His Best Friend's Sister

by Sarah M. Anderson

Isabeau Waters rocked back on her heels, staring up the length of the Mikkelson oil magnate looming over her.

  She’d spent countless hours in the company of naked and near-naked men in her profession as a media image consultant. But never in her job had she revamped the wardrobe for a man who tempted her quite so much, for so long, as Alaskan mogul and rancher Trystan Mikkelson.

  Measuring his inseam? Heaven help her.

  Kneeling on the plush carpet in the luxurious office space, Isabeau adjusted her grip on the measuring tape. She worked her way up his long, denim-clad legs until her eyes were level with his...leather belt. So close she could read the inscription on the Iditarod sled dog racing belt buckle.

  Exhale.

  Think.

  Be a professional.

  This job was high-paying and high-profile. The merger of the powerful Mikkelson and Steele family businesses into Alaska Oil Barons, Incorporated, had dominated stock exchange news, causing the market to fluctuate. Shares had only just begun to steady when the Steele patriarch suffered a major injury in a horseback-riding accident.

  Now the two factions were working overtime to make sure the company presented a cohesive image when it came to leadership. With so many offspring on both sides, Isabeau was still stunned that this man, who preferred running the family’s ranch up in Alaska’s north country, was their pick to be the face of the merged company. Apparently, siblings on both sides of the family were having marriage troubles, health issues or were too shy to speak in public, leaving them with only this rugged Mikkelson cowboy and a teenage Steele kid to choose from. Since the teenager was obviously not an option, that left Trystan Mikkelson.

  For now, anyway.

  Her mission? To make him over. His wardrobe was easy enough. The tougher part though? To keep him in-line and on-message for the next four weeks until the Wilderness Preservation Initiative Fund-raiser—a wine and dine with celebrities. Then stay on until his mother’s wedding to the Steele oil magnate, Jack.

  She’d done this pre-assessment routine time and time again, with many different kinds of people. But as she took note of his measurements, her eyes falling to his angular jaw... Well keeping herself on-message seemed like it would be the true work.

  He shifted from one dusty boot to the other. “No disrespect to your profession, ma’am, but I’m not going to be trussed up like some pretty boy.”

  “I will keep your wardrobe preferences in mind as I order pieces and talk to the tailor. You will still be you, but a version of you that inspires confidence from less...rugged investors.” Isabeau tucked a stray hair behind her ear, fingers barely grazing the pearl drop earrings her best friend had given her when she’d launched her image consulting company. A gesture of good luck, and Isabeau had made it a ritual to always wear them to the first fitting.

  He grunted.

  She rolled her eyes. “Use your words, please.”

  “Excuse me?” He raised one dark brow. “I’m not a damn toddler.”

  She agreed one hundred percent with that.

  “Exactly. The stakes are much higher than a time-out. Alaska Oil Barons, Inc., has hired me to do a job.” And that job apparently was going to include polishing his words as well as his wardrobe.

  Although she could tell he’d made an attempt at spiffing up today. But based on comparison to photos she’d researched of him online, spiffing for him meant swapping worn, faded flannel with a fresh-out-of-the-package plaid. She appreciated the effort. Not that she’d suffered any illusions that this would be an easy gig.

  For more reasons than one.

  Keeping her professional distance around this hulking sexy distraction would be a challenge, to say the least.

  Eyes upward. A much safer option.

  Maybe.

  He was grinning, damn him.

  His thick hair looked perpetually rumpled by the wind into a dusty brown storm. A part of her grieved over his impending appointment with the barber. But she needed that hair to be a bit more tamed. The man too.

  His broad shoulders and chest were sculpted with muscles born of hard work rather than in a gym. She would need to order larger suit jackets and his tuxedo would need to be custom-made.

  He was all man, and her mouth watered with desire.

  Totally unprofessional and barely controllable.

  She reined her thoughts in, focusing on getting her notes in place. Nabbing Alaska Oil Barons, Inc., was a coup. They were a big-time client for her, and the merger of the Mikkelson and Steele companies made the corporation all the more newsworthy right now. The business still operated out of two office buildings where the Steeles and Mikkelsons once had their individual spaces. Today, she was in the Mikkelson space.

  Jeannie Mikkelson’s office to be exact—Trystan’s office for now, since his mother was plastered to her new fiancé’s side while Jack Steele recovered from surgery after a horseback-riding accident. The spacious office was gorgeous and one Isabeau would give her eyeteeth to have, but she had to confess it didn’t fit Trystan Mikkelson. From the cream-colored office chair to the sea foam–colored furniture with teal accents, it was more of a woman’s space.

  Trystan’s eyes kept shifting to the windows along the wall and the skylight, as if he was considering an escape route to the great outdoors he was reputed to prefer.

  She glanced down to jot additional notes for short-term and long-term goals. First order of business, getting Trystan properly outfitted for his sister Glenna’s wedding to the oldest Steele brother, Broderick, this weekend.

  As CFOs, Glenna and Broderick were the obvious ones to take the helm of the company for now, but they were emphatic that their relationship deserved to come first. The other Mikkelson son, Charles, Jr., insisted the same for his troubled marriage. And while Isabeau applauded their devotion to their spouses, and she intended to spin their choices well in the press releases, she also wanted to shake every one of them for not recognizing how tenuous things were with the merger right now.

  Stockholders needed reassurance. Panic was a dangerous emotion.

  Her thoughts somersaulted away from the task at hand, her mind’s eye turning to Paige, her Labrador retriever, who’d stretched beneath the sofa, only her head and paws sticking out. As if the dog could sense Isabeau’s attention, Paige raised her head, those wide brown eyes sympathetic and reassuring all at once. Paige cocked her head, ears flopping and fur rustling against the red vest that proclaimed her a service dog in huge black capital letters. In a smaller, less sprawling font, was the instructive Do Not Pet. Isabeau needed Paige to alert her to diabetic issues.

  And anxiety attacks.

  But Isabeau preferred to keep her reasons for having a service dog as private as possible. Panic attacks played a major role in why she chose to be a behind-the-scenes media person rather than working in front of the cameras. Her stalker boyfriend from college was in prison now, but the fear remained close.

  Clearing her throat, she held up the tape measure again, standing. “Almost finished.”

  “Glad to know.” He stretched his arms wide as she measured across his chest.

  She considered herself a professional. She’d never had a problem with desiring a client before, while on the job.

  It was going to be a long month completing her contract.

  But this gig would cement her reputation, and it carried the potential to land her more clients of this caliber. She had only herself to depend on—no family, no fat inheritance. Her health was stable for now, but her diabetes had sidelined her before. She needed to build a cushion of savings for emergencies.

  Never would she be like her mother, flat broke and alone.

  “Mr. Mikkelson, you need—”

  “Trystan,” he insisted in that gravelly voice of his, a melodic rumble.

  “Trystan,” she conceded. “You need to weigh your words carefully. Less is more, whi
ch actually, now that I think about it, should be an easier path for you. Just no impulsive outbursts. It’s easier to add to a statement than to walk back a negative impression.”

  “It’s just a fund-raiser. I’ve been attending them my whole life.”

  “You’re more than attending now. You’re the figurehead of the company, a company with a president that almost died when he broke his spine in the middle of a major merger.” She reminded him of what he should clearly be keeping top-of-mind but still seemed to disregard. “If you really prefer not to do this, I could talk to your family about one of the Steele siblings taking over the public role—heaven knows there are plenty of them...”

  “No, I’ve got this.” He pulled a tight smile. “The fact that there are so damn many of them is just the reason I need to do this. To make sure my mother keeps her equal stake in the company and those Steeles don’t edge her out.”

  “I hear you, and I understand your point. But you do know that is exactly the sort of thing you shouldn’t say in public.”

  “United front. Got it.” He tapped his temple. “We’re all supposed to ignore the fact that our families have been at war for longer than I can remember. I’m supposed to forget all the times my father called Jack Steele a ruthless crook.”

  She leveled a glare at him. “Mr. Mikkelson—”

  “Trystan.” His eyes were robin’s-egg blue, a beautiful, vibrant hue in this otherwise stark man. “And yes, I know that’s another thing I’m not supposed to say.”

  Those. Eyes.

  This. Man.

  Heaven help her.

  It was going to be a long month.

  * * *

  All for family.

  That’d been Trystan’s motto his whole life. And it was why he stood, albeit begrudgingly, getting a damn makeover.

  His clothes shouldn’t matter. He had a business degree and ran a multimillion-dollar ranching operation. All of which he’d accomplished in jeans and dusty boots rather than suits and polished wing tips. But his family’s livelihood was on the line.

  He would do whatever it took to stabilize the newly formed Alaska Oil Barons, Inc.

  Even if it meant prancing around like some show horse. Even if he hated every second of the posturing.

  Although working with Isabeau Waters certainly made the task bearable.

  She was a breath of fresh air. And, yeah, she was very easy on the eyes.

  Her red hair shone with hints of gold streaking through. It was gathered on one side so that the rest fell over one shoulder. The natural wave swirled into one big curl that tempted him to tangle his fingers through to test the texture. He was a sensual man, a man of the outdoors who experienced life firsthand rather than sitting behind a desk sifting through the details on a computer screen.

  Her eyes were the soft blue of his home state’s sky, sparkling and changeable. A deep breath filled him with the scent of her—like the wild irises that bloomed in summer, beautiful and an ironic mix of delicate petals that somehow managed to survive to bloom every year despite the harsh Alaska winters.

  He stopped that thought short.

  Damn.

  Isabeau Waters was making him turn downright poetic.

  His gaze turned to the yellow lab staring up at him with inquisitive, chocolate-brown eyes. Though he wanted to fluff the dog’s ears, he refrained because the dog was at work. Still, his soul longed for the simplicity of a canine companion here in this unfamiliar situation.

  Understanding animals was easy for him. People? Not so much.

  He wanted to be on the ranch, riding a horse or even reviewing inventory spreadsheets. The public scene wasn’t his forte, not like it was for his older brother Chuck. But Chuck’s marriage was on life support, and that relationship was the only thing his older brother valued more than the family business.

  Chuck had learned those priorities from their parents, Charles Sr. and Jeannie, a tightly bonded couple until Charles’s death. They’d all feared for Jeannie when her husband died of a heart attack over two years ago. They’d prayed she would find a reason to live.

  They just hadn’t expected her reason would be their family’s corporate enemy, Jack Steele.

  Trystan had spent his teenage years hearing his father list Jack’s many flaws. And now he and his siblings were all expected to just forget that.

  The movement of Isabeau’s slender body trekking over to the desk, her hair swishing, made him forget all about his family’s drama, at least for the moment. She grabbed some binders, flipping to different sections, writing on pages and adding sticky notes. A covert glance over her shoulder, back to him, had his heart pounding.

  Why was the most attractive woman he’d met in ages also the person he had to work with? He wanted to flirt with her and take her to dinner instead.

  But he would have to give serious thought to the consequences before mixing business and pleasure.

  Family always came first.

  He’d been adopted by Jeannie and Charles when his own parents had split. His biological parents had married as teens because he was on the way. Their union had been rocky and volatile from the start. After the split, when Trystan was ten, his mother, Jeannie’s sister, had been ready to turn him over to foster care. His other aunt had offered to share care of him with Jeannie, but Jeannie had insisted Trystan should have a steady home. She and Charles had welcomed him into their brood.

  He knew Jeannie loved him, that she’d accepted him, but he also knew she hadn’t had a choice. His other aunt hadn’t really been an option as a single mom herself. Taking him in had been the honorable thing for Jeannie and Charles to do.

  He owed the Mikkelsons more than he could repay. They’d saved him from an overburdened system where he likely would have ended up in a group home. They’d given him a place in their family. They’d treated him every bit as equally as their three biological children. Now, most people didn’t even know or remember he was adopted. Some days he could almost believe he was really one of them rather than a cast-off cousin.

  Other times, like now, he was reminded of that debt.

  As if she could feel his gaze, Isabeau glanced over her shoulder at him. “If you couldn’t be a rancher, what would you do with your life?”

  “Why does that matter?” A shrug. No other future mattered, only the present he lived in. That was his life. Walking to the wet bar, Trystan grabbed a beer and twisted the top off. He tipped the bottle’s neck to her, inquiring.

  A faint smile dusted her lips, but she shook her head, holding up a hand. “No, thank you. And as for the question, I’m just trying to get to know you better, beyond our brief meetings in the past and an internet search on the history of your family. The more I understand you, the more authentic I can be in the choices I make for your image makeover. I truly do want you to be pleased with the decisions. If it’s fake, that will show in your demeanor. People will sense it’s a facade.”

  “Then we’re screwed because I’m never going to be a smooth-talking, tuxedo-wearing dude.” He took a sip of the beer—his favorite summer ale from his family-owned brewery, Icecap Brews. The crisp, medium-bodied flavor settled him, the aftertaste of wheat drawing out memories of late nights working on the ranch. His sanctuary.

  “Trust me. I know what I’m doing.” She gestured toward the binders—toward the organized checklists, charts and measures that ought to transform him from rugged recluse to the face of Alaska Oil Barons, Inc.

  “Well, then, how would you feel if you couldn’t do your job? If someone thrust you into a role you weren’t comfortable with?” He took another swig as he leaned against the wall, noticing her confident posture, the way her brows lifted in answer to the challenge he threw at her.

  A sassy smile set the corners of her mouth up, reaching those bright blue eyes. “This isn’t about me.”

  “That’s a cop-out answer.”<
br />
  “Fine, then. I would search for help. Like how I have my dog here to help me adapt to the curveballs life has thrown my way.”

  He walked toward where she leaned against the desk, his fingers tracing the corners of the beer bottle’s label. Each movement, every step, sparked more static crackling in the air between them. Stopping beside her, he leaned against the desk to her left, aware of the lilac perfume on her skin. “Then what would you do if this profession hadn’t worked out for you?”

  “I’ll answer if you will.” Her hand gravitated to his Stetson on the desk, touching the felt lightly. Was she subconsciously drawn to it?

  Awareness tumbled through him as he drank in her slender features—the tipped nose, the confidence.

  “Fine.” He nodded. “You first.”

  She clicked her tongue. “Testing the trust issue. Okay, I would go back to school and study clothing design. Now your turn.”

  “Archeology. I can see myself sifting through the earth at an excavation site.” He brought the bottle to his lips, imagining what it’d be like to be immersed in an excavation pit in some remote location. No press. Few people. Yeah, he could live like that.

  “So you’re a patient man with an attention to detail.”

  His brow raised and he tilted the bottle, which caused the ale to slosh slightly. A contained wave. “I guess you could say that.”

  “Nice to know. The ideas are churning in my mind already.”

  She was sure learning a lot about him, and he wasn’t finding out a damn thing of importance about her.

  He set aside his beer and strode toward the yellow Lab. “Tell me about your dog.”

  Isabeau’s spine went straight and she closed her notebook slowly, her eyes averted. “She’s a Labrador retriever, she’s three and a half years old, and her name is Paige.”

  Obvious. But if she didn’t want to talk about the fact that Paige wore a service dog vest with patches and lettering, then he wasn’t going to be rude. He’d just been trying to make conversation.

  Not his strength.

  Turning, she flashed an overbright, tense smile. “You can ask. I was just messing with you by giving those obvious answers. Take it as a tip on how to avoid questions you don’t want to answer.”