Escape for Valentine's: Beauty and the Billionaire / Her One and Only Valentine / The Girl Next Door. Caroline Anderson
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Ethan’s words validated the worry that was niggling at Hunter’s brain. Chantal was dead center on the new target demographic. Hunter was worried that Roger had seen that in her, and it wasn’t something he’d seen in Sinclair. Sinclair was a lot of things—a lot of very fabulous, fun, exciting things—but she wasn’t a poster child for Lush Beauty Products.
He filed away the information and switched gears. “Did Sinclair mention her spa plan to you?”
Ethan nodded. “Had lots of potential. But I hear it went south with Millennium.”
“I’m going to try to revive it.”
“I hope you can. If you secure the outlet, we can provide the product.”
“Including lavender.”
“Got it covered.”
“Do you have any thoughts on a spa release overall?”
Ethan stretched out his legs, obviously speculating how frank he could be with Hunter.
Hunter waited. He wanted frank, but there was no way to insist on it.
“If it was me,” said Ethan. “I wouldn’t target a single spa, I’d go for the whole chain. And I’d try for the Crystal. The Millennium is nice, but the Crystal has the best overseas locations.”
Hunter didn’t disagree with Ethan’s assessment. The Crystal Spa chain was as top of the line as they came.
“You get into Rome and Paris,” said Ethan. “At that level. You’ll really have some momentum.”
“Tall order.”
Ethan brought his hands down on his thighs. “Osland International usually shy away from a challenge?”
“Nope,” said Hunter. When he was involved, Osland International always stepped up to the plate.
He could already feel his competitive instincts kick in. Although he’d come into the job reluctantly, making Lush Beauty a runaway success had inched its way to the top of his priority list.
He also knew he wanted Sinclair as a partner in this. He liked the way she thought. He liked her energy and her outside-the-box thinking. And, well, okay, and he just plain liked her. But there was nothing wrong with that. Liking your business associates was important.
All his best business relationships were based on mutual respect. Sure, maybe he didn’t want to sleep with his other business associates. But the principle was the same.
Sinclair hit the buzzer, letting Hunter into the building.
She didn’t know whether she’d been brilliant or stupid to take him up on his offer to paint, but there was no turning back now.
She’d dressed in a pair of old torn blue jeans and a grainy gray T-shirt with “Stolen From the New York City Police Department” emblazoned across the front. Her hair was braided tight against her head, and she’d popped a white painter’s cap on her head. She had no worries that the tone of the evening would be sexy in any way.
The bell rang, echoing through the high-ceilinged, empty room. Her living room furniture was in storage for another week. But she’d already finished the small bedroom, so it was back together.
She opened the front door and the hinges groaned loudly in the cavernous space as Hunter walked in.
“Nice,” he said, looking around at the tarp-draped counters and breakfast bar, the plastic on the floors, and the dangling pieces of masking tape around the bay window.
“It has a lot of potential,” she told him, closing and locking the oak door. There was no doubt it was smaller than he’d be used to, but she was excited about living here.
“I wasn’t being sarcastic, honest.” He held up a bottle of wine. “Housewarming.”
“That might be a bit premature.” She still had a lot of work to get done.
He glanced around the room for somewhere to set the bottle down. “In a cupboard?” he asked, heading for the alcove kitchen.
“Beside the fridge,” she called.
He got rid of the wine and shrugged out of his windbreaker. Then he returned to the main room in a pair of khakis and a white T-shirt that were obviously brand-new.
She tried not to smile at the outfit.
It really was nice of him to come and help. Still, she wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity to tease him.
“You don’t do home maintenance often, do you?”
He glanced around the tarp-draped room. “I’ve seen it done on TV.”
“It’s not as easy as it looks,” she warned.
He shot her an expression of mock disbelief. “I have an MBA from Harvard.”
“And they covered house painting in graduate school?”
“They covered macroeconomics and global capitalism.”
She fought a grin. “Oh sure, go ahead and get snooty on me.”
“Dip the brush and stroke it on the wall. Am I close?”
“I guess you might as well give it a try.”
“Give it a try?”
Her grin broadened at his insulted tone.
He bent over and pried open a paint can. “You might want to shift your attitude. I’m free labor, baby.”
“Am I getting what I paid for?”
“Sassy,” he said, and her heart tripped a beat.
“You need to shake it,” she told him, battling the sensual memory. He’d called her sassy in Manchester. In a way that said he wanted her bad.
“Shake it?” he interrupted her thoughts.
She swallowed. “You need to shake the paint before you open the can.”
He raised his brow as he crouched to tap the lid back down. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“You bet. Nothing like keeping the billionaire humble.”
“Don’t stereotype. I’m always humble.”
“Yeah. I noticed that right off, Mr. Macroeconomics and Global Capitalism.”
“Well, what did you take in college?”
She hesitated for a second then admitted it. “MBA. Yale.”
“So, you took macroeconomics and global capitalism?”
“Magna cum laude,” she said with a hoity toss of her head.
“Yet you can still paint. Imagine that.”
She glanced at him for a moment, trying to figure out why he hadn’t escalated the joke by teasing her about the designation. Then it hit her. “You got summa, at least, didn’t you?”
He didn’t answer.
“Geek,” she said.
He grinned as he shook the paint. Then he poured it into the tray.
She broke out the brushes, and he quickly caught on to using the long-handled roller. Sinclair cut in the corners, and together they worked their way down the longest wall.
“What do you think of the Crystal Spa chain?” he asked as his roller swished up and down in long strokes.
“I’ve never been there,” said Sinclair from the top of the step ladder. This close to the ceiling lights, she was starting to sweat. She finally gave in and peeled off her cap.
Wisps of strands had come loose from her braid. Probably she’d end up with cream-colored specks in her hair.