Personal Relations. Heather Macallister
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business casual nonsense. Brooke was very happy to wear a suit, thank-you-very-much. It gave her authority and kept her comfortable in an office that was air-conditioned ten months out of the year.
When she reached the ground floor, she headed for the rest rooms and combed her hair, checked her makeup, and applied the Band-Aids she carried in her wallet to her blisters.
She wanted to look mature—intimidatingly mature, since Chase so clearly wasn’t.
The fact that he might not have returned to his office yet didn’t occur to her until she was actually asking for him at the reception desk.
“Brooke Weathers,” she gave her name to the receptionist, who sat in the center of a round room with hallways leading off it like a spider in the center of her web. “Tell him it’s personal.”
The receptionist murmured into her headset, then looked at Brooke in pseudo sympathy. “Could you be more specific?”
The nerve of him. There were so many things she could say—Sure, tell him I’m from the free clinic. I have the results of his tests and thought he’d like to hear them in person. Or…He’s behind on his Porsche payments and I’m here to repossess. Even better, Tell him the rabbit died.
Honestly. Anyone who ignored the “personal” label did so at his own risk. However, tempting as it was to be flippant, Brooke merely said, “Tell him I’m Courtney Weathers’s sister.”
The receptionist was relaying that information when a door off one of the hallways opened.
“I heard.”
A man in a crisp long-sleeved shirt rolled to his forearms stood staring at her. Although several dozen yards and a blond receptionist separated them, Brooke felt the tsunami-sized waves of hostility headed her way.
He wasn’t the pudgy, balding, affable goof she’d been expecting. Nope. No pudge, no bald spot and an expression of glacial politeness.
He jerked his head to indicate that she should join him in his office, then disappeared inside.
Make that an expression bordering on politeness. Brooke hesitated, unwilling to concede a battle so early.
On the other hand, the important thing here was not her pride. Her goal was to keep Courtney from doing something she would surely regret. And that was the only reason Brooke ignored the fact that Chase Davenport had all but told her to heel, and followed him into his office.
WELL, THE SISTER hadn’t wasted any time getting over here once she heard Chase had a hold on Jeff’s wallet.
Yeah, after Jeff’s mother had divorced Chase’s father, she’d made a couple of lucky marriages and now had more money than even she knew what to do with. Chase had hoped Jeff hadn’t known exactly how much money Chase was managing for him, but someone, probably that flake of a mother of his, must have told him. He’d probably bragged about it at school and the result was this: trouble in a navy blue suit.
She was mad, he could tell that right off. She held her chin up and looked him right in the eye. Ordinarily, he’d like that in a woman, but this sure wasn’t ordinary.
And neither was the internal wallop he got once she came close enough for him to see that she was a toned-down version of her sister. The hair wasn’t as short, wasn’t as black, the lips weren’t as red, the body wasn’t as thin—and the few pounds had been put to excellent use.
But his response was just the natural response of a male in his prime to an attractive female. It was biological. Nothing to get worked up about.
He deliberately ran his gaze over her, taking in a suit that showed signs of wear and hadn’t been all that expensive to begin with. Still she’d made the effort. Too bad the red lines on her feet from her shoes, and the fact that her legs were bare, undermined the professional image she was trying to convey.
Chase made a very comfortable living selling and managing commercial property, mostly because he was good at judging a potential client’s net worth. He’d been wrong a couple of times, but that was when he’d first started out and had been fooled by the “good ole boys” who’d dress down and pepper their speech with double negatives and college football talk. That was when he’d taught himself to notice the details—like the expensive ostrich boots, the custom hat, and the pinkie rings that they wore with the plaid shirts and faded jeans.
It was all in the details—and the details here said gold digger.
He smiled. Piece of cake.
From his power position behind his desk, he watched her cross no-man’s-land—the distance between the door and his desk. He didn’t bother to stand. He saw her glance at the overstuffed chair with the sprung seat. All but the tallest of men would sit in that chair and discover that they were inches shorter than Chase. She’d probably disappear altogether.
If only it were permanent.
He gave her a once-over. She wasn’t all that bad, considering. With the nose and the swingy haircut she was kinda cute.
No, not cute. Cute was appealing and appealing was bad. Not cute.
Cute in this case was being used as a weapon. She probably disarmed all her victims with that cultivated lil’-ole-me cuteness.
Fortunately, he was immune. “What can I do for you?” he asked, feeling his lips curl in a smirk.
“I’m Brooke Weathers,” she said and held out her hand, not extending it fully. If he intended to shake her hand, he’d have to rise from his chair.
Very good move on her part. She was clearly no stranger to negotiations and that was important to know.
As Chase decided whether to insult her by ignoring her gesture, their eyes locked. Hers were brown. The thought came out of nowhere. Certainly, he didn’t want to notice her eye color. Or the freckles dancing across her nose that made him think of summers spent at the beach in Galveston.
Freckles weren’t cute. Freckles were a sign of sun damage, he told himself.
He was going to shake her hand, he decided. There was no advantage to be gained by insulting her. This wasn’t about power, this was about getting Jeff out of the mess he was in.
Chase slowly rose to shake her hand. They touched, palms sliding together. Warming. Fusing. So many sharp tingles pricked his hand that he looked down, expecting to see that she had one of those joke buzzers.
No buzzer.
Must be static electricity, but it was giving him one heck of a jolt.
Her hand was cool and trembled slightly. A traitorous part of him noted her nervousness and wanted to reassure her.
“Have a seat,” he offered gruffly and resumed his own.
She wasn’t falling for that and perched on the padded arm of the chair.
She looked cute.
Maybe thinking of her as cute wasn’t a bad thing. He’d outgrown cute. Jeff hadn’t, which was why he was in this mess. But Chase wasn’t attracted to cute, summer beach bunnies with freckled noses anymore.
Besides, the women he worked with had banished the word “cute” as belittling.
He smiled. “You look cute sitting like that.”
“I want to discuss Courtney and Jeff with you,” she said as though he hadn’t spoken.
Chase leaned back, his body language deliberately insulting. “I thought you might.”
It backfired.
She let her gaze drift over his face and sweep across his shoulders, her eyebrows making a subtle not-bad-but-buddy-I’ve-seen-better quirk upwards.
Chase felt sweat gather in his armpits.
She continued her survey, her gaze bouncing down his ribs. His stomach contracted involuntarily. A smile whispered across her mouth and her gaze