Mixing Business...With Baby. Diana Whitney
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mother was allergic to cats. I was named after my grandmother.” Another correction made its way to the monitor. She studied her notes a moment, then went back to inputting figures without further comment.
“I see.” Rick felt like a high-school nerd trying to ask the homecoming queen for a date. “My mother was a big Humphrey Bogart fan.” He flashed his famous smile, presuming she would be dazzled by it.
And she might have been, if she’d bothered to look up. “He was a fine actor.”
He puffed his cheeks, blew out a breath. “She named me after Humphrey Bogart’s character in Casablanca.”
“How interesting,” she murmured in a tone that clearly implied she’d rather discuss the genetics of animal dander with an intellectual dwarf than indulge in further conversation with him.
“Look, I want to apologize for what happened earlier. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I mean, if you were embarrassed there was no need to be. This is a casual company. We’re all on pretty much a first-name basis here. It didn’t occur to me that you’d be intimidated just because my name is on the letterhead.”
Her fingers froze over the keyboard, then she tucked them in her lap. She took a deep breath, then swivelled around to face him. “I was not intimidated, Mr. Blaine, nor am I interested in conducting an office flirtation with the boss, or with anyone else for that matter. I take my work very seriously, and I’m good at what I do. I need this job. I’ll be a valuable employee for your company, but that is all I will be.”
If she’d shoved her keyboard down his throat sideways he couldn’t have been more shocked. “Exactly what kind of reputation do I have among my employees?”
The dart of her gaze proved he’d hit a nerve. “You are highly regarded,” she confessed. “Everyone I’ve spoken with thinks the world of you.”
“So I’m not known as a lecherous skirt-chaser?”
That adorable flush revealed itself in crimson patches on her otherwise perfect complexion. “On the contrary, you’re known as a man who is generous and outgoing to everyone.”
“And you just naturally resent generous, outgoing people?”
His teasing question was rewarded by the hint of a smile, which she quickly quashed by biting her lip. “I apologize for my rudeness. The truth is that you’re right, I was embarrassed because I didn’t know who you were and because I’d made such a fool of myself in your presence. I presumed you were deliberately taunting me. Perhaps I was mistaken.”
“Perhaps?” He tilted his head in a manner he knew was boyish and unthreatening. “Let’s start over, shall we?” He stuck out his hand. “My name is Blaine, Rick Blaine. I work here.”
She hesitated, then offered her hand. “Catrina Jordan. I work here too.”
Her hand nested in his with a perfect fit. It was soft to the touch, a warm contrast to her cool demeanor. “I hope we can be friends, Catrina.”
Apparently that was the wrong thing to say, because she withdrew her hand with more speed than would normally be expected. “I’m sure we will be, Mr. Blaine.”
“Rick.”
“Very well. Rick.” With that, she swiveled her chair toward the monitor and began inputting figures into the computer.
Rick stood there like a spurned suitor, knowing he should muster whatever small dignity he retained by walking quickly to the nearest exit.
As usual, however, Rick rarely did what he should do, but followed his instinct instead. He took the opportunity of studying this unexpected woman, the firm curve of her jaw, the determined crease of her chin.
He’d seen fear in her eyes when she’d looked at him, a fear that both saddened and intrigued him. He acknowledged that Catrina Jordan represented a challenge, not only to his masculine ego but to his sense of humanity. Something had wounded her, something she still feared, something that she apparently recognized in him. Even though this seriously bothered him, Rick chose not to explore it too closely.
He wanted to know about this lovely young woman, wanted to know everything about her, what she enjoyed, what she disliked, what made her laugh, what brought out the joy in those luscious brown eyes.
A glance around her desk gave him a few tantalizing hints. There were no personal items, no family photographs. Her ring finger was bare, a fact he’d noticed when he’d first seen her threatening the collating machine.
He spotted a small but healthy philodendron plant at the edge of her desk, alongside an extra-large disposable cup emblazoned by the logo of a coffee boutique not far from the office. She liked plants and gourmet coffee.
On the floor behind her chair was a gym bag with a pair of running shoes tied to the handle. She was a probably a jogger, and he presumed she headed to the nearby park during lunch hour since she’d brought her fitness togs into the office.
He was still scrutinizing her personal effects when she suddenly spun around, skewered him with a stare. “Will there be anything else, Mr. Blaine?”
“Uh…nice plant.”
“Thank you.”
Feeling chastised and thoroughly dismissed, he backed away and returned to the spot where Frank Glasgow had been watching with obvious disapproval.
“It’s not my place to question,” Frank said, “but I thought you had rather firm rules against, well, mixing business with pleasure, so to speak.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Heaving a sigh, Rick absently ran his knuckles over his scalp, a habit that made it even more difficult to control a shock of nut-brown hair that drove his barber crazy. Frank was right, of course. Rules were rules, and no business could be effective if its employees were constantly sizing each other up for romantic entanglement.
But there was something about Catrina Jordan, something that stuck like a sharp tack somewhere inside Rick’s chest and wouldn’t let go. “Rules are like mirrors. You never mean to break them, but sometimes it just happens.”
Frank shook his head. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“So do I,” Rick replied quietly. “So do I.”
Chapter Two
“One large house blend, please, to go.”
Pushed and prodded by the crowd around the counter, Catrina struggled to extract the cash to pay for her purchase, only to have her wallet elbowed from her grasp by a burly patron. Frustrated, she bent to retrieve it, but it was wedged under the heel of a large, booted foot. She puffed her cheeks, blew out a breath.
It was definitely going to be one of those days.
“Excuse me, sir. Sir?” She hesitated, then tugged the hem of the blue jeans extended over the offending boot. A man with a brushy beard sniffed the air like a puzzled grizzly before frowning down at her. She swallowed, tried for a smile. “You’re standing on my wallet.”
He blinked, glowered, stepped to one side.
Murmuring her thanks, Catrina scooped up her wallet, gasping in horror as the coin purse yawned open to disperse a handful of jingling change.
Coins rolled across the crowded floor, lodging between a forest of shifting legs and shuffling feet, where only a desperately broke masochist would venture in an attempt to retrieve them.
Catrina dropped to her knees and frantically scooped up as many as she could find.
By the time she slapped a handful of coins on the counter along with her last dollar bill, flyaway strands of hair stuck to her moist cheek, there was a hole the size of Wyoming in the knee of her panty hose,