by Tina Susedik
He leaned against the closed door and faced the room. Everything was back to the way it had been, including a new vase with a red rose. The clock on the end table showed there was still time to call Cassie. He dialed the number. Busy. He waited fifteen minutes and tried again. Busy. Again. Busy. By the fifth time, he ground his teeth together. By the tenth time, he refrained from throwing his cell across the room. After the fifteenth, his stomach turned. Maybe she’d fallen and lay unconscious on the floor, blood dripping from her beautiful head.
A call to the operator proved useless. He slammed the receiver down. Evidently Miss Jordan didn’t want to speak with him.
“Fine. If that’s the way she wants it.” He flopped onto the bed and smashed his fist into a pillow. “Hey, maybe she’ll call me.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “You idiot. She doesn’t even know where you are or anything about you. You find someone you really like, and you can’t even be honest with her.” He shook his head. “Shit, I’m babbling to myself like some old demented fool.”
Hogan crawled under the blankets, clicked off the bedside lamp, and hooked his hands under his head. City lights danced in waves across the ceiling, rather like the way his stomach felt whenever he thought of Cassie, undulating up and down, back and forth. He didn’t think it was possible to fall in love so quickly, which meant this was probably just lust. Lust he could handle.
“One more time,” he mumbled, reaching for the phone, “and then I’m through for the night. If I can’t get her tonight, I’ll just have to try during the day, even if it means waking her up in the middle of the night.”
Each whine of the busy signal mocked him.
“Shit, just forget it,” he yelled at the receiver. “Just forget it,” he yelled at his pillow. “Forget it,” he whispered as exhaustion took over. “I can’t forget it,” he murmured as his eyes closed, a vision of Cassie’s face the last thing to cross his mind as he drifted to sleep.
It seemed destiny was following Hogan, playing evil little games with its magic wand. At least that’s the way he felt in the days following his arrival in Paris. When he woke the next morning, he didn’t have the heart to call Cassie when she would be sleeping. At eleven o’clock, he was informed of a meeting at 1:00 that afternoon. Since the site of the meeting was on the other side of Paris, he had to rush to get ready, eat lunch, and hail a taxi. With barely ten minutes to spare, he arrived, feeling disconnected. He hoped he would be able to concentrate on the task at hand. Being tired was a distinct disadvantage, but so was the fact that he had no intentions of selling the business to someone overseas. After several cups of thick European coffee, his mind cleared. He pushed Cassie to the recesses and focused on his job.
By six o’clock that evening, he’d had it. Working with not only a French, but also a Chinese, interpreter slowed communications. His French contact, Paul, couldn’t find anyone who could speak both languages on such short notice, so every time Hogan spoke, one interpreter would translate and then the other. It seemed simultaneous translations were an international faux pas. Anything written down also had to be rendered into another language.
Trying to keep his cool became more difficult as the afternoon wore on. Several times he caught himself just short of running his fingers through his hair in rage. After multiple failed attempts at getting Paul, his European contact, to realize it was time to leave, the man finally got the idea and suggested meetings continue the next day.
Hogan straightened his papers and put them in his briefcase, all the while noticing Paul and the French businessman conferring on the other side of the table.
Paul approached. “Mr. Wynnters, Monsieur Thomas would like you to join him and his daughter for dinner tonight.” Before Hogan could say no, Paul went on. “It would make your family happy, would it not?”
Hogan held back a sigh. He wanted nothing more than to return to his room, eat a light supper, and start the process of calling Cassie again. Since his Paris contact thought Thomas might be part of the ring, it would be prudent to keep up his cover, and possibly get some information.
“You’re right. Please tell him I would be honored to join him for dinner.”
After talking with Monsieur Thomas, Paul returned to Hogan. “He is very pleased that you can join him. He will pick you up at your hotel at eight o’clock. His daughter speaks English, so you will not need my services tonight. I will see you here again tomorrow.”
Before he could be detained any longer, Hogan grabbed his briefcase and, nodding at the parties, left the room with as much speed as he could without appearing rude. He was thankful he rode the elevator alone. In his current mood, he didn’t know what he’d do if someone tried to strike up a conversation.
Damn. He didn’t mind spending the evening with the Frenchman, it was part of his job, after all. But he didn’t cherish the idea of spending it with his daughter, too. She was probably short, fat, and didn’t have two brain cells to put together. Good ol’ Monsieur Thomas must hope to dump her off on a rich American. He shuddered at the thought. He knew he’d better be on his best behavior and treat the woman with kindness. He’d ply Monsieur with liquor to loosen his tongue and remain detached from the woman, unless he received any vibes that they were both involved. But, as soon as was able, he would find a way to leave and go back to his hotel.
Hogan swallowed around the lump in his throat, while heaviness settled in his stomach. Nothing he conjured up in his mind came close to the voluptuous woman smiling at him when he slid into the limousine.
Tendrils of black hair escaped from a French twist and wisped enticingly down her neck and cheeks. The color set off her exotic, dark eyes made up to show off her classic high cheekbones. Her sultry smile would be understood by any man in any language. A low-cut dress barely covered her exposed creamy breasts. One wrong move and he thought he’d be treated to the sight of one of her nipples. Shapely calves crossed each other. The dress was as short in material at the bottom as the top. If she uncrossed her legs, he would get a good view of what she wore underneath, which, he had a feeling, was probably nothing.
In a husky voice that as a rule would have sent his libido into overdrive, she introduced herself as Michele, presenting her hand to him like royalty. Long fingernails, painted a bright red, matched her shiny lipstick. She licked her lips and pouted at him, then turned to her father and spoke in rapid French.
He continued to study her over the top of his champagne glass. Not a hair was out of place. No freckles or blemishes marred her perfect skin. Her dress enveloped her curvy figure like plastic wrap around a pop bottle.
She didn’t do a thing for him. No sweaty palms, no heart palpitations, no cock threatening to rise to the occasion.
Monsieur Thomas and his daughter quit talking. Hogan eyed Michele then her father, who winked at him and nodded toward his daughter with a smile. Hogan felt like he was being offered dessert on a platter with the blessings of the father. He averted his eyes and took in the passing Parisian evening. It was going to be a long night.
Hogan sat back in his chair and toyed with his fork. He was alone with Michele after her father’s not-so-discreet disappearance to the men’s room. Either the man had a tick which made him seem as if he was perpetually winking, or he was making sure Hogan knew Michele was his—if he wanted her.
“So, Monsieur Wynnters,” she said, pressing her arms beneath her breasts, making it seem as if her nipples would pop out at any second, “my father tells me you own your business. It is big, oui?”
She leaned into his right arm and placed her fingers on his sleeve. He jerked when her foot massaged the back of his calf. She licked her lips, either trying to act seductive or anxiously awaiting his answer. He didn’t like either idea.
“I don’t actually own it,” he answered, sliding his arm from under her fingers and picking up his glass of wine. God, he wanted a beer. “My family ow
ns it. I just work for them.”
“Oh, but you must have an important position there. Yes?”
Hogan frantically searched the restaurant. Why the hell was it taking so long for her father to get back to the table? Did he think Hogan would seduce his daughter if left alone? Hell, they were in a public place.
He gave her a quick nod, moved his leg from her offending foot, and grasped the hand resting precariously close to his crotch. Obviously the woman didn’t understand, as she moved in for another foot attack.
Over her shoulder, he saw the top of Thomas’ balding pate. He seemed to be in a deep conversation with another man. The man turned to someone behind him, giving Hogan a good look at his face.
Damn, if this didn’t prove he was involved with the trafficking of stolen goods, nothing did. The man was Cassie’s ex.
The long, hot shower later that evening did nothing to erase Michele’s touch and disgusting innuendoes. Hogan scrubbed his feet and thighs especially hard. With all the footsie and leg rubbing done during dinner, he was surprised the woman hadn’t worn a hole in his shoes and pants.
Hogan didn’t understand Michele’s father simply sitting there and smiling at them. Even after returning to the table, the man’s approval was obvious. If he was a father and his daughter behaved in such a distasteful manner, he would paddle her behind from here to New York—no matter how old she was. Either that or the man would be pummeled to within an inch of his life—even if he were an innocent bystander in the attempted seduction.
He began to wonder if maybe Monsieur Thomas was not as rich as he appeared. Maybe he and his daughter were trying to snare him for a husband, thus not having to buy his company, just inherit it and his millions through marriage. The papers Thomas presented seemed to be in order. His companies in Bangladesh and Indonesia showed a profit. At least they did on paper, but Hogan knew how things could be forged.
But why would he be talking to Cassie’s ex? Were they simply acquaintances or was something more going on? Had his cover been compromised or was this only a coincidence?
Hogan turned off the hot water and shook himself like a dog, splashing water around the small bathroom. With a towel wrapped around his waist, he peered around the door into the bedroom, fearful he’d find Michele in his bed, ready for seduction. Relief swept through him when the bedroom and sitting room were empty.
It went against his grain, but he’d agreed to spend the day with Michele and her father, touring Paris. The only reason he’d agreed was to hopefully find out how and why the two men knew each other, but with Michele along, maybe he should wear a steel jock strap for protection.
Well, there was nothing he could do tonight except file his report, hit the sack, and get Michele out of his head.
Cassie. He needed to think of Cassie and her wholesomeness, her smile, her body that radiated sensuality without her realizing it. “Keep this up, man, and you’ll have to take another shower—a very cold one.” He donned his sweatpants and reached for the phone. “One time,” he promised himself, punching in the number. The same irritating beep, beep, beep screeched into his ear. He snapped his phone closed and dropped it on the coffee table.
“That woman needs an answering machine.” Wishing he’d had the foresight to get her cell number, he slipped between the sheets, praying he’d be able to sleep instead of thinking about Cassie. He punched his pillow, rolled over, and started counting freckles. The scent of roses wafted through the open balcony door.
“Flowers,” he yelled. “I can send her flowers. At least I know her address.”
Pleased with his brilliance, he drifted off composing a romantic verse for the card.
Chapter 10
Cassie tossed her pen down on her desk and rubbed the back of her stiff, aching neck. It had been a long, grueling week. She didn’t think any more could be done on the new offices until a branch manager was chosen. As confident as she was about getting the position, she wasn’t confident enough to start thinking about what employees would make the move with her or to go through the file of resumes and set up interviews.
Part of the move involved going through boxes of old records of the previous property management companies, deciding what needed to be kept for legal reasons, and what could be tossed after having them digitized. This meant at least another three hours before going home for the weekend.
The only redeeming part of the week sat on her desk. Flowers. He’d sent her flowers. No one had ever sent her flowers before. The massive bouquet of mums, carnations, and other unknown varieties were not only gorgeous, but smelled heavenly. Their trip back and forth from her house to work every day hadn’t hurt them any, and were as fresh as when her neighbor had brought them over on Monday night. She wondered where Logan had been when he’d ordered them.
Cassie turned her attention from the bouquet and, with a pair of scissors, slit the tape sealing a box labeled 1970-1990. After removing the lid, she grabbed a stack of yellowed folders and set them on her desk.
“This is so incredibly boring,” she muttered after going through a few folders. “Who cares anymore about companies that have gone out of business?” She took another folder from the pile, then glanced at the clock. “One more before I leave.”
“Wyn Property Management,” she read from the label and frowned. “Why does that sound so familiar?” Then it came back to her.
Cassie sat back in her chair and closed her eyes, recalling the large signs with that name plastered all over the neighborhood she’d lived in as a child. The neighborhood that had been torn down to put up condos. The construction site, then the new buildings she’d walked past day after day on her way to school. The anger that beat in her chest as a young child came back with a vengeance.
After slapping open the folder, she perused the top page, then succeeding ones. Her breath caught. It had to be a coincidence. It wasn’t possible Hogan was related to QJA Wynnters III, the name printed on the papers. Was it?
“Damn it. Has to be a coincidence. I don’t know enough about him to even consider his family having anything to do with those condos. But the spelling of the last name is unusual.”
At a noise at her door, she glanced up, dropping her pencil on the stack of folders.
Richard, her pain-in-the-ass co-worker and competitor for the promotion, leaned against the doorframe, arms folded over his chest.
“Talking to yourself, Cassie? Stress of the job getting to you? Signs of dementia?” His nostrils flared and eyes gleamed. “My, my, wouldn’t Mr. Peters be interested in this little piece of news.” He snickered at his own joke and ducked back into the hall when Cassie made a move to get up.
“Jackass.” What she wouldn’t do to get rid of the creep. He was snobbish, egotistical, and a self-professed ladies’ man. His slick good looks and smooth come-ons may start some female hearts pattering, but not hers.
She knew her refusal to go out with him was a blow to his ego. He was, after all, God’s gift to women.
When he finally realized she wasn’t interested in opening the package, he did what he could to thwart her work, and while she did most of it, Richard found a way to take the credit. At times, though, it seemed his antagonistic actions toward her went deeper than simply wanting the promotion. Cassie couldn’t put her finger on it, but she was sure he’d joined the office disliking her before she failed to be another notch in his headboard.
After turning him down several times, he called her an ice queen, which she knew wasn’t true. And even though her ex had called her the same thing, it was their problem, not hers. Her reaction to Hogan certainly dispelled that notion.
An ice queen wouldn’t fret over a man not calling. An ice queen wouldn’t sweat and swear at hooking up a bright pink answering machine so said hunk could leave a message. An ice queen wouldn’t get wet to the core just thinking about his kisses. An ice quee
n wouldn’t race through the house each night in anticipation of a little blinking light.
“Jill to Cassie. Jill to Cassie. Hello, Cassie.”
Cassie snapped out of thoughts that were becoming erotic to see her best friend and co-worker, Jill, waving her hand in front of Cassie’s face.
“You okay, girl?” Jill asked. “Is something wrong? You’re frowning hard enough to make the Pope feel guilty.”
Cassie shook her head. Tendrils of hair fell out of the neat bun she’d put it into that morning. “No. There’s just been too many long days in the past weeks.” To Cassie’s dismay, Jill sat down on a chair next to her desk.
Jill played with a paper clip that had slipped from Cassie’s desk and onto the chair. “So, you want to tell me about it?”
“No. I’m just tired.”
Jill contemplated her friend for a moment. “By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask how your weekend went with Bess’s kids. We’ve been so blasted busy, we never got a chance to talk. Anything special happen?”
Why was Jill blushing? And wasn’t that last question asked with a little too much innocence? She couldn’t have been in on it, could she? “Like what?”
“Mmm. I don’t know. Just something special.”
“Ah, Jill?”
Jill kept her eyes on the paper clip she worked on straightening then re-shaping.
“You wouldn’t by any chance know someone by the name of Hogan Wynnters, would you?” Jill’s blush became a deeper red. Cassie had her answer. “You sneak, you. How could you and my sister do this to me? You’re as big a rat as she is.”
