by Renee Roszel
“Mr. Roxbury could have afforded a caterer. What did he do?” she coaxed, hoping she was still being reasonable, not playing Twenty Questions. Darned half-baked book.
Lucas said nothing for a moment, but Jess thought she saw a change in his demeanor. Was it a wince? “Are you telling me the old man expects me to scrape pumpkins?”
She took a deep breath. “Remember, you’re taking his place as Mr. Niceguy.”
“It’s a waste of time. Forget it. I said I’d be responsible for the dinner, but I’m not going to get involved—personally. I have a meeting that day.”
She couldn’t believe her ears. “On Thanksgiving?”
“I told you we have an important deal, and some problems we have to iron out.”
Counting to ten was becoming difficult. Jess dragged a hand through hair that had been tossed forward in a slight breeze, and smoothed it back from her face. The nip of winter in the air helped cool her scorched cheeks.
Before she could form a rational answer, he echoed her own frustrated thought. “Mrs. Glen, let’s be reasonable about this—”
“I’m trying,” she retorted, then stopped herself and closed her eyes, struggling for patience. “Mr. Brand,” she began again, “when you offered to take over the Mr. Niceguy Thanksgiving Dinner and Retreat, you made a commitment. I don’t doubt that you have a big business deal in the works. I don’t doubt that you always have a big business deal in the works, but right now, you have a Thanksgiving dinner to plan. It’s supposed to be a ‘family atmosphere’ type dinner, with everybody pitching in. A happy, full day of activity and good memories,” she reminded. “Most of these kids have never known family togetherness. We’re trying to show these kids a better way, a way they can live, if they want it badly enough. Can’t you see the importance of doing it according to Mr. Roxbury’s wishes?”
His eyes burned through her, but he didn’t speak. She knew he was trying to intimidate her with that stare, and she wondered if he could tell he was succeeding. But she couldn’t let him. This was too important. For once, she had to be strong, be assertive and stand up to a bullying egotist. He’d made a promise to Mr. Roxbury and for some unfathomable reason, Norman thought the sun rose and set for this man. So for her sweet boss’s sake, she was going to be reasonable and assertive. She was going to show Lucas Brand in a cool-headed manner, why he needed to do this right. She would do it if it killed her! Or he killed her, a nagging voice in her brain hastened to add.
With a thin-lipped grimace, the closest she could come to a smile, Jess motioned toward a seating area. “Why don’t we get more comfortable? I’m sure we can come to an agreement.” Turning away without waiting for a reply, she took a seat in a high-back wicker chair. She crossed her legs in what she hoped was a nonchalant manner before she dared face him. He hadn’t moved. She felt a rush of depression about that, but knew that if he had, she’d have lapsed into a coma from the shock.
She was at a total loss about how she was going to wheedle the man into a nearby seat. Besides, she wasn’t any good at manipulation, and Lucas Brand was a master of it. Who was kidding whom, here? She couldn’t beat him in a psychological battle of wits if she tried for a billion years. With a sigh, she gave him a direct, honest look. “What, exactly, is techno-bull?” she asked, not quite sure why she was bringing it up. But the word had bothered her ever since he’d used it earlier on the phone.
He exhibited no reaction to her question at all. She continued to watch him cautiously, wondering what was going on behind that guarded look he was leveling at her.
“What the hell sort of question is that?” he finally asked.
She feared she was getting off the “reasonable-and-assertive” track, but somehow she had a feeling she’d sparked his interest for the very first time. He was really looking at her now, and she sensed he wasn’t quite sure what to think. Flying blind, she went with her instincts. “You used that odd term on the phone. Techno-bull. Is that anything like, ‘That’s a load of bull,’ or ‘You’re full of bull’? Is techno-bull that kind of bull, Mr. Brand? If so, I gather you’re going to lie to someone tonight?”
She shrugged, suddenly feeling beaten down. “Forgive me if I’m naive. I’m sure you have good reasons for lying. But I need to know if your promise to Mr. Roxbury was…techno-bull, too. If it was, I don’t have much time to find a replacement for you.”
He remained impassive, allowing no hint of emotion to cross his features. Still, Jess had the feeling she’d shifted him off-center.
“What is this tactic?” he asked. “You point out my sins and I’m supposed to atone by being an obedient little Mr. Niceguy?”
She didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know where she was going with this, so she kept quiet. There was a chapter about keeping quiet in the book. She hadn’t read it, yet. She wished she had, because if there was a whole chapter devoted to its benefits, there must be something to it. Girding herself with resolve, she looked squarely into his face and kept her mouth shut.
The hush grew long and strained. Jess was beginning to wonder what, exactly, keeping quiet was supposed to accomplish besides giving a person a neck cramp from holding still too long. She fought the need to tap her fingers on her purse. Chapter one had said that a show of nervousness was a sure way to lose ground, so she continued to act like a statue, no matter how agonizing the act was.
Just as the craving to tap her fingers had grown overwhelming, he startled her by breaking the silence. “Look, Mrs. Glen…” His tone was as cold as his stare. “No one in his right mind would tell a potential million-dollar-plus client his program is locked up. For one thing, the problem’s temporary. For another, it’s bad business to mention every setback. As for my integrity, it’s never been questioned.”
She felt a shiver along her spine. Why, he was insulted! Jess was shocked to discover it was possible to hurt his feelings. Mr. Icy Insolence—who would have thought? She didn’t think insulting a man, even such an overbearing one, was anything to be proud of, but since she was this close to actual emotional contact with him, she might as well forge on. “I’m relieved to hear you’re a man who keeps his promises,” she said without inflection.
He gave her a hard glance, apparently detecting her subtle sarcasm for what it was. “Look. I told Roxbury I’d do the Mr. Niceguy thing. I just won’t be as hands-on as he was.”
“I see.” Jess could no longer keep the animosity from her voice. “In other words, your pledge involved the use of your secretary, your caterer, and probably your servants, but not yourself.”
“If you want to put it that way,” he stated flatly. “It’s the best I can do right now.”
His frankness sent her anger seething very near the surface, and her attempt to remain reasonable was quickly going up in smoke. She’d had it up to her eyebrows with self-serving, money-hungry types, and Lucas Brand was the most self-serving, money-hungry egomaniac of them all! She’d never been so frustrated by any one human being in her life. His was a debt of honor, for heaven’s sake! And in the same breath that he slithered out of a loophole, he dared suggest his integrity had never been questioned? Well, she was questioning it now!
Suddenly, something inside her snapped, and a raw, primitive fury overwhelmed her, sending her storming to her feet. “When you made that promise to Mr. Roxbury, what was it? A sort of techno-bull token to get him off your back?”
Lucas’s hawklike features grew wary, then hard, but the lid was off now, and she couldn’t halt the words that flowed, angry and unguarded. “Just so we’re clear, Mr. My-Integrity-Has-Never-Been-Questioned,” she cried, stomping toward him. “I don’t like to believe Mr. Roxbury made a mistake, but I think you’re the worst choice in the world for Mr. Niceguy! What do you have to say to that?”
The patio took on the silence of the dead. Mortified by her unprofessional behavior, Jess could only stare back as he watched her, his implacable expression unnerving.
The strained stillness was finally broken by a deep, cynical
chuckle. With more weariness than irritation in his manner, he propped a lean hip on the railing. “This may shock you, Mrs. Glen,” he said, his dark eyes glinting scornfully in the fading light. “But for once—and probably for the only time in our dubious association—we are in perfect agreement.”
3
Jess saw Lucas Brand sitting with two of his cronies in the plush restaurant, and her stomach lurched. She’d had two days to think about their last confrontation, and she vowed she wouldn’t make the same mistakes again. Oh, she’d managed to get him to go along with the Mr. Niceguy plans, and he’d promised there would be no caterer, but he was still falling far short of the ideal.
So, here she was again—forced to prod him into shaping up. This time, she’d be smarter about it. This time, Mr. Roxbury would be her model. No matter how upset Lucas made her, she would pause and ask herself, What would Norman do? Her boss had such a graceful way of dealing with people, of handling them—why, it was Mr. Roxbury who’d gotten Lucas to agree to be Mr. Niceguy in the first place. Why hadn’t she thought of using him as her model before? Kill the man with kindness. Be positive with a capital P. That was the ticket.
When the maître d’ asked if Mr. Brand was expecting her, she smiled sweetly and lied, “Yes. Thank you.”
Winding through the lunchtime crowd at one of Oklahoma City’s poshest eateries, she prepped herself by thinking only happy thoughts. Positive visualizations of Lucas Brand reacting goodnaturedly to her gently worded requests. She also visualized calming things, like roses with dew on their petals, butterflies fluttering in a wildflower-strewn field, kittens curled up before a cozy fire. She inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. “Butterflies, kittens, dew, roses…”
A nagging voice in her brain insisted on sneering, “No way, Jess. You aren’t Mr. Roxbury. He’ll get you flustered and angry and you’re going to end up dumping ice water over his head.”
She squelched the negative image, mumbling, “Butterflies, kittens, dew, roses, butterflies-kittens-dew-roses-butterflies-kittens-dew-roses.” It became a thin-lipped, desperate mantra that marked her ever-slowing tread as she maneuvered toward his table.
When she was a few feet away, she realized the top executives of Virtual Vision Technology were in intense, though whispered, debate. Lucas was the only one not actually speaking. He wasn’t quite lounging, for she doubted if the man ever relaxed. Sprawled elegantly, one elbow on the chair’s arm, he was tapping a contemplative finger on his upper lip. His expression was critical, as though he wasn’t happy with the bent of the discussion. As she neared, she heard a short, stubby fellow insist, “It can’t be done, Lucas. Not in the time Takahashi’s insisting on.”
A redheaded man in his mid-thirties persisted, “It might be possible, if that receptor point problem—”
“Problem is putting it mildly!” the stubby man burst in over the redhead’s remark. “Face it. We need too many receptor points. The infrared receiver can’t distinguish between so many signals. Every time I quirk my little finger, the computer gives me a rude gesture.”
“That’d be my first instinct,” the redhead retorted. “You’re such a fatalistic ass!”
“And you’re a pigheaded fool! I told you both a month ago we couldn’t go cordless, and—” The stubby man, his angry features ruddy all the way up to the top of his bald head, halted in midsentence, as he noticed Jess beside their table.
Then the redhead and Lucas glanced her way.
“Hello,” the bald man said, struggling to stand. “May we help you?”
The redhead belatedly pushed up, too, his freckled features alight with male curiosity. Lucas merely sat there, looking dubious. “Mrs. Glen,” he intoned, with mild surprise. “This is a coincidence.”
She offered him a well-meant smile. “Your secretary told me where you were.”
“I’ll have to thank her for that,” he muttered cynically.
She recognized his sarcasm, but struggled to ignore it. “May I have a word with you, Mr. Brand?” she asked, her tone as bright as she could manage.
He nodded, apparently suggesting that she speak her piece and go.
She felt a tremor of anxiety, wishing his disinterest didn’t bother her so much. She mustn’t allow him to upset her. After all, he was busy, and upset himself, considering what she’d just heard. Evidently things hadn’t gotten much better with his big, important project since they’d last spoken. She reinforced her smile, prompting sweetly, “I’d prefer we were alone.”
He gave her a speculative perusal, then with a curt nod, he indicated that his employees stay put. “You two try to keep from killing each other. I’ll be right back.”
“This may take more than a few minutes,” she advised. “And let me say, I do so appreciate your generous offer to help.”
As he rose from his chair, he gave her an unconvinced glance, but said nothing.
“Maybe you should tell them you’ll meet them back at the office,” she suggested, hoping repetition would reinforce the fact that he would not be returning soon.
His expression vaguely amused, he said, “They’re not in the first grade, though they sometimes act like it. If they finish and I’m not back, they’ll figure out what to do. Fletch and Sol are fairly bright for computer geniuses.”
“Why, of course, you’re right. You’ll have to forgive me. I’m used to working with children and teenagers—”
“Mrs. Glen, I don’t need to hear your résumé.” Surprising her, he took her arm and guided her away. “Why don’t we find a table and get on with it,” he suggested, nodding to a waiter.
“Fine—fine,” she murmured, oddly breathless. A nervous giggle escaped her throat, and she grimaced, hoping the restaurant noise was too loud for him to have heard. His grip was gentle, but firm, as he conducted her along. She clutched her briefcase with white-knuckled fingers, wanting the contact to end. The man’s touch disturbed her.
Once they were seated, he sat back and crossed his arms, his posture one of weary dignity. He looked like a tired lion, reposing there. She swallowed, wishing he weren’t quite so magnetic a man. Her wits seemed to do a little scattering around him. And her stupid giggle! Where had that come from?
“What is it?” he asked, finally.
Remember how Mr. Roxbury handles people, she told herself. When she faced him again, she was smiling. She noticed that he’d sat forward, loosely tenting his fingers on the tablecloth. That gave her an idea.
She’d read in her self-help book that if you lightly touched a person when talking to them, a psychological bond was formed, and the person being touched tended to be more agreeable. Why not? she decided. She was at a point where she was desperate to get this man to agree with her about any thing—besides the fact that he was the world’s worst choice for Mr. Niceguy.
Now that she thought about it, Mr. Roxbury patted people all the time. Must be something to it. Though she wasn’t a “toucher” herself, and her family had never been much for hugging or holding hands, she sucked in a breath for courage, reached across the table, and determinedly patted his hands. “It’s so nice to see you again, Mr. Brand,” she enthused, feeling inept and out of her element. As believably as she could, she added, “I know it will be a pleasure working with you.”
His glance shifted to her hand, then to her face. There was an odd mingling of mirth and irritation in his expression. She kept patting, feeling awkward, trying to work out her plan. She didn’t want to accuse him of shirking his duty. Maybe if she acted like she assumed he’d just forgotten about—
“Why Lucas,” a female voice declared from Jess’s left. An attractive blonde of about Jess’s age was sidling up to the table. She leaned down and pressed a kiss on his cheek. Lucas smiled coolly at the woman. She caressed his cheek fondly. “How are you? It’s been, what—three months?”
Lucas started to rise, but the woman put a hand on his shoulder. “Please don’t bother, I’m just passing by.”
“It’s nice to see you,” Lucas said, w
ith that same polished smile, but neither of the women was fooled into thinking he meant it. The blonde laughed and shook her head in a light rebuke.
“The name’s Mary Anne. Mary Anne Brown, of the ‘I’ll-call-you-Mary-Anne’ Browns.” Glancing at Jess, the woman gave her a sympathetic nod. “You must be Lucas’s, ‘Miss November.’ Enjoy it while it lasts.” She ran her fingers through the hair at Lucas’s nape, as though she couldn’t help but touch him one last time. More to herself than to Jess, she murmured, “He has a demanding mistress.”
After that veiled remark, she abruptly left. Jess felt embarrassed for the woman and couldn’t think of anything to say. She stared absently at her water goblet.
“Mrs. Glen,” Lucas said, cutting into her musings, “I never learned Morse code, so rather than tap out your message on my hands, why don’t you just tell me why you’re here.”
Her gaze snapped to her fidgeting fingers, still curled over his. Mortified, she snatched them away and took a shaky sip of water in order to have a minute to compose herself.
Lucas cleared his throat, and she surreptitiously looked at him over the rim of her cut-crystal goblet.
His expression showed slight vexation, and she could see by the direction in which he was looking that he’d followed the blonde’s exit.
She replaced her water glass on the table, feeling a twinge of pity for any woman who would get involved with this man. “I gather by ‘demanding mistress,’ she meant your work?”
He shifted back to look at her. “I don’t know what the hell she meant. Can we get on with it?”
Neither of them spoke as coffee was served. When the waiter had gone, he ground out, “Okay, Mrs. Glen. So far in our relationship, you’ve played a neurotic Barbara Walters clone, a vacuum-cleaner salesman turned pit bull, and today you’ve done your impression of Miss Teenage America, whose talent is screwing up Morse code. It’s been entertaining, but could we dispense with the games? Just give me your bottom line.”
