by Cara Colter
“Mr. Adams, sir.”
Rory winced. “Great job on the cowboys, Bridey. How did you do that?”
“Thank you, sir. Mr. McKenzie is a nice young man. I spent a weekend at his guest ranch not long ago. I’m afraid it’s not faring that well with the poor economy.”
“I gave him another little job to do, so maybe that will help. And I’ve got another challenge for you. I need you to find something for me by tomorrow. It’s not going to be easy.”
Bridey sighed with rich contentment. “Not easy is my favorite,” she told him.
He told her what he needed. He waited for her to gasp, for her to tell him that finally he had given her a task she could not complete, that it was impossible.
Instead, completely unfazed, Bridey said, “Italia or Spider?”
* * *
Grace had been slightly taken aback to return to her office and find Rory had already made an appointment to see her. Had she known he was going to be that prompt she could have forewarned Beth to put him off for at least a few days!
Still, by the next morning Grace felt as ready for Rory Adams as a woman could ever feel ready for a man like that.
She looked around her office with satisfaction. The space was not ostentatious, but it was tastefully decorated to welcome clients. Her desk was antique mahogany, the two chairs on the other side of it were deeply comfortable distressed leather. The art was local, the rugs were imported. Like her car, it all whispered, subtly, arrived.
Still, Beth had sniffed the air this morning and asked if she was planning on doing surgery in here.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. It looks sterile. It smells antiseptic.”
Sterile and antiseptic weren’t quite the impressions Grace was looking for, so she had ordered herself an arrangement of white lilies and placed them artfully on the corner of her desk.
When they’d asked her at the florists what to put on the card, at first she had said no card. But then it had occurred to her: what would it hurt for a card to be inserted amongst the fragrant blossoms? Just in case he happened to glance that way? He was a detail guy. The type who saw everything.
So, it would be good for him to see a lovely bouquet with a card addressed in masculine handwriting that said, To Gracie, with love.
When the bouquet had arrived she looked at the card and wondered if it foreshadowed things not going quite as per her plan, because there was nothing masculine about the handwriting. So she took out the card and tossed it.
Unnecessary attention to detail, maybe, but this was, after all, what she did for a living. Staged perfect events.
Though it was not completely lost on her that the fact she was going to all this trouble to manipulate his impressions of her already meant she was in trouble of some sort.
And it wasn’t just the freshly cleaned office and the flowers, either.
No, a nearly sleepless night planning what to wear, in her tired mind trying on and discarding nearly every outfit she owned.
She had settled on the light wool Chanel suit in a shade of turquoise that reminded her of an ice-wine bottle. Secretly she called it her “sexy librarian” outfit. Which was exactly the look she wanted: looking sexy at the same time as looking as though she had made no effort to do so. Under the jacket she had on a navy blue silk blouse, very professional, even with the buttons undone one lower than normal.
“For the very sexy librarian look,” she said.
The outfit was obviously way too warm for the hot summer weather, but the office was air-conditioned, and observant as he was, Rory Adams wouldn’t know wool from hemp.
So, unlike their last meeting, this time everything was perfect.
Her hair was pinned up, her makeup was subtle but flattering, the outfit was professional with the tiniest hint of sexy, and the atmosphere was one-hundred-percent successful businesswoman. Grace even had a script of sorts figured out.
So, what exactly did you have in mind for sponsorship? A cash donation would work best for us.
At precisely eleven o’clock, Beth came in the door, closed it behind her, leaned on it.
“Ohmygod, he’s here.”
There was no question who he was. Beth’s faintly dazed expression said it all.
Annoyed at her secretary’s easy capitulation to Rory’s
considerable charms, Grace was even more determined to remain as icy cool as the color of her dress.
“Who is here?” she asked coolly, hoping to prompt professionalism. Beth, naturally, ignored the coolness. They were a two-woman office, which over the years had made them so much more than employer and employee. They were friends and coworkers. Beth could—and had—run the business singlehandedly, especially in those awful weeks after Graham’s death.
“Your date is here.”
Grace felt her mouth fall open. She snapped it shut, annoyed at herself. She could not have predicted, after all this preparation, how easy it would be to become flustered.
“My date?” she squeaked and then pulled herself together. “I don’t have a date. I have a business appointment.”
“Grace, he’s gorgeous. I’m thinking Hugh Jackman only a hundred times better. No! No! Tracker Tannison!”
Don’t ask. She asked. “Who is Tracker Tannison?”
“The TV series, Find Your Man. He plays Special Agent Booth Bentley. He’s dreamy. But not as dreamy as your date.”
After all her careful preparation, Grace felt as though her head was spinning. She felt a desperate need to get this situation under control.
Aware of a certain tight note, of enunciating every word very carefully, Grace said, “I do not have a date.”
“He says it’s a date.”
“It isn’t.”
Beth was looking at her closely. “Well, you look like it is.”
“I don’t. I’ve worn this suit dozens of times.”
“I meant the blush.”
“I am not blushing!”
“If you say so.” Beth scrutinized her. “Isn’t that wool? It’s supposed to go to thirty-two degrees Celsius
today.”
“We have air-conditioning.”
“That suit is extremely flattering. I’ve always loved that color on you,” Beth said, soothingly, making Grace aware she was telegraphing her distress at the fact her plan for this meeting already seemed to be going awry. But at least it wasn’t eight ponies on the loose, a broken shoe and a smudged dress.
“Make him wait. Until I’m done blushing.” Until I’ve collected myself. “Ten minutes. Then show him in.”
Those would be the longest ten minutes of her life. A date? How dare he say it was a date?
“He told me to send you out.”
Grace allowed herself to feel flabbergasted by the pure arrogance of the man!
“Well, I’m not going out. You tell him to come in. He’s not the boss over you. Or me.” Oh, God. She sounded exactly like Tucker.
“Grace?”
She closed her eyes. She just knew something terrible was coming. She could feel it, like storm clouds building on the horizon.
“He’s got a Ferrari sitting outside the front door. He said he’s taking you for a ride.”
She closed her eyes. She mustered all her strength, which was what it took to utter one little word.
“No.”
“It’s red.”
“So what?” But her voice had a high, desperate note to it. The truth? She was beginning to wish for ponies!
“Well, I can’t help but notice, when you open your wallet, you have that picture…” Beth’s voice trailed away. And then stronger, she said, “Go, for God’s sake. You might never have this opportunity again. That man is absolutely gorgeous. And even if he was a toad, you should go
for a ride in that car.”
Grace glared at Beth. Imagine that. The devil looked like her secretary today.
“No,” she said.
“If you’re going to tell him no, you do it yourself.” Beth, loyal secretary and friend turned traitor, gave her a meaningful look and slipped out the door.
Before it shut behind her, Grace heard Beth say, “Can you just give her a moment?”
The door shut.
Now she had to go say no herself. She had to tell him their meeting was going to go just as she planned it, in the safety of her office, where he could admire her decor and her flowers and her outfit. Where she could erase any last vestiges of a woman throwing shoes at a pony. Where she could erase any last vestiges of a woman who needed the prissy look wiped off her face…with his lips.
Still, if she said no, and said it too vehemently, how was he going to read that? At the very least, control freak. At the very worst, fighting a terrible attraction to him. She had to prove to him—no, she had to prove to herself—that Rory Adams had no power over her.
None.
So, she would go out there, and she would not see going to him as any kind of defeat. No, living up to her name, she would do it gracefully. She would still say no, of course, but with no vehemence at all. She would say it with a reluctant smile. She would explain, I’m just too busy today. A huge wedding coming up this weekend. So much to do.
She got up. She went to the door. She flung it open. Is this how he had felt going into battle?
His heart pounding in his chest? His palms slicked with sweat?
She wished she hadn’t thought of him like that, going into battle. Because Rory Adams was sitting in a chair, leafing casually through a magazine, a man who, despite his aura of great power, had spent a great deal of his life waiting…for all hell to break loose.
There was something about him that was all warrior, despite the civilized backdrop of her office, despite his casual slacks, despite the sports shirt, despite the hair that was long enough to tickle the back of his collar.
Rory looked up at her, and smiled, and she thought of him threatening to kiss her. And wondered if even that was a distraction, something to keep her from seeing who he really was.
Because just behind the devastating charm of that smile she could see the warrior. And worse, she could detect a faint weariness, strength that had been tested to the point of breaking but that had not broken.
“Good morning, Grace.”
Her whole prepared speech about how important and busy she was abandoned her.
This man had been her brother’s friend. He was here trying to do something nice for her. Probably to honor her brother.
She could not treat him like the enemy.
Not even to protect herself.
“I hear we’re going for a ride,” she said. She cast a warning glance at Beth who looked as if she was going to stand up from behind her desk and clap.
“I was hoping you could squeeze it in.”
He was offering her an out. It was her last chance to claim, yes, indeed, she was too busy. If she looked away from him, maybe her head would clear.
Maybe she would have a better chance of making the right and rational decision.
Her eyes moved beyond him, but unfortunately they drifted to the big picture window of her office that faced the front street. The car was parked at the curb, already attracting attention. Two teenage boys had their cell phones out and were taking turns taking pictures of each other posing with the car.
For as long as she could remember, Grace had carried a picture of a red Ferrari in her wallet. If you asked her why, she didn’t even know. It appealed to some part of her that was deeply secret.
She was not sure how she felt about this secret being exposed to Rory Adams. Her brother must have told him. That link, her brother, connected her to this man in ways she was not at all sure she could handle.
And she liked having a handle on her life!
Instead, Grace felt the terrible loss of control. And she felt an equally terrible temptation just to surrender. She fought it.
“We are going to discuss Warrior Down?” she asked, trying for a stern note, trying to recapture at least an illusion of control.
“Of course,” he said smoothly.
“All right. Beth clear my calendar for—” She looked inquiringly at him.
“A couple of hours?”
Impossible. But her control seemed to have abandoned her despite her attempt to fight for it. “All right.”
But in one last ditch effort to salvage something of all that time wasted in an effort to manipulate his impressions of her, Grace darted back into her office and grabbed the flowers, hugged them to her chest.
She plunked them down on Beth’s desk. “These need water,” she said, regally, and Beth, bless her heart, did not say But they just arrived.
She said, “Oh, yes, I noticed that. I’ll look after it right away.”
And before Rory could get a look at the water level in that crystal vase, Grace marched by him, waited for him to open the door for her, and then passed through it, and waited for him to open the door of the car.
The car was red and low and so sexy it took her breath away. It had a hard top that had been retracted.
She hesitated, feeling as if if she did it, if she actually stepped into that car something in her life was going to change irrevocably and forever.
Don’t do it.
Do it.
Don’t.
Do.
Do was winning. What was so great about her life that it couldn’t stand changing? She worked, she slept, she worked some more. She did an important job. She brought people joy. She made happy memories for them.
That’s what dedicated career women did: they got their sense of fulfillment from their work. That’s what women who didn’t want to be hurt anymore did.
Yesterday it had seemed like a perfectly acceptable life, she wailed a reminder to herself.
No, the day before yesterday. Before the ponies. Before him.
The door of the car whispered open. She could smell the heat of the engine, Italian leather and Rory’s cologne.
They were drugs that stole what was left of her resolve. Grace Day took one more step toward the car.
CHAPTER FOUR
“HANG on,” Rory said as Grace moved by him to get in the car. She tried not to brush against him but the effort was lost when his hand went to her hair. He ran his palm along the side of her face, over her ear, until it rested on the delicate nape of her neck. With a gentle, firm tug he freed the clasp that held her hair up.
Grace felt her hair tumble, whisper against the sensitive skin of her neck where his fingers had just touched.
How dare you would be the appropriate response. To turn around and march right back into her office, and her perfectly satisfactory life, slam the door and turn the bolt would be the appropriate response.
Instead, she felt the shiver of his touch, of the strange intimacy of him releasing her hair, to the bottom of her toes. Instead, she stood there frozen, captured by the shimmering greenness of his eyes, and by the glint of hard, male appreciation in them.
“You can’t ride with the top down without feeling the wind in your hair,” he said, something in his voice faintly gruff. He held out the hair clasp to her.
And she took it and slid it into her pocket without one single word of protest!
Maybe another woman could be stronger. But the combination of the sexy car and the sensuousness of his touch on her hair and her neck rendered Grace helpless. She could not resist the temptation. Taking a deep breath that she let out with a sigh, she put her leg in the car and then sank into the low seat.
Nothing could live up to a fantasy she’d held for so long, sh
e told herself, trying desperately to regain some semblance of her sensible well-ordered life.
But when Rory Adams came around and took the seat beside her, and the engine started with a deep low purr of pure power, and his scent and the smell of leather both filled her nostrils, she had the awful thought that maybe some things could actually be better than a fantasy.
“Where are we going?” Grace asked him.
“Does it matter?” He shoulder-checked and pulled away from the curb so smoothly it was as if she was riding on air.
Whatever was left in her that wanted to be in control evaporated. She laughed. “No.”
“I thought we’d take the back road around Lake Okanagan. Stop at the Blue Water Resort and have lunch.”
“That resort is where the big fundraiser for
Warrior Down is.”
“I know.”
She pondered that as they surged in and out of traffic, making their way through Mason to the head of the lake road. Did he know everything? Apparently he did. Even about her lifelong dream to ride in a Ferrari.
“Graham must have told you about my secret fascination with this car,” she said.
“Is it everything you expected?” he said with a smile that did not distract her. He didn’t want to admit he and Graham had discussed her.
“So far, it’s more than I expected,” she admitted, but got right back on topic. “I have to admit, it makes me uncomfortable thinking about you two discussing me.”
“It should.” He sent her a sideways look, and waggled his eyebrows, the villain in a movie. Despite the fact he was still trying to distract her, Grace laughed again, and enjoyed the sensation of laughing. Since Graham had died, and then her engagement had blown up in her face, it really seemed like there had not been much to laugh about. She was not unaware of the irony of the fact that she planned joyous, happy occasions for others, but rarely felt those things herself anymore.
“Do tell,” she challenged him.
“Okay. I know just about everything about you. I know your favorite color is yellow. And your favorite book is Anne of Green Gables. I know you once punched a boy in your class for stealing a kiss.”
