then he did, too.
“I really needed that, Mr. Rockwell,” she said, grinning. “Thanks for dragging me outside.”
With cautious steps, he backtracked to where she was standing, coming to tower over her. A shadow blanketing her body, warming it.
“Glad to help.”
God, she couldn’t swallow.
Could he actually be stealing the strength from her? Drawing it out just by standing so close? Her body felt weaker with each shortened breath. Sapped by his nearness.
She focused on the first thing that caught her attention—the tiny, upturned wrinkle of his collar.
Funny, she thought, half in a daze. He’s not so impossibly structured after all.
“You’re…” Gathering all her energy back from him, she pointed at his collar. “…falling apart.”
He cocked an eyebrow, then glanced down. With care, he smoothed out the material.
She could imagine his closets, his drawers, filled with starched, regimented clothing.
Then, as if she’d never even pointed out an imperfection in him, he started walking away.
“We’ve got a lot of work to do, Ms. Mendoza. You coming?”
Of course, she thought, knowing business was the only way to forget all the wrinkles between them.
Especially the one in her judgment.
Patrick Fortune had tried to seem casual as he sauntered by the café for the third time. With every pass, he’d whispered into the cell phone that was poised next to his ear.
“They’re still talking,” he said, trying to stifle his voice level.
Lacey, his lovely wife, always told him that he could bring down all of his Fortune high-rise buildings with merely his voice. But it was hard to keep quiet when one had so much to say.
On the other end of the line, Maria Mendoza spoke up. “Now what are they doing?”
Patrick had made it around the corner without Christina or Derek spying him. “Still talking. But there’s a lot of eating going on, also. I was hoping they’d be so enthralled with each other that the food would go cold.”
The sound of clicking knitting needles told Patrick that Christina’s mother and her good friend and cousin, Rosita Perez, were drinking tea and making scarves in the kitchen. They had him on speakerphone—the better to plot by, my dear.
Rosita offered her opinion. “It was a rough start with Jack and Gloria, also. Let’s remember how hard those two were to manage.”
“Who can forget?” asked Maria. “It is not easy being a schemer.”
Patrick had crept toward the café again, adjusting his glasses and peeking around the brick wall into the courtyard. He was rewarded with a view of the couple—or not-a-couple—still stuffing food into their mouths.
Matchmaking Project, The Sequel: Derek and Christina.
A man who wasn’t sure how to love and, in Patrick’s opinion, needed to be taught how to truly enjoy life.
An extremely smart woman who had a strong will and an innocent heart.
The two were made for each other and, soon, they’d know it.
Patrick had walked to safety ye
t another time. “I thought for certain Derek would move a little quicker here. You should’ve seen the way he was looking at Christina yesterday.”
Rosita spoke up. “It’s probably all Christina’s fault. If it were not for that silly bet the girls have going, this would be much easier. Oh, the poor brainy child. She just does not have such good luck with men.”
“Qué lastima.” Maria sighed. “What a shame she cannot find the joy Gloria has. And I feel for my Sierra, too! I only wish all my daughters could be happy.”
“They will be,” Patrick said, one hundred and ten percent certain of it. “I’ve engineered so many successful mergers in my time, that I can close a deal in my sleep. I’m banking on sealing this one, as well.”
“Hallelujah!” both women said together.
In the background, Patrick heard Maria’s husband, Jose, mutter, “Loco. All of you.”
“Don’t you have a restaurant to run?” Maria said to him. Then, to Patrick, “He thinks I dwell too much on the girls’ problems.”
Rosita made an argumentative sound. “Oh, no. A mother can never think about her children too much. True, you have many to concern yourself with…”
Yes, Patrick thought, spurred by the prospect of giving a guiding hand to each Mendoza child in turn. Gloria, Christina, then Sierra, and Jorge, and Roberto. What good was being rich unless you could spread around the wealth and happiness?
“Don’t worry about it, Maria,” he said. “I’m finding that semiretirement has given me some extra time to fill. I’ll be around for each of your little darlings in turn.”
“Bless you, Patrick.”
The sound of two women blowing him kisses traveled over the airwaves, and he shrugged modestly.
It was nice to be appreciated.
“Now,” he said, “we have to admit that their going out to eat together is a very positive sign. And since I’ve forced proximity by requesting that Derek work with Christina, I’ve got a good feeling about this.”
“Optimist.” That was Maria.
“Don’t lose heart, here.” At that point, he’d heard the sound of people exiting the café, so he ducked behind a building’s corner. “We just have to take this—their first meeting—to the next logical step.”
“A barbecue!” Maria said.
It was the Mendoza solution for everything.
“When?” he asked.
“This weekend.”
“I’ll invite Derek.”
“I’ll take care of getting the girls here.”
Patrick bit his lip as the people walked by him. Derek and Christina.
He squinted shut his eyes, hoping to high heaven they wouldn’t see him.
They didn’t. But they did stop about fifteen yards down the way.
“I’ll report back later,” Patrick whispered into his phone, then folded it into the off position.
As he peeked around the corner, he saw his protégé hovering over Christina.
There you go, kid. If there’s one woman who’s worth all your playboy charm, Christina is it.
As long as Derek treated her well, Patrick amended. And he’d damn well be around to make sure it happened.
With that, the old pot stirrer merged back into the night, already applauding the progress of The Sequel.
Chapter Three
While Christina sipped merlot from a wineglass, the Saturday sunshine bathed her body. She was reclining in a wooden chair on the Mendozas’ back patio, enjoying one of the many family barbecues she’d missed during her absence.
A few neighborhood children ran around the spacious lawn, their yelps of “Tag, you’re it!” mingling with the spicy aroma of carne asada, Jose Mendoza’s signature beef specialty. It’s what his restaurant, Red, was best known for—that, and the flavorful margaritas.
One of the children, five-year-old Sancho from down the road, took a dive in the grass, and before Christina could rise from her seat to go to him, another guest beat her to it.
The indomitable Ryan Fortune, muscular and tanned from years of ranch work, sprang from his chair at an umbrella-shrouded table. He’d been sitting with his striking wife Lily, Patrick’s elegant mate Lacey and Jack Fortune, as well as Rosita and Ruben Perez. All of them had been laughing over some sort of shared joke.
Three other tables of neighbors applauded Ryan’s safety efforts as he winged Sancho up from the ground and persuaded the dust-bitten child not to cry.
Why wasn’t she laughing and clapping with everyone else instead of sitting here alone?
Staring into the deep red of her wine, Christina knew the exact reason. She was too immersed in work, even though she’d earned rest after a harried week blurred by late nights and brainstorming sessions.
Although she and Derek had gone to the café that one night, they’d been too busy to do it again, with her concentrating on this project and him returning to all his other responsibilities. Besides, they were always surrounded by the other three people on their team, affording no chances for breaks or personal chats. All of them had been working like maniacs these past few days to prep for the presentation.
Which was due Monday.
Yet they were ready. Christina had told this to Rockwell an hour ago, when he’d called to summon her to the office today.
“What’s wrong?” she’d asked. “I thought we covered all the bases.”
“Not all. I came up with something new. I need to discuss it with you, then enlist your help in adjusting the presentation materials to reflect my idea.”
Even though, as a perfectionist, she was too willing to believe something was missing in her finished products, there was no way she would ditch a family gathering for something that could be taken care of tonight.
“You’re suddenly into the notion of these classes now,” she’d said. “Aren’t you?”
He’d paused, the silence long and intimidating. Not that she cared.
“Christina…” His voice held a warning.
She’d smiled then.
“I can come in after my family barbecue.”
He’d started to protest, but she’d shut off her cell phone, unwilling to be persuaded. At the same time, she’d felt somewhat victorious, knowing she’d won him to her side, even a little.
Unfortunately, he’d gone on to call the Mendoza residence and Jack’s cell, but Christina had refused to talk to him anymore. He could take her help later tonight or leave it.
Family needed to be more important than anything else: work, herself…men.
Rockwell.
Darn this attraction she felt growing every day.
She couldn’t help noticing the details: How their office chairs would subtly wheel closer to each other. How the wrinkle in his collar never seemed to go away with each change of shirt. How Twyla would covertly stare at him just as much as Christina probably did.
Not that she should be worrying about such a thing. Let Twyla have him. It’d be a load off Christina’s mind.
Even if she did go home at night to lie between the cool sheets of her bed, fantasizing about his hands covering her skin, warming places that had gone untouched for too long.
Ay. Fantasies about the boss.
No wonder she was such a wreck. She hadn’t been this chemically attracted to, this shaken up over, a man for…
Well, for ages.
As a friendly cheer sounded from Ryan’s table, Christina glanced up, finding that the darkly handsome older man had brought little Sancho back with him to rest on his lap. The child was grinning from ear to ear, even though there was a patch of grass hanging from his chin.
When a gentle, soft hand settled on Christina’s shoulder, she looked up to find her mama.
“Once again, you are thinking too much,” Maria Mendoza said.
“Mama, I’m going cold turkey, so have mercy. I actually refused to go into work to be here.” Christina rose from her seat, unable to sit still. The irony. “You need help serving?”
“Gloria and Sierra are taking care of
the kitchen. Sit back down.”
A slight breeze tweaked Mama’s dark, gray-glinted hair. She was wearing a sundress, which outlined her curvy figure to full advantage. Like her daughters, she had the same rosy, tanned skin.
With a rush of appreciation, Christina smiled, grateful that she’d been summoned back here so she could absorb the beauty of her mama again.
“There’s no rest for the wicked,” Christina said, patting her mother’s cheek.
As she started walking toward the kitchen to help her sisters anyway, Mama’s voice rang out.
“Christina Maria Mendoza, you come back here.”
Ooo, the middle-name game. Trouble.
Like a good daughter, Christina returned, holding back a laugh.
Maria took Christina’s hand in hers, made eye contact with Rosita Perez, and motioned her distant cousin over. “You haven’t told me or Rosita about your life lately. Your job.”
“Oh, you know, same old grind.”
Rosita, a short, pleasantly plump woman who had the coolest hair—dark with a white streak darting down one side—reminded Christina of a fairy godmother. A Disney Sleeping Beauty sort, with her hair in a bun and a magic-wand sparkle about her.
Mama took her friend’s hand, as well. “Tell Rosita all about Fortune-Rockwell since she hasn’t heard the details yet.”
“Yes,” said the tiny woman, “I want to know everything. What is your office like? What sort of people do you work with?”
Rockwell. Heat shot through Christina like a blaze from a flare gun.
Someone help me, she thought.
“They’re normal working people,” she said, shrugging. “Just a bunch of type A’s who shuffle papers and stare at computer screens until their eyes cross.”
“Is Jack treating you well?” Mama asked.
“Very.”
“How about your other boss,” Rosita added. “I cannot remember his name…”
“Rockhard.” Mama nodded with finality, because if Mama said it, that’s how it was.
Christina couldn’t help laughing. “This is an investment firm, Mama. A man with a name like Rockhard needs to make his way to a soap opera.”
“Oh.” Her mother lightly slapped her forehead with an opened palm. “Then what is his name?”
Fortune's Heirs: Reunion Page 20
