“I’m fine, Dad.” Jack reached for the glass of red wine he’d been sipping.
When the waitress left, Ray glanced around the room and nodded at the dark woods, big beams and red tablecloths. “Nice joint you picked out, Sinclair. Reminds me of the steak houses I used to go to on the South side. Those were the days.”
“Actually, Abigail made the reservations.”
Just saying her name made his throat tighten. He hadn’t gone into the office today, partly because he’d been busy out at the site with Ray and his son, partly because he reasoned that if he gave her a day to settle down, to rethink her resignation, she would come to the realization she belonged exactly where she was.
And if he were really honest with himself, he was afraid to be alone with her right now. He knew he’d have to touch her, to kiss her, to slip that long straight skirt she always wore up over her thighs and—
“Yep, Abigail sure knows how to pick ’em,” Ray interrupted Callan’s wayward thoughts. “You’re one lucky dog to have that little lady working for you, Sinclair. It’s damn hard to find good help these days. So when does she get here? I can’t wait to meet her.”
Callan glanced at the doorway again. Abby was late, and Abby was never late. But when Ray had insisted she be invited tonight and Callan had called her at the office, she’d said she’d come. He didn’t believe she wouldn’t show.
But then, he didn’t know what to think about Abby anymore. She had him twisted ten different ways.
“She should be here any minute.” Callan reached for his beer. He hadn’t told Ray about Abby quitting, nor did he intend to. Because she wasn’t going to quit. He wouldn’t let her. “If you’d like to go ahead and order—”
“Hell, no.” Ray frowned. “My late wife, Isabel, taught me a few things about women. One is they like to make an entrance. Gives us men something to look forward to. Isn’t that right, son?”
“Right, Dad.” Jack swirled the glass of wine in his hand. “My father’s got a thing for your secretary, Callan. You better keep an eye on her while he’s around or he might snatch her away from you.”
Teeth set tight, Callan forced a smile. Jack Palmer didn’t look at all like his short, plump, balding father. Probably around thirty, Jack was at least six-two, with black, thick, wavy hair and piercing blue eyes that seemed to take everything in. Armani suit, Italian shoes, silk tie. Callan kept expecting him to say, “Bond. James Bond.”
It wasn’t that he didn’t like the guy, Callan thought. He was pleasant enough, even though he didn’t talk much. There was just something about him that…well, that he didn’t like.
Maybe it was the crack about stealing Abby away, Callan decided. He knew he didn’t like that comment one little bit.
Jack was lifting his glass when he suddenly went still. Callan glanced over his shoulder to follow the man’s gaze.
His heart jumped into his throat.
Abby?
She floated toward them, dressed in a tight black halter dress that skimmed the top of her knees and hugged every luscious curve of breast and hip. Her stockings and high heels were black, too, her legs endless.
And her hair. He blinked. What on earth had she done to her hair? It fell in a sort of layered curtain around her face, emphasizing her big, smoky-green eyes. Eyes that were locked on him at the moment.
Where was the conservative suit she always wore? The pulled-back hair and glasses? This was a business dinner, he thought irritably. She should be dressed more…well, she should just be dressed more.
Not like a hot, sexy mama.
When his heart dropped back down into his chest, it started pumping as if he’d run three miles.
She smiled as she approached, a soft, enticing smile that made sweat pop out on his forehead. He jumped up, bumping the table as he stood. Ray and Jack stood, as well, both men clearly captivated.
“I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” she said smoothly, almost a purr, Callan thought. She extended her hand to Ray. “Mr. Palmer, a pleasure to finally meet you.”
Even in the dim light of the restaurant, Callan could see Ray’s face darken with a blush as he insisted she call him Ray. When she turned to Jack he took her hand and held it longer than necessary. Callan felt a hot pressure in his skull.
At least it hadn’t been necessary to make introductions, Callan thought with annoyance. His tongue felt like a pretzel at the moment, anyway, and he probably would have just embarrassed himself. He was reaching to pull out her chair, but Ray beat him to it. When she sat, three pairs of male eyes dropped to the slit on the side of her dress and were treated with a brief glimpse of thigh before she scooted under the table.
Jack kept his gaze on Abby while Ray quickly signaled the waitress again. Callan clenched and un-clenched his jaw, then took a long pull on his beer while she ordered a glass of white wine.
“Thank you for inviting me, Ray. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you and Jack.” She picked up her napkin and folded it smoothly over her lap.
Callan drained his beer. Damn if he didn’t want to be that napkin.
She smelled the way she looked, too. Something exotic and sexy that made him lean closer to pull her scent into his lungs.
“I want to compliment you on your taste, young lady,” Ray said as soon as he seemed to catch his breath. “Those tile samples you sent to my office were exactly what I was looking for. They were a little on the high end, but the quality was first class. It’s hard to find that kind of excellence these days.”
“You’re absolutely right, Ray.” Abby nodded. “I found some samples that were more economical, but I knew you were the kind of man who was willing to pay whatever price necessary for something that will last a lifetime.”
Ray sat a little straighter in his chair. Jack watched Abby, a smile on his lips that made Callan’s gut tighten. He knew what Ray’s son was thinking. Exactly the same thing that he was thinking. Which was why he wanted to punch his lights out.
Callan wanted to feast on Abby without anyone else around: on the smooth curve of her shoulder, the rise of her breast, the slender column of her neck. He’d touched her in all those places, kissed her. He remembered what she felt like when he slipped inside her, how tight and hot and silky—
He jerked his mind back to the present, struggled not to glare at Jack Palmer for staring at Abby. Struggled not to take her by the arm and drag her out of the restaurant, yell at her for whatever it was she was doing to him, then make crazy love to her all night.
But because he couldn’t do any of that, because he couldn’t even touch her, let alone make love to her, he ordered another beer and watched her smile at Ray and Jack.
It was going to be one hell of a long night.
Ten
It wasn’t easy to be a femme fatale, Abby decided three days later. Extra time with the hair and makeup, shorter skirts and lower-cut tops. High heels instead of her practical pumps.
And garter belts, of all things. Cara had pressured her into buying silk stockings that required garter belts. As she sat at her desk, working at her computer, she could feel the slide of black satin against her thighs.
No, it wasn’t easy being a femme fatale, but Abby had to admit it certainly did feel wonderful.
When the phone rang, she picked it up. “Sinclair Construction.”
“It’s Day Four of ‘Operation Callan,”’ Cara said on the other end of the phone. “I want a full report.”
Abby glanced at Callan’s office. Day One had been the dinner with Ray and Jack. How she’d ever appeared to be so cool and confident when her insides had been bouncing around like a pinball machine, Abby would never know. Most likely her years of being onstage had helped her get through that nerve-racking night, but she’d never had a more difficult performance than that one. Callan had seemed extremely tense all through dinner, unlike his usual easygoing manner. But other than a few grumbled words, he’d hardly seemed to notice the change in her.
Day Two she’d worn a sui
t, but nothing like her old ones. This suit was form-fitting, in stoplight-red, and she didn’t wear a blouse underneath, she wore a lace camisole that peeked over the vee of the jacket. She could have sworn she saw him stumble when he’d walked into the office, but other than that, he’d seemed completely indifferent to her.
Day Three, yesterday, hadn’t fared much better. She’d worn a snug black skirt, a fitted lilac sweater and black high heels. Callan had come into the office five minutes after her, holed himself up in his office all morning and left in the afternoon without saying more than a dozen curt words. The only thing strange was the way he’d slammed the door on his way out.
Today, Day Four, she’d chosen a black, pleated skirt and beaded, moss-green cardigan sweater, but for all the attention it had got her, she might as well have worn an old bathrobe.
Sighing, Abby leaned back in her office chair. “There’s nothing to report, Commander Sinclair,” she said in a teasing voice. It amazed her how close she felt to Callan’s sister after one whirlwind shopping trip and two days of phone calls. She’d had so few friends growing up, it felt nice to have another woman to talk to.
“He’s closed his office blinds, shut his door and hasn’t come out all morning.”
“Hmm.” There was a thoughtful pause on the line. “Are his blinds closed tight?”
Abby took off her glasses and looked closer. “I’m not sure.”
“Okay, do this, then. Stick your leg out as if you’ve got a run in your stocking, then run your hand slowly up your leg.”
Abby choked and sat up straight. “What?”
“It’s a test. Just do it.”
Feeling silly, Abby straightened, bent her leg as she pointed her high heel, then slid her fingertips slowly upward from the front of her calf to the hem of her pleated skirt, which she inched upward to the place where garter belt met stocking.
She jerked upright at the sound of a muffled crash inside Callan’s office.
“Well?” Cara asked.
“I think I heard something,” Abby whispered.
“Just my brother’s eyeballs falling out of their sockets,” Cara said brightly. “Or maybe his jaw hitting the floor.”
He’d been watching her? She glanced at the blinds, noticed they were moving slightly, and she felt a strange tingling over her skin at the thought that he wasn’t as indifferent to her as he’d been acting.
“I can’t believe it,” Abby said breathlessly into the phone. “How did you know?”
Cara laughed. “Like I told you, my dear. I have four big brothers, not to mention a husband. The more cool they appear on the surface, the hotter they burn underneath. And Callan, my dear, is in flames and going down.”
When the outside office door opened, Abby tugged her skirt down and straightened. “Gotta go. I’ll call you later.”
Jack Palmer walked in holding a bouquet of yellow roses against his white polo shirt. “I was hoping I’d catch you before you went to lunch.”
“Jack.” Surprised, she watched his long strides close the distance between the door and her desk. “I thought you and your father were flying back to Boston this morning.”
He sat on the edge of her desk and handed her the flowers. “My dad flew out. I thought I’d hang around for a couple of days.”
The way he looked at her made her uncomfortable, but he’d been the perfect gentlemen with her at dinner that first night and the two times he’d called the office after that to speak to Callan. Jack had suggested dinner, just the two of them, last night, but she’d politely turned him down.
“For me?”
“I don’t usually bring men flowers, so I guess so.”
“Thank you.” Not wanting to be rude, she took them, and once she had them, couldn’t resist burying her nose in them. “But what are they for?”
“They’re what I would have sent you for the wonderful time we would have had if you’d gone to dinner with me last night.” He smiled. “But since you turned me down, they’re a bribe to convince you to go to lunch with me today.”
Abby was certain that handsome smile had knocked more than one woman’s panty hose off—literally. She only wished she were one of those women. It would make her life so much easier.
But as charming as Jack Palmer was, he simply wasn’t the man she wanted. The man she thought about day and night. The man that made her burn.
But she supposed she could go to lunch with Jack. With Callan bottled up in his office, there wasn’t any reason not to.
“Well, I suppose—”
Callan’s office door swung open, and he walked out, his attention focused on the file folder in his hands.
“Abby, have you got the radius map on the Gibson project? I need it ASAP for—hey, Jack. What’s up? I thought you went back to Boston this morning.”
“Just thought I’d hang around for a couple of days, until the framing is done, if that’s all right with you,” Jack said easily.
“Of course, no problem. Excuse me a minute, will you?” Callan looked at Abby. “Abby, the mailing for the grading notice has to be out by three today. Can you take care of that for me?”
By three? That would take her at least three hours, and it was already noon. It wasn’t reasonable that he was asking her to do that now. “I was just—”
“I’ll have Reese send over some sandwiches for lunch,” Callan said, then looked at Jack. “Can I get you something?”
“Some other time.” Jack stood and looked at Abby. “Dinner at seven? I know a great steak house.”
Good Lord, Abby thought. Suddenly both these men were trying to feed her. She felt Callan’s gaze on her, but she couldn’t look at him. If she did, she knew she’d tell Jack no.
“I’d love to,” she said, and tried to make it sound as if she meant it.
“Great. Well, I’ll get out of your way for now. See you later, Callan.”
“Oh, right. See you.” Callan had already turned toward his office, focused once again on the file in his hands. He shut the door behind him.
Abby stood there for a long moment after Jack had left and stared at Callan’s closed door, certain she heard something thud against the wall inside.
A slow smile curved her lips.
She wondered if he realized that the file he’d had his nose buried in was upside down.
Four…five…six…
Sweating profusely, Callan sat on the end of the bench and curled the ninety-pound barbell, struggling to finish the last of his third set.
Seven…eight…nine…
The image of a black satin garter belt popped into his mind. The barbell slipped from his hand, then clattered to the floor. Several heads in the gym glanced his way. He glared at them, and they turned away.
Dammit!
He’d come straight to the gym after work, and he’d been at it for nearly two hours. He knew he was pushing himself way beyond what his body was used to, and that he was probably going to be sorry tomorrow, but he’d parted company with logic and seemed to be running with stupid at the moment.
Two hours of all-out, kick-butt pumping iron, and he still couldn’t get the damn woman out of his mind.
Gasping for breath, Callan put his hands on his knees and leaned forward. Sweat dripped off his face, and he reached for a towel to mop himself off.
What the hell had gotten into Abby these past few days, anyway? he wanted to know. That tousled, just-woke-up, sexy hairdo, the glossy pink color on her lips that made them look wet all the time, the formfitting skirts and sweaters that showcased her killer body?
That damn garter belt.
He wiped at the fresh ring of sweat on his forehead that had nothing to do with lifting weights and everything to do with his lustful thoughts about a certain green-eyed blonde.
She wanted to keep their relationship professional and just be friends, well then, fine. He gritted his teeth. They could be friends.
He could control himself, he thought with annoyance. He hadn’t touched her once this week,
had he? In spite of how incredible she’d looked, he’d done everything he could to be indifferent. Damn if he hadn’t wanted to, as badly as he’d wanted his next breath, but he hadn’t acted on it. He had perfect control over his libido, and he intended to point that out to her when he went to her house tomorrow morning to reason with her.
Of course, she didn’t need to know that he’d been sneaking an occasional peek at her. After all, he was human, for God’s sake, with blood flowing in his veins. Blood that had gone from simmer to boil earlier, when she’d run those long, slender fingers of hers up those curvy, endless legs and uncovered that garter belt.
That’s when his elbow had slipped off the stack of architectural books and knocked them over, which had knocked over a box of pushpins and scattered them all over his floor.
And then Mr. Jack Swift had walked in with those damn flowers and asked her to lunch. Callan had thought he’d been so clever to interfere and ask Abby to get that mailing done for him, but that had only backfired on him. Instead of lunch, which would have been quick and casual, she was now at dinner with Jack.
He tightly twisted the towel in his hands.
It was almost eight o’clock. She and pretty-boy Jack were probably sitting in a booth at the restaurant, drinking wine and laughing. The thought had his jaw tightening. Abby and alcohol were a dangerous mix. Especially the new Abby.
Callan knew what Jack was up to. What any man would be up to who looked at Abby. The bastard wanted to get her in bed. That was bad enough, but more, Callan was certain that Jack wanted her to come work for him and his dad.
Callan’s gut twisted at the thought. He couldn’t let that happen. He had to convince Abby to stay with him. And the only way he could do that was to convince her that he would keep their relationship strictly business.
On an oath he added another twenty pounds to the weights he’d intended to press after he’d finished his curls. Maybe three sets of eight at three hundred fifty pounds would force Abby from his mind.
He lay back flat on the bench, listened to the sound of tennis shoes slapping on treadmills and the clatter of weights dropping, the grunts and groans of the other men around him.
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