Trish swallowed nervously. “I recently had the privilege of being named one of Glamour’s Top Ten College Women in honor of the work I’m doing.” She paused to heft her check over her head. “The recognition came with a ten-thousand dollar reward, which I have pledged to One Child, One World in its entirety. You’ve spoken eloquently about how technology can change lives. Will you match this award and donate ten thousand dollars to help children get school supplies?”
The silence that crashed over the auditorium was deafening. All Trish could hear was the pounding of blood in her ears. She’d done it. She’d done exactly what she’d set out to do—cause a scene and hopefully trap one of the richest men in the world into parting with just a little of his hard-earned money.
“Thank you, Ms. Hunter,” the emcee said sharply. “But Mr. Longmire has a process by which people can apply for—”
“Wait,” Longmire cut her off. “It’s true, the Longmire Foundation does have an application process. However,” he said, his gaze never leaving Trish’s face. Heat flushed her body. “One must admire a direct approach. Ms. Hunter, perhaps we can discuss your charity’s needs after this event is over?”
Trish almost didn’t hear the Oohs that came from the rest of the crowd over the rush of blood in her ears. That wasn’t a no. It wasn’t a yes, either—it was a very good side step around giving a hard answer one way or the other. But it wasn’t a no and that was all that mattered. She could still press her case and maybe, just maybe, get enough funding to buy every single kid on her reservation a backpack full of school supplies before school started in five months.
Plus, she’d get to see if Nate was as good-looking up close as he was at a distance. Not that it mattered. Of course it didn’t. “I would be honored,” she said into the microphone and even she didn’t miss the way her voice shook, just a little.
“Bring your check,” he said with a grin that came real close to being wicked. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen one that large before.”
Laughter rolled through the auditorium as Longmire grinned at her. Behind his glasses, one eyebrow lifted in challenge and then he pointedly looked offstage. The message was clear. Would she meet him backstage?
The emcee was thanking Longmire for his time and everyone was applauding and the rest of the evening was clearly over. Trish managed to snag her small purse—a Coach knockoff—and fight against the rising tide of college kids who had not been invited backstage for a private meeting with the Boy Billionaire. With her small purse and her large check, Trish managed to get up the steps at the side of the stage and duck behind the curtains.
The emcee stood there, glaring at her. “That was some stunt you pulled,” she said in a vicious whisper.
“Thanks!” Trish responded brightly. No doubt, Jennifer had had grand plans for her own post-interview “meeting” with Longmire and Trish had usurped that quite nicely.
“Ah, Ms. Hunter. Hello.” Suddenly, Nate Longmire was standing before her. Trish was a good five-nine—taller in her boots—but she still had to lean her head up to meet his gaze. “Excellent,” he went on, looking down at her as if he was thrilled to see her. “You have the large check. Jennifer, would you take our picture?”
His phone chimed. He looked at it, scowled briefly, and then called up his SnAppShot app. He handed his phone to the emcee, who forced a polite smile. “Hand it up here,” Longmire said, taking half of the check in his hand. Then he put his arm around Trish’s shoulders and whispered, “Smile.”
Trish wasn’t sure she pulled off that smile. His arm around her was warm and heavy and she swore to God that she felt his touch in places he wasn’t touching.
She would not be attracted to him. She couldn’t afford to be attracted to him. All she could do was forge ahead with her plan. Phase One—trap the Boy Billionaire—was complete. Now she had to move onto Phase Two—getting a donation out of him.
Forging ahead had absolutely nothing to do with the way his physical touch was sending shimmering waves of awareness through her body. Nothing.
Jennifer took two shots and then handed back the phone. Longmire’s arm left her and Trish couldn’t help it—she shivered at the loss of his warmth.
“Mr. Longmire,” Jennifer began in a silky tone. “If you recall, I’d invited you out for a dinner after the program. We should get going.”
There was a pause that could only be called awkward. Longmire didn’t even move for three blinks of the eye—as if this statement had taken him quite by surprise and, despite his ferocious business skills and dizzying intellect, he had no possible answer for Jennifer.
Jennifer touched his arm. “Ready?” she said, batting her eyes.
Trish rolled hers—just as Longmire looked at her.
Oops. Busted.
But instead of glaring at her, Longmire looked as if Trish was the answer to all his questions. That look should not do things to her. So, she forcibly decided, it didn’t.
“Gosh—I do remember that, but I think I need to address Ms. Hunter’s question first.” He stepped away from Jennifer much like a crab avoiding a hungry seagull. Jennifer’s hand hung in empty space for a moment before she lowered it back to her side. “Call my office,” Longmire said, turning on his heel. “We’ll try to set something up. Ms. Hunter? Are you coming?”
Trish clutched her check to her chest and hurried after Longmire, trying to match his long strides.
That definitely wasn’t a no.
Now she just needed to get to a yes.
* * *
Nate settled into the Apollo Coffee shop. He liked coffee shops. They were usually busy enough that he didn’t garner too much attention but quiet enough that he could think. He liked to think. It was a profitable, satisfying experience for him, thinking.
Right now he was thinking about the young woman who’d trucked a comically large check into the hired car and carried it into the coffee shop as if it were the most normal thing ever.
Trish Hunter. She was drinking a small black coffee—easily the cheapest thing on the extensive menu. She’d insisted on buying her own coffee, too. Had absolutely refused to let him plunk down the two dollars and change for hers.
That was something...different. He was intrigued, he had to admit.
The large check was wedged behind her chair, looking slightly worse for wear. “That’s not the real check, is it?” he asked over the lip of his grande mocha.
“No. I got a regulation-sized check that went straight into the bank. But this makes for better photos, don’t you think?” she replied easily, without that coy tone women had started using around him about the time he made his first million.
“Not a lot of people would have had the guts to try and trap me like that,” he noted, watching her face closely. She was lovely—long dark hair that hung most of the way down her back, brown skin that graced high cheekbones. With her strong features and strong body—because there was no missing that—she looked like she could be Wonder Woman.
She didn’t act like the kind of women who tried to trap him with their feminine wiles. Instead, she sat across from him, drinking cheap coffee and no doubt waiting to tell him why he should cut her another check.
For a second—the amount of time it took for her to look up at him through thick lashes—Nate almost panicked. He wasn’t particularly good with women, as evidenced by that nagging feeling that he hadn’t handled Jennifer’s dinner invitation well and the fact that he had flat-out ignored that message from Diana—the third one this month.
Ever since things with Diana had fallen apart—and then really gone to hell—he’d kept things simple by simply not getting involved. Which meant that he was horribly out of practice. But there was no way he would let another woman take advantage of him. And that included Diana. Hence why he would just keep right on ignoring her messages.
Trish Hunter
wasn’t doing the things that normally made him nervous—treating him like he was a sex god she’d been secretly worshipping for years.
She grinned, a small curve of her lips over the edge of her cup. That grin did something to him—made him feel more sure of himself. Which sounded ridiculous but there it was. “Did it work? The trap, that is.”
Nate smiled back. He was terrible about negotiations with members of the opposite sex. Money, however, was something he’d learned to negotiate. And the fact that this lovely young woman wasn’t playing coy—wasn’t acting like he’d gotten used to women acting around him—only made him more comfortable. Everything was out in the open. He could handle this kind of interaction. “That depends.”
Her eyes widened slightly and a flash of surprise crossed her face. It made her look...innocent. Sweet, even. “Upon?”
“Tell me about your charity.”
She exhaled in relief. It wasn’t a big gesture, but he saw it nonetheless. He wondered what she’d thought he would ask. “Of course. One Child, One World is a registered 501(c) charity. We keep our overhead as low as possible.” Nate sighed. He hated the boring part of charity work. It was, for lack of a better word, boring. “Approximately $0.93 of every dollar donated goes to school supplies...” her voice trailed off. “Not the right answer?”
He sat up a little straighter. She was paying attention to him. He’d be lying if he said it wasn’t flattering. “Those statistics are all required as part of the grant application process,” he replied, waving his hand. “The lawyers insisted. But that’s not what I wanted to know.”
She raised a strong eyebrow and leaned toward him. Yes, he had her full attention—and she had his. “You asked about my charity.”
Oh, yeah—her words were nothing but challenge. This was not a woman telling him whatever he wanted to hear. This was a woman who would push back. Even though he had the money and she had a very cheap coffee, she’d still push back.
That made her even more interesting.
And as long as he kept thinking of it in terms of power and money—instead of noting how pretty she was and how she was looking at him and especially how he was no doubt looking at her—he’d be just fine.
“Tell me about why a young woman would start an organization to get school supplies into kids’ hands. Tell me about...” You. But he didn’t say that because that would cross the line of business and go into the personal. The moment he did that, he’d probably start flailing and knock the coffee into her lap. “Tell me about it.”
“Ah.” She took her time sipping her coffee. “Where did you grow up? Kansas City, right?”
“You’ve done your homework.”
“Any good trap is a well-planned trap,” she easily replied, a note of satisfaction in her voice.
He nodded his head in acknowledgment. “Yes, I grew up in Kansas City. Middle-class household. Father was an accountant, mother taught second grade.” He left out the part about his brothers. “It was a very comfortable life.” He hadn’t realized how comfortable until he’d made his money—and started looking at how other people lived.
Trish smiled encouragingly. “And every August, you got a new backpack, new shoes, new school clothes and everything on that list teachers said you had to have, right?”
“Yes.” He took a calculated risk. Just because she had black hair and skin the color of copper and was running a charity that helped American Indians on reservations didn’t necessarily mean she was a Native American herself. But there was no such thing as coincidence. “I take it you didn’t?”
Something in her face changed—her eyes seemed to harden. “My sixth-grade teacher gave me two pencils once. It was all she could afford.” She dropped her gaze and began to fiddle with one of her earrings. “It was the best present I ever got.”
Nate, being Nate, didn’t have a smooth comeback to that. In fact, he didn’t know what to say at all. His mom, Susan, had worked as a teacher, and she’d occasionally talked about a student who needed “a little extra help,” as she put it. Then she’d fill a backpack with food and some basics and that was that. But that was before she’d had to stay home with Nate’s brother Joe full-time.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said quietly. Once, he hadn’t believed there was a world where a couple of #2 pencils were an amazing gift. But now he knew better.
Her gaze still on her coffee, she gave him a quick, tight smile. He needed to move the conversation forward. “So you’re working to change that?”
“Yes. A new backpack full of everything a kid needs in a classroom.” She shrugged and looked back at him. The hardness fell away. “I mean, that’s the first goal. But it’s an important first step.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “You have bigger plans?”
Her eyes lit up. “Oh, of course! It’s just the beginning.”
“Tell me what you’d do.”
“For so many kids, school is...it’s an oasis in the middle of a desert. The schools need to open earlier, stay open later. They need to serve a bigger breakfast, a bigger lunch and everyone needs an afternoon snack. Too many kids aren’t getting regular meals at home and it’s so hard to study on an empty stomach.” As she said this last point, she dropped her gaze again.
She was speaking from experience, he realized. Two pencils and nothing to eat at home.
“Indians on the rez love basketball and skateboarding,” she went on. “Having better courts and parks on the school grounds could keep kids from joining gangs.”
“You have gang problems?” He always associated gangs with inner-city drug wars or something.
She gave him a look that walked a fine line between “amused” and “condescending.” “Some people have perverted our warrior culture into a gang mentality. We lose kids that way and we rarely get them back.”
He thought over her wish list, such as it was. “I haven’t heard anything about computers.”
She paused, then gave him that tight smile again. “It’s the ultimate goal, one that will require far more than ten or even twenty thousand dollars of funding. Most schools don’t have the infrastructure to support an internet connection, much less cloud storage. I want kids to have basic supplies and full bellies before I get to that. You understand, don’t you?”
He nodded. He’d toured some bad schools—mold growing on the walls, windows taped shut to keep the glass from falling out, ancient textbooks that smelled like rot. But what she was describing...
“What is it you want from me, then? Just ten grand?”
The moment he said it, he realized that maybe he shouldn’t have phrased it quite like that. Especially not when Trish leaned back in her chair, one arm on the armrest, the other curled up under her chin—except for her index finger, which she’d extended over her lips as if they were in a library and she was shushing him. She met his gaze full-on, a hint of challenge lurking in her eyes. The air grew tight with tension.
God, she was beautiful and there was something else behind that gaze—an interest in more than just his bank account. He should ask her out. She wasn’t intimidated by him and she wasn’t throwing herself at him. She was here for the money and all her cards were up front, no hiding funding requests behind manipulative sexual desire. Hell. He didn’t meet too many women who could just sit and have a conversation with him.
Except...dating was not his strong suit and he was pretty sure that asking a woman out right after she’d requested a donation would probably cross some ethical line.
Damn.
“Of course, One Child, One World would be delighted with any funding the Longmire Foundation saw fit to disperse,” she said, sounding very much like someone who’d written a few grants in her time.
“How’d you get to be a Woman of the Year?”
“One of my professors nominated me,” she told him. “I didn’t know she w
as doing it. One day, I’m trying to organize a bake sale to raise a hundred dollars to cover postage back to the rez and the next, I’m being flown to New York and given a lot of money.” She blushed. “I mean, a lot of money for me. I’m sure ten grand isn’t very much to you.”
“I can remember when that much was a lot of money,” he admitted. He winced. That was a totally jerky thing to say and he knew it.
He was about to apologize when she said, “Tell me about your charity,” turning his question back on him.
He regarded her for a second. “Is that another way of asking why I’m giving money away for free?”
“You did go to all that trouble of earning it in the first place,” she pointed out.
He shrugged. “Like I said, I had a comfortable childhood. We didn’t always get everything we wanted—I didn’t get a car for my sixteenth birthday or anything—but we were fine.”
How he’d wanted a car. Brad, his older brother, had a half-rusted Jeep he’d bought with lawn-mowing money that he swore made it a breeze to get a date.
Back then, Nate had absolutely no prospect of a date. He was tall and gangly, with dorky glasses and awful skin. They were still trying to integrate Joe into a mainstream classroom at that point and Nate was mercilessly mocked by his peers. The only possible way he could have gotten a girl was if he’d had a sweet ride to pick her up in.
Alas. No car. No date.
“Anyway,” he went on, shaking his head, “I made that first million and I felt like I’d made it. But a weird thing happened—that million spawned a second million, then a third. And then the buyout happened and now...” He gave her an apologetic smile. “Honestly, what the hell am I going to do with a billion dollars? Buy a country and rule as a despot?”
It wasn’t as if this background was entirely new information—he’d given interviews explaining the rationale for his foundation—but those were formal things with scripted answers, preapproved by his assistant, Stanley.
Right now, sitting here in a coffee shop with Ms. Trish Hunter, it didn’t feel like an interview. It felt like a conversation. An honest one.
The Nanny Plan Page 2
