The Man Behind the Pinstripes. Melissa McClone
Читать онлайн книгу.
words came out slowly, full of intent and purpose and zero emotion. His grandmother was the smartest woman he knew, used to getting her way. If he wasn’t careful, he would find himself not only manufacturing her products, but also taking one of her damn dogs home. Likely the one-eyed mutt with soft fur. “I won’t expose Fair Face to the additional expense of trying to break into an unknown market.”
Grams sighed, a long drawn out sigh he hadn’t heard since Courtney lost her passport in Prague when she was supposed to be in Milan.
“Sometimes I wish you had a little more of your father in you instead of being so buttoned-down and by-the-book.”
The aggravation in her voice matched the tension cording in Caleb’s neck. The tightness seeped to his shoulders, spilled down his spine. “This isn’t personal. I can’t afford to make a mistake, and you should be enjoying your retirement, not working in your lab.”
“I’m a chemist. That’s what I do. You didn’t have this problem with the organic baby line.” Frustration tinged each of her words, matching the I-wish-you’d-drop-it look in her eyes. “I see what’s going on. You don’t like the dog care products.”
“I never said that.”
“But it’s the truth.” She studied him as if she were trying to prove a hypothesis. “You’ve got that look. The one you got when you said it didn’t matter if your father came home for Christmas.”
“I never needed him here. I had you and Gramps.” Caleb would try a new tactic. He scooted his chair closer. “Remember Gramps’s marketing tagline.”
“The fairest face of all …”
“His words still define the company today. Fifty years later.” Caleb leaned toward her, as if his nearness would soften the blow. “I’m sorry to say it, but dog products, no matter how natural or organic or aromatherapeutic, have no place at Fair Face.”
“It’s still my company.” She enunciated each word with a firm voice punctuated by her ramrod posture.
Disappointing his grandmother was something his father did, not Caleb. He felt like a jerk. One with a silk noose around his neck choking him.
“I know that, but it’s not just my decision.” A plane flew overhead. A dog barked. The silence at the table deepened. He prepared himself to say what he’d come here to say. “I met with the department heads before coming over here. Showed them your prototypes. Ran the numbers. Calculated margins.”
“And …”
“Everyone has high expectations for your baby skin care line,” he said. “But they agree—moving into animal products will affect Fair Face’s reputation, not enhance our brand and lead to loss of revenue, anywhere from 2.3 to 5.7 percent.”
Caleb expected to see a reaction, hear a retort. But Grams remained silent, her face still, nuzzling the dog against her neck. “Everyone thinks this?”
He nodded once.
Disbelief flickered across her face. She’d looked the same way when she learned his grandfather had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. But then something sparked. A spark of resignation. No, a spark of resolve.
“Well, that settles it. I trust you know what’s best for Fair Face.” She sounded doting and grandmotherly, not disappointed and hurt. “Becca and I will figure out another way.”
“Another way for what?”
Grams’s eyes darkened to a steely blue. “To manufacture the products. You and those suits at Fair Face are wrong. There’s a market for my dog skin care line. A big one.”
The sun’s rays warmed Becca Taylor’s cheeks. The sweet scent of roses floated on the air. She walked across the manicured lawn in Gertie’s backyard with two dogs—Maurice, a Norwegian elkhound, and Snowy, a bichon frise.
The two show dogs sniffed the ground, looking for any dropped treats or a place to do their business.
She tucked her cellphone into her shorts pocket. “Don’t get sidetracked, boys. Gertie is waiting for us on the patio.”
Becca had no idea what her boss wanted. She didn’t care.
Gertie had rescued Becca the same way she’d rescued the foster dogs living at the estate. This was only a temporary place, but being here gave them hope of finding a forever home.
Maurice’s ears perked.
“Do you hear Gertie?”
The two dogs ran in the direction of the patio.
Becca quickened her pace. She rounded a corner.
Gertie and a man sat at the teak table underneath the shade of the umbrella. Five dogs vied for attention, paws pounding on the pavement. Gertie waved.
The man next to her turned around.
Whoa. Hello, Mr. Gorgeous.
Tingles skittered from Becca’s stomach to her fingertips.
None of the dogs growled or barked at the guy. Points in his favor. Dogs were the best judges of character, much better than hers.
She walked onto the patio.
The man stood.
Another wave of tingles made the rounds.
Most guys she knew didn’t stand. Didn’t open doors. Didn’t leave the toilet seat down. This man had been raised right.
He was handsome with classical features—high cheekbones, straight nose, strong jawline. The kind of handsome women showed off to girlfriends.
The man stepped away from the table, angling his body toward her. His navy pinstriped suit was tailored, accentuating wide shoulders and tapering nicely at the hips. He moved with the grace of an athlete, making her wonder if he had sexy abdominal muscles underneath.
Very nice packaging.
Well, except for his hair.
His short, cookie-cutter, corporate hairstyle could be seen walking out of every high rise in downtown Boise. With such a gorgeous face, the man’s light brown hair should be longer, a little mussed, sexy and carefree, instead of something so … businesslike.
Not that his hair mattered to Becca. Or anything about him.
His top-of-the-line suit shouted one thing—Best in Show.
She might be a dog handler, but she didn’t handle his type.
They didn’t belong in the same ring. He was a champion with an endless pedigree. She was a mutt without a collar.
She’d tried playing with the top dogs, the wealthy dogs, once before and landed in the doghouse, aka jail.
Never again.
But looking never hurt anybody.
Gertie looked up from the dogs at her feet. “Becca. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
He was tall, over six feet. The top of her head came to the tip of his nose.
Becca took two steps closer. “Hello.”
His green eyes reminded her of jade, a bit cool for her taste, but hey, no one was perfect. His eyelashes more than made up for whatever reserve she saw reflected in his gaze. If she had thick, dark lashes like his she would never need to buy mascara again.
She wiped her hand on her shorts then extended her arm. “I’m Becca Taylor.”
His grip was strong, his skin warm.
A burst of heat shot up her arm and pulsed through her veins.
“Caleb Fairchild.” His rich voice reminded her of melted dark chocolate, rich and smooth and tasty.
Wait a minute. Fairchild. That meant he was …
“My