by Teddy Hester
Clementine. The eccentric name suits her. Wait, what’s Tom saying? Experience—? Clementine? Yeah, there are definitely some things about that woman I want to experience. My brain hiccups. Damn, I’m losing it. “Tom—”
“It’s possible. We can make this happen. After all, this isn’t my first rodeo, Tony.”
“It’s the biggest rodeo you’ve ever tackled.”
He chuckles. “That’s true enough. But I’ve started pulling things together. For instance, the Historical Society has funds to help with projects like this. I’m working on the application.”
“Fine, but—”
“Eldon, here, has agreed to do the job for cost—"
“I understand, Tom—”
“A friend of mine is a special events planner, and she’s agreed to donate her expertise for fund-raisers and galas. For free.”
Yes, that’s what “donate” means. But I don’t bother trying to get in a word this time. When my glance flicks to Eldon, there’s a hint of a grin on one corner of his mouth. The deep grooves around his eyes crinkle. It temporarily transforms his prickly, staid appearance.
“And she’s approached a friend about donating advertising.” Tom wraps up his spiel, looking quite pleased with himself.
I’m riding a bucking bronco, and it’s totally out of control. Why is everything in my life right now testing my limits and pushing my boundaries? Well, I can’t do my job that way. I haven’t sorted out how deeply I want to be involved. But somebody needs to have firm hands on the reins. And it looks like Tom’s trying to rope and brand me for this shindig.
Any other client and I would already have ended this meeting, spouting a few encouraging words as I walked them to the door, friendship be damned. I don’t know what’s holding me back from doing that now. And there he goes, checking his watch again.
“Eldon, you’ve handled big projects and big budgets before. Why don’t you handle this one instead of me?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I’m a general contractor. I handle construction budgets and leave the rest to others.”
Before I can respond, there’s a knock on my door. My secretary, Linda, opens it slightly and slides through. “Tony, there are two women here who say Mr. Clapp asked them to come?”
I swivel to give him my most supercilious grin. “You’re using my office for your next meeting? Don’t you think you should have asked first?” I nod over my shoulder for Linda to let the women in.
Tom looks excited rather than embarrassed, although a little red mottles his neck below his clipped beard. “It’s the special events expert and her advertising colleague. I wanted us all to meet and bounce ideas around, so I invited them to join us.” Jumping out of his seat, he heads toward the door.
The fucker blindsided me. No wonder he kept checking his watch. I should have seen it coming, as hot as he is to get going with the renovations. I’d like to bounce a brick off the side of his head right now. Judging by the scowl on Eldon’s face, the visitors are a surprise to him, too, and he’s about as happy as I am about it. Looks like neither of us expected an extended meeting.
I think Tom just made it a whole easier for me to say no to his baby.
With a deep sigh, I turn back to the doorway. Over Linda’s shoulder I see blonde hair and brunette. When Linda steps aside to let them into my office, I go from blindsided to gut-punched.
My visitors freeze like they’ve walked into a wall.
An odd thought strays across my mind while I’m processing:
Mick will laugh his ass off.
I can’t believe it.
What are the odds of running into the same handsome stranger three times in one week? Must be astronomical. And damn lucky. I should be in Vegas.
So far, I’ve seen him in a tux and a pair of jeans. But armored-up in a three-piece business suit? Beyond yum. Captain of Industry and then some. I can’t stop the cheesy metaphors that pop into my brain about what else he could captain…
Juliette recovers first, while I’m still giving silent thanks for the bounty that the god of hapless women just bestowed on me.
My friend crosses to Stuffed Shirt whose impassive, unreadable face would wreak havoc in Vegas and gracefully extends a hand. “How do you do? I already know Tom and Eldon, so you must be Tony DePaul.”
The smile he gives her as he takes her hand is warm and welcoming. “And I have the pleasure of addressing—?”
“Juliette Samson, special events coordinator. Thank you for including me in your meeting today.”
His murmured “Of course” accompanied by a quick glance at the bookish-looking guy has me wondering what’s going on.
“And your colleague?” he asks, turning his gaze on me with the same little half-smile and dancing eyes he gave me at the concert. The fluttery feeling in my gut makes me feel about fifteen years old. Not good.
I thrust my hand his direction. “Cleo Waiteberry, advertising.”
One dark brow raises as he accepts my hand, and the half-smile settles into something that looks suspiciously like satisfaction. “Cleo.”
He sort of breathes my name, holding on the “ee.” The timber of his voice dropping about an octave on the “o” part of Cleo sends a delicious shiver down my spine.
His smile widens. Pulling my hand from his would probably give him even more to grin about, forcing me to slap it off his face.
So not good.
Fortunately, Bookish Man steps in and introductions are passed around. “I’m glad we were able to meet here today. It’s important to have all the important players together from the beginning so we’re all on the same page.” His boyish grin is infectious.
“You sound as though it’s a done deal, Tom,” Tony says, inviting us to take seats at the conference table.
Tom shrugs. “Not everything has been hashed out yet, but Eldon and I are ready to go.” He waits for that man’s silent nod before looking across the table. “And, Juliette, you and I have had numerous chats about various types of events. I’m assuming you’ve talked with Cleo about an ad campaign.”
Juliette smiles my way. “Yes, we’ve discussed possibilities—”
“Excellent! Then let me catch you up on where we all are,” Tom says, passing us a manila folder like the ones Tony and Eldon have.
This is all happening much too fast, and I was already on emotional overload from the shock of meeting my stranger face-to-face. Panic strikes.
“I’m not sure—”
“Tom—”
Tony and I speak at the same time, then stop and look at each other.
Sherry eyes roam over my face. “Cleo, please, finish your thought.”
I return his regard, taking the opportunity to see him up close and in the light streaming in from the picture window across the room. It outlines his profile, emphasizing his strong jawline, enhancing those burnished eyes so that they glow at me. Yep, the light loves him, and I bet the camera would, too. I have to get Janelle to see Tony DePaul. Somehow.
I’m suddenly aware people are waiting for me for something. What? Oh, my thoughts on the project. I inhale and focus on the other three at the table. “Frankly, though I applaud what you’re trying to do, Tom, I’m not sure I have the time to devote right now to such a large project.”
I feel a scowl to my left, though Tony’s face hasn’t moved a muscle. He really does have a poker face.
Before he died, my father told me a lack of poker face was why he’d taken up pipe-smoking. Loading up the tobacco, lighting it, taking a couple of puffs, it allowed him to mask any emotion while also giving him time to compose a reply to a difficult question.
Tony can do it without a smelly pipe. Impressive.
Unnatural.
Every cell of my being wants to provoke him, just to see if it can be done, and what it would take to rattle him.
Still facing Tom across the table, I slide a side-glance to the stoic on my left and peep at him through my thick, black eyelashes. He shifts slightly in his chair.
It’s enough to tell me what I need to know.
Let the games begin.
CHAPTER 4
When she walked through my office door, all legs and eyes and lips, as conservative and quiet as all get out in head-to-toe black—for a minute, I didn’t recognize my hummingbird in her camouflage.
Then she dropped that tote I remembered all too well and unbuttoned her coat.
Fuchsia satin lining the exact shade of the V-neck sweater dress underneath and the lipstick on her full, pouty lips invaded the space and took no prisoners.
If that weren’t enough, Lord Almighty, over-the-knee soft leather boots revealed a six-inch gap of black-stockinged thigh.
Overwhelmed?
I short-circuited.
I hadn’t had that sharp a reaction to a woman since I was a hormonal teen. My hands tingled, partly to reach out and sample her, drag her to me, crush her against my hard body, make her moan under my demanding touch. And partly to cover her back up for everyone’s protection.
It took almost more discipline than I possessed to reach calmly for her coat and summon some shred of gentlemanly behavior for the duration of the meeting.
Fortunately, Tom and Juliette did most of the talking. I was too aware of the woman at my right hand, within touching distance, my head too filled with her dark Oriental scent to be of much good.
My secretary brought more coffee and whispered that she rescheduled my afternoon appointments.
And then, just as I was regaining my equilibrium, damn if my hummingbird didn’t sneak in that coy, sidelong glance. My mouth went dry, and my heart stuttered to a standstill.
She wasn’t flirting with that saucy glance. She issued a challenge. Dared me to take her on.
Poor creature has no idea what kind of beast she’s poked.
Daring a control freak to take control is dangerous business.
My mind begins to buzz with all the ways I can approach this intriguing task. Testosterone jets through my bloodstream. I shift in my chair, more than ready to be done with meetings for the day.
“What kind of budget are you talking about for that?” I hear her ask, and it brings me back to my surroundings.
“Whatever you need,” Tom says. “Getting the word out along the way, generating interest, keeping momentum building will be important to our success.”
Whoa, there, Tom. Carte blanche?
“When will a virtual tour be available?” Juliette asks. “I’ll plan our first fund-raiser around it. Can we hold it in the Regal?”
Cleo has fished her pad out of her purse and opened it to the drawings and notes she made at the concert. She’s still using the pen I gave her. She points it at nobody in particular to punctuate her words. “How about doing a ‘before’ gala to raise people’s awareness and some money, right off the bat? That could be held before the virtual tour package is finished. By the way, is that program coming out of the advertising budget?”
I’ve been content to sit back and give Tom room to guide things. But if he’s going to start throwing around money he hasn’t even raised yet, I have to step up to the plate. “Do you have a figure in mind for your budget, Cleo?”
She cocks her head back and forth, tapping the pen on her tablet and flipping through a couple of pages. “From the doodles I made earlier, I’m looking at somewhere around one, one-and-a-half million, I think, for the life of the project. The virtual tour programming would be extra, of course. But it makes sense to have it come out of advertising. I already have people for that, if you need them, Tom, Eldon.”
Tom points to Eldon for that answer. “The architect I usually work with is excited to meet with us later this week. He wants to show us what he’s got so far.”
“We need a brainstorming session to plan out all the additional changes and improvements we want,” Tom adds.
Cleo nods, one foot jiggling a rhythm in counterpoint. “Sounds good. Oh, and Juliette, maybe we can meet for lunch or coffee and work out themes and colors?”
Tom breaks in before Juliette can reply. “So, Cleo, does this mean you’re in?”
The papers she’s rifled through from the file Tom gave her earlier lie scattered around her. She absent-mindedly rolls the pen back and forth across a few and looks him straight in the eye. “I won’t make any promises yet, Tom, but I like your theater and your passion. I’ll help with some of the preliminaries, for sure. If you want to interview other marketing or ad agencies in the meantime, I’ll understand.”
Ah. Kudos, Ms. Waiteberry. No matter how impulsive you are in other areas, when it comes to your business, you’re able to exercise restraint. There may be hope for you yet.
I close my folder and stand up. “Well, that sounds like a good place to wrap things up today. Everyone has something to work on before a second meeting. Here again, say, next Friday afternoon?”
Schedules are consulted, and a date and time is agreed upon. I can’t get them out the door fast enough. All but one, that is.
Cleo works to straighten and organize the mess she’s made at the table and chatters with Juliette, firing off ideas as quickly as they come to her.
“Ms. Waiteberry, a moment?”
She finishes her sentence before looking over her shoulder at me.
“I’d like a private word, please.”
Juliette squeezes her arm, and with a smiling goodbye to me, leaves.
I stride to my desk and flip the intercom switch. “No interruptions, Linda.”
The pretty ocean view is eclipsed by the even prettier view I have of Cleo bending over my conference table, scooping papers, sweater dress molded to her shapely backside.
“This is Tom’s dream,” I say.
She stops cleaning up and swivels on one heel of those magnificent boots to face me. “Yes.”
“Part of my function is to see that he doesn’t bankrupt himself in the process, if I can.” I take a few steps toward her.
The fingers of her left hand make little repetitive movements that remind me of my mother’s when she practices scales on the piano, quick, up, down, around, over and over. “Of course.”
“When he says things like ‘whatever you need,’ that’s not to be taken literally.” I arrive at the table a few feet from her.
The hand stops its phantom arpeggios. “Your business may operate by word of mouth, but in most cases, it takes money to raise money,” she says.
Lecturing me on managing finances? I scan down her body to see if there are balls bulging in that curve-hugging dress. “I’m cautioning you not to let your creativity take too much of his money. He has a family to support.”
“Marketing campaigns for fundraising are expensive. I low-balled my estimate.”
I arch a brow. “Ten percent isn’t low-ball.”
She claps her fists on her hips, and stands arms akimbo. “What exactly are you accusing me of?”
“Nothing.”
Her eyes narrow. “I know how to set and manage a budget.”
A final step brings me practically toe-to-toe with this defiant beauty. In her boots, she’s almost as tall as my six-feet two-inch frame. “No, Ms. Waiteberry, I set and manage budgets. You spend them.”
A fresh-water Kraken flashes in her lake-blue eyes, and I wonder if she’s going to unleash it on me. Finally, she drops her hands, crossing them at her waist, and leans back on one leg, aiming for nonchalant. “How about you stay in your sphere, and I’ll stay in mine for the duration.”
Negotiating, Ms. Waiteberry? I haven’t had this much fun in years. It’s a struggle to keep from grinning. “Unfortunately for you, I hold the purse strings. Your sphere is under mine.”
Gone is the casual pose. Fists tight against the sides of her body, she leans in, her nose practically touching mine. “Nobody controls me.”
Her scent is as intoxicating as incense. “Including you, I suspect.”
She pulls back, glaring. “What in the hell do you mean by that?”
“Can you even hold onto your
temper?”
Her face clouds, brows pulled tight down over her eyes, as she struggles to control her breathing. “I have better things to do right now. Why don’t you go play with your…budgets,” she sneers. “I’m leaving.” She grabs her bag and her coat and turns toward the door.
I drop the pitch of my voice. “Clementine.”
She halts in her tracks.
“Turn around.”
When she doesn’t, I sigh and walk around to stand in front of her. “Look at me.”
Of course she doesn’t do that, either. With a hand under her chin, I raise her face so she has to look at me. Her eyes take up most of her face as she searches mine.
“I can help you.”
Her pert nose scrunches in question.
“With your control.”
She throws down her paraphernalia. “You patronizing son of a bitch. Control this!”
My hands turn into claws that grab the lapels of his jacket. I drag him to my mouth and devour him.
Days of thinking about him, imagining him in silk boxers splashed across magazine pages and billboards, dominating my ad campaign. Helping to successfully launch my sideline.
It’s my wet dream.
Then I walk into this office and see the object of all those fantasies?
Don’t lecture me about control, Tony DePaul. You’ll never know how close I came to wrestling you to the ground right then and there.
Especially knowing he wasn’t immune to me, either.
I knew I had him when I saw the flare in his eyes when I took off my coat. Knew that I could make him lose control. I could take his starched-up control away from him.
But, I handled—controlled—it. Until he just had to go push all my buttons about budgets and spending, like I’m some sort of wastrel kid with substandard business sense or lack of integrity. That’s when I lost it. Whatever control I had was gone with the wind. And I needed payback.
So, here we are. My body plastered to his. His expensive suit in my hands. My lips getting their first taste of his deliciousness.
I savor his warm, firm mouth, the prickle of his day’s scruff sandpapering my chin and upper lip. The faint smell of coffee and something muskier, something uniquely his. He tastes good. As good as I knew he would. More. I want more. I move across his mouth, demanding entry.
