by Cara Colter
“We’ll get it all sorted out,” Jamie told her, his voice solid and reassuring.
Something in the utter strength of that voice made her look at him. Really look at him. He was gorgeous, yes, but there was an underlying calm there, a man, who despite all the sophisticated trappings, you would want at your side if the bandits were coming at you with knives in their teeth.
Unfortunately, there was something about his composure, his strength, that allowed her to let hers slip, just a little bit.
She felt her throat close.
And then, even though she ordered herself not to, the first tear slipped out of her eye. And then the second one. And then, the floodgates opened. There. She could be grateful that, in her rush to get the plane this morning, she had not bothered with mascara.
It was of little comfort that James Gilbert-Cooper’s colossal self-confidence seemed to evaporate, completely, in the face of her tears.
CHAPTER TWO
“DON’T CRY,” JAMIE ordered Jessica Winton, a little more sharply than he intended. The order seemed to have the exact opposite effect of what he had intended. Her face crumpled a little more.
“Please?” he added, trying for a softer tone. Instead, he could hear desperation in his tone. Jamie’s father had died when he was eighteen. There had been so many tears from his mother and his sister, so much emotion that he had been powerless to stanch. He hated the memories of that period of his life, and couldn’t believe he’d been plunged into them by the vulnerability—as understandable as it was—of a complete stranger.
Despite a terrible start, this was still a business association. One of the things he loved about business was that it was a black-and-white world. Pesky things like emotions—feelings—could be left safely outside the perimeters of the work environment.
His relief that she was the real Jessica Winton—that he didn’t have to spend three days trying to be civil to that obnoxious barge in a dress—was not standing up to the challenge of the stolen luggage. He could handle crass and vulgar over soft and vulnerable any day.
He realized, since the feeling thing had crept in, exactly what he was feeling.
Guilt.
He had failed. That barge in a dress had tricked him into letting his guard down, and the woman who had suffered the consequences of his failure was trying not to cry and failing as completely as he had.
Guilt was also a residue of that period in his life when he had been powerless over the pain of those he loved, where he had also felt the agonies of failure.
This, Jamie told himself firmly, has nothing to do with that. But as he watched, first one little tear slid over that exquisite cheekbone, and then another, and then those slender shoulders heaved, and the storm came.
He had lied to Jessica Winton. He had entertained preconceived notions of what a small-town bookstore owner would look like. Young had not been part of that equation. Neither had completely adorable.
He was not prepared for huge brown eyes the color of melted milk chocolate, the lush fullness of a bottom lip, the little mole on the tiny lobe of her ear.
Of course he was not prepared for any of that! Jessica Winton being offered a job was all part of the joke’s on you.
Jamie had been part of the internationally renowned marketing firm of Jensen, Henry and Ascot for seven years, the last three of them as the Chief Operating Officer. Until two and a half years ago, he’d been unaware that the Ascot part of the corporation name was anything more than a silent partnership. The Ascot name was, after all, in everything, from nuts to bolts to concert production. He’d been a bit surprised there was an actual person attached to that iconic name.
And what a person. Auntie Mame on steroids.
Vivian, herself, had descended on the office, at a meeting concerning the promotion of the annual Ascot-sponsored music festival. Despite being diminutive, she had been larger than life in oversize Gucci sunglasses, a fur hat unapologetically made of some endangered species and with a fat little sausage dog in a jeweled collar stuffed under her arm.
Jamie thought all her ideas were dreadful, and he might have rolled his eyes at the worst of them: something to do with the name she had come up with for that year’s festival to be held in Copenhagen.
She had lifted her sunglasses and cast him a flinty look that could have stripped paint.
“Uh-oh,” Phil Jensen had said in an undertone, “she never forgets.”
At the time, Jamie had thought Phil was ribbing him. It had been the smallest thing, really, and Jamie had dismissed it within minutes of leaving the meeting.
But fast-forward to a few weeks ago, and there he was called into Phil’s office. Vivian Ascot, whom he had never seen or even heard of since that day, had resurfaced, not in person, but in the form of an order.
Apparently, she had discovered some small-town bookstore owner whom she thought would be ideal for representing some of JHA’s publishing, author and bookstore accounts.
Bookstores were a tricky marketing business these days, but apparently an independent owner had caught Vivian’s attention by making her tiny town bookstore extremely viable, by making it, according to the letter Phil had read from, the hub of the community.
No matter that the publishing and bookstore accounts were Jamie’s particular cup of tea, or that one of his genuine delights was working with authors. Miss Winton was being offered a job opportunity, sight unseen, and she wasn’t to know Vivian Ascot was behind it.
And what’s more, Ms. Ascot-Who-Never-Forgot, had specifically requested that Jamie be enlisted in the recruitment of Miss Winton.
“We’re supposed to seduce her,” Phil had said, dryly. “And that’s a quote.”
“Like some small-town bookstore owner wouldn’t jump for joy at this opportunity?”
“Uh, my initial contact would make it seem like Ms. Winton is not exactly jumping. I’m not prepared to risk Vivian Ascot’s displeasure. But it’s more than that. Before you came on board here, we had hit a bit of a bump in the business road. Viv bailed us out. Failure is not an option.”
We’re supposed to seduce her. That had seemed like a very casual term of reference a few days ago.
Not so much now with Jessica Winton standing in front of him, crying.
She really could be a poster child for the small-town girl with her undyed hair pulled primly back, her basically makeup-free face, her guileless expression.
Despite the red jacket—he thought if it had been called burgundy the barge mix-up could have been avoided—there was something very understated about her. He moved in a world where people, and particularly women, drew attention to their assets, not away from them.
She had, he could see, a beautiful figure, and yet if he was to describe her look, he might call it spinster librarian. She’d probably be hurt to know it was exactly the look, had he not been distracted, that he would have assigned to a small-town bookstore owner, though one who was twenty years older than her.
Her expression was one of pure vulnerability: those huge dark tear-filled eyes, her thick lashes studded with diamond tears, the trembling of an unexpectedly tempting mouth.
Everything about her—except maybe that mouth—said wholesome. Fresh. Untainted. Easily hurt.
Which had made her a pretty natural mark for the likes of Debbie and the Gidgets Widgets team, unfortunately.
“It’s going to be okay,” he said and felt something he rarely felt: clumsily inept.
Not unsurprisingly, she was not at all reassured. He recalled he might have used that same expression often in that terrible year after his father had died, and his sister and his mother had not been reassured then either.
Jessica buried her face in her hands and wept.
He froze.
Do something, he snapped at himself.
What? a voice asked back.
Anything.
&nb
sp; So, he patted her shoulder. The curve of it was so delicate that it felt as if he had whacked her. He withdrew his hand hastily. She hiccuped noisily. People were glancing at her. And then at him. As if he was supposed to know what to do.
He wanted to protest. She’s a job candidate, not a love interest.
He ordered himself to back off and let her have her cry. It was not unnatural for her to be crying. She was ten minutes into her visit to one of the largest and most sophisticated cities in the world, and she’d been robbed.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I know it’s a nasty turn of events.”
The wrong thing to say—no surprise, underscoring what he had already deduced, great businessman and emotional moron that he was—as her sobs, muffled by her hands, became louder.
“It’s going to be okay,” he repeated, even though those very words had had no effect on any of the many occasions he had used them.
It occurred to him words—or at least not any he could think of—were simply not going to cut it.
To his own shock, some instinct moved him closer to her, instead of farther away. To his own shock, he tugged her hands from her face, scanned her tearstained cheeks, and then, with a sigh, folded his arms around her, and pulled her to him.
She did not resist, but snuggled into him like a wet kitten rescued from a storm. Nothing could have prepared him for that, either: the softness of her, the warmth of her, the way she was making him feel, well, manly, in a way he was not sure he had ever experienced before.
She sobbed against his chest, her tears leaving a warm patch that was threatening to melt even his ever cynical heart.
He could smell a heady scent coming off her hair, which was tickling the bottom of his chin. What was that? Lavender? Since when did he know what lavender smelled like? And yet it seemed as if he could picture a field full of those tall purple blooms, with her walking through it, her hand grazing the top of the flowers like a blessing.
He gave himself a mental shake and wondered if he should say something to hurry this along before he ended up picturing himself in that field of lavender with her.
There, there seemed too grandfatherly. Pull yourself together seemed too hard and I understand how you’re feeling would have been a stretch.
After what seemed to be at least an hour, the length between the sobs—he was timing them, though he thought that was probably supposed to be for contractions—lengthened and then lengthened a little more, until they stopped and she drew in a long, shuddering sigh.
Finally, she stepped away from him.
His eyes went to one of the airport clocks. Three minutes, not an hour. He looked back at her. Her face was blotchy, her hair was mussed and the front of her blouse, where it had been pressed against him, was creased. Three minutes of crying could cause quite a look of dishevelment in a woman!
“Thanks. I’m sorry.” She looked mortified with herself. She gazed in the region of the wet blotches on his shirt, appalled, and then said, again, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“I’m tired. And I’m hungry. And basically, I’m a mess. How do you like me, so far?”
Thankfully, she did not seem to be waiting for an answer, because the truth was, he did find her oddly appealing at the same time that he did not think she was cut out for the high-pressure world of JHA.
It was harsh judgment, but there it was. Despite the fact he was supposed to seduce her to take the job, he could feel himself planning the exact opposite. He’d show her around the city, as per plan, gently dissuade her from a career at JHA, then put her back on a plane as soon as they got her passport sorted out. He’d announce his failure to the powers that be, and then get on with his life as if she had never happened.
It occurred to Jamie, with just a bit of shock, that maybe it wasn’t all about her. That maybe he felt a need to protect himself from this small-town girl and the things she could coax out of him without half trying.
She sniffed. “I don’t even have a tissue.”
He wasn’t sure if she wanted the tissue for her little red nose, or to try to repair the damage to his shirt.
“I don’t even have a tissue,” she repeated. The issue of the tissue as a sign of her complete destitution seemed as if it might push her over the edge again, so Jamie hurriedly pulled the pocket square from his suit and handed it to her.
Thankfully, she dabbed delicately at her nose and left the front of his shirt alone. She had a very cute nose, small and a little turned up at the end. Her bottom lip was trembling a bit, and it was more than cute. Full and plump. Jamie gave himself an annoyed mental shake.
Even though he was determined she would never work for him, a little propriety was in order. Which meant not trying to guess what those lips would taste like.
She was vulnerable. He did not take advantage of the vulnerable. Or sweet girls from small towns.
Embracing her had been a mistake—visions of lavender fields proof of that—but it was one he now intended to quickly rectify.
“Let’s get you settled,” he said, his voice a touch on the curt side, more to remind himself than her of the nature of their relationship. “I have a car outside.”
She stepped out the doors with him, and flinched as they were plunged into even more madness; horns honking, tires squealing, the smell of hot engines on a summer night.
“It’s dark already,” she said.
He glanced at his phone. “Ten p.m.”
She nodded. “I’d forgotten. A three-hour time difference.”
JHA had several cars and drivers at their disposal, but when the uniformed driver held open the door of the Bentley for Jessica, she took in the well-appointed opulence inside the vehicle with little pleasure. In fact, she seemed to sink even a little more into herself. By the time he got in the other door, she was squished up against her own door and staring straight ahead. She looked very pale. And fragile. She was clutching his pocket square as if it was a lifeline.
The car pulled away from the curb, and headed for the Grand Central Parkway, Jamie realized he needed to take charge of this situation.
“We’ve got a forty-minute drive into Manhattan. Let’s make use of it and get you started on canceling credit cards and your phone,” he suggested, and pulled his tablet from a pouch in the door. “Maybe contact your bank about emergency funds. You can use this, and I’ll make some calls to see what the procedure is to have your passport reported missing and then replaced.”
He quickly put in his password and handed her the open tablet. He was entering his comfort zone—take action—but she was staring numbly at the computer on her lap.
“Bring up your credit card company,” he directed her, and then plunged into his own calls. He covered the phone with his hand for a moment. “Maybe try the chat feature if they have one.”
When he disconnected from his calls, she had closed the computer.
“The bank’s website had a number I can call tomorrow about emergency funds. Meanwhile, the cards are canceled,” she reported, “and my phone. Thank you for realizing how important that was. I think I’m so shaken, I would have overlooked that and had a billion-dollar phone bill to who knows where on top of everything else.”
“Great.” He ticked off their accomplishments on his fingers. “Credit cards canceled. Phone canceled. We’ll work on your bank and the passport tomorrow. The Canadian Consulate isn’t open right now, but we’ll go see them first thing in the morning. From what I could tell, it looks as though there is a procedure for issuing emergency travel documents or a temporary passport.”
“Thank you, again, for taking charge.”
He smiled at her, the kind of reassuring smile, he hoped, that said, See? No more tears are necessary. “I’m in the zone. Solving problems is my specialty. So moving on, are you up to tackling the police report?”
“I’m sorry, no.”<
br />
He lifted an eyebrow at her. A more sophisticated companion would have gotten it: I’m trying to take your mind off things. Play along. Don’t make it any more awkward than it already is.
But she shook her head. “I’m exhausted. I’ve been traveling for two days. Timber Falls is not close to a major airport. You have to drive for a day to get to one. And then I chose a hotel close to the airport, and couldn’t sleep for planes and sirens and noise. And then, this.”
See? It was going to get awkward. That luscious bottom lip was trembling again.
“I should have never let go of my suitcase handle. What was I thinking? What kind of idiot lets their guard down in New York City?”
He wanted to tell her the crime rate in the city had been dropping since the 1990s and it was now considered one of the safest large cities in the United States, but it seemed she might not appreciate that insight at the moment.
“Would it be a mugging, would you say?” she asked. “I mean, I guess I would assume some violence in a mugging. It felt violent. He did push me.”
“Are you hurt?” The hospital! Good grief, here he was looking after all the business details, solving problems, and she was in need of medical assistance. It made Jamie realize, surprised, that he might be feeling a little more off balance than he was prepared to let on. To her, and even more, to himself.
“Oh, no, I’m not hurt physically. Just shaken. Badly.”
She held out her hand. He could see it was trembling like a leaf in a breeze. Without asking her, and propriety be damned, Jamie pushed a built-in panel in the back of the driver’s seat that opened a minibar. He poured her a generous cognac and handed it to her.
For a moment she stared at it silently, as if she planned to refuse. Then she grabbed it, took a sip, wrinkled her nose and then tossed the whole thing back.
