Meet Me in Paris. Simona Taylor
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I don’t want to speak to you. Since I don’t desire your company, doesn’t your persistence constitute stalking?”
She was tired, hadn’t slept for three nights, and her glycemic load was through the roof. She tried to be calm and explain her position as best she could. “Look, Mr. Hammond, all I want is two minutes of your time.”
“Why?”
He really did make her feel like she was in the presence of a huge feline. Even standing still, he was thrumming with pent-up energy. His solid, powerful body dwarfed hers, and his eyes held her in thrall. Cats were known to mesmerize their prey with a stare, weren’t they? She almost forgot what she was about to say.
“I want you to know how sorry I am.” Ah, yes, that was it.
“You’ve already said as much.”
“And you need to know I’m not a bad person. I’m not a thief.”
Unblinking, he still had her pinned. “Miss Forrest, I think we’ve gone over this ground already, and frankly, I’m a little tired of it. I didn’t brand you a thief. You did yourself that disservice.”
That was when the wall of fatigue caved in. It was the wrong time, and definitely the wrong place, but walls had a habit of doing that. And on the way down, it crushed every shred of self-esteem she had left. Horror of horrors, her eyes were burning and her cheeks were wet, and the moisture was a whole lot warmer than the rain. She put her hand up to hide the evidence of her weakness, but it was too late.
Hammond knew tears from rain, and wasn’t impressed. “Oh, please. Spare me the theatrics.”
“What?”
“I know exactly how women like you operate. What you can’t achieve by stealth you achieve by guile. Did you think that leaving your couture outfits and five-hundred-dollar shoes home would impress me with your humility? Did you think that turning on the waterworks would soften me up? For what? What d’you want from me?”
She held her hands out, empty, pleading. “Your understanding.”
“Not interested.”
“Your forgiveness, then.”
“Not my department. Refer to my previous statement about visiting a priest.” He fished in his pocket, and she had the ludicrous feeling he was going to subject her to the humiliation of offering her a few coins, bus fare, maybe, and suggesting she get the heck out of his face. But he withdrew a folded, pale blue kerchief and handed it to her. She stared at it in wonderment. Were there really still men who carried those around?
“Mop yourself up,” he advised her. “You’re making a scene in front of my business.”
The gall of him! “You don’t own the whole of Farrar-Chase, you know. It was here long before you rode in on your hoss and tried to take over. It’ll be here long after you’re gone on your way. There’re at least twenty travel, decorating, new media and marketing businesses in there.”
“Yes, and one of them is mine. You can keep the hankie.” He spun around and walked off.
She did as she was told, scrubbing at her face to remove the tears and the streaks of makeup they’d left, catching the newsstand owner out of the corner of her eye and wondering how much of their conversation he’d heard. The fine linen, rubbed hard into her skin, abraded away her despair, her humiliation and her pain. Then there was only one emotion left. Pure, home-grown, unadulterated, polyunsaturated rage. It was all she needed.
Hammond was walking so fast she could barely keep up, but sheer pig-headedness made sure she did. Two blocks down, he turned into the Blarney Stone, a pseudo-Irish steakhouse she’d been to once or twice. She followed at a distance. He never so much as looked back.
She made it inside a minute and a half after he did. It was good to be out of the drizzle. She could see Hammond seating himself. A waitress was upon him in a single shake of a lamb’s tail. He ordered with a smile that was happily returned by the young lady, who was leaning in toward him a little more closely than necessary. As she walked away, the waitress flipped her hair and gave her shamrock-dotted hips a little swivel. Ick.
Look at him. Sitting there so smug and self-satisfied. Flirting with the waitress. Loading up on breadsticks, as if everything was all hunky-dory, now that he’d given the least likely candidate for Employee of the Month the slip. The more she thought about it, the more she paced. Getting madder and madder.
On her dozenth about-face on the lobby carpet, she found herself toe-to-toe with the hostess, who was all kitted up as a leprechaun. Central casting would have been impressed. The young woman was four feet ten and festooned with stick pins, smiley-face stickers, shamrock key chains, small, fuzzy animals and clunky brass whatnots. She looked like a walking trinket cart at the county fair. “Miss? Will you be dining?”
The apparition jolted Kendra out of her internal rant. She was suddenly aware she must look quite bizarre, half-soaked, whirling back and forth in the lobby, muttering as though she had imaginary friends. She felt her face heat up. “Um, not right now.” She tried to sound nonchalant.
“Are you waiting for someone?”
“You could say that.” Involuntarily, she glanced across at Hammond. He was poring over the menu. Still completely relaxed, damn his eyes.
“Then would you like to have a drink at the bar while you wait?”
A drink? In here? She probably didn’t have enough change in her purse to buy herself a soda. She shook her head. The leprechaun gave her a strange look and left.
Missy with the swively hips brought Hammond a Bloody Mary. Again, the goo-goo smile as she set it down, and again his overwhelming charm as he took it. All this with the ease of a man who’d rid himself of a minor irritant, like he’d brushed a beetle off his coat sleeve. Like she, Kendra, was nothing. No.
Next thing she knew, she was standing at his table. The expression on his face was so precious, if she could have bottled it, she’d have made a million bucks. She took advantage of his momentary speechlessness to lay into him. “Listen up, Hammond. I’ve had enough of you and your attitude. What makes you think you can sit in judgment of me? Where d’you get off acting so superior?”
“Where do you get off hovering over my table while I’m having a drink? For God’s sake, Forrest, if you’re going to ruin my lunch, at least do it sitting down. You’re making me dizzy.”
“I don’t want to sit down. I want you to listen. I’ve listened to every nasty thing you’ve had to say to me—”
“Was any of it undeserved?”
“Be quiet. It’s my turn to speak. I’ve changed my mind. I don’t need your forgiveness, because you’re a rude, arrogant, self-assured bastard, so coming from you, it wouldn’t be worth a damn. But I do expect you to respect me. Don’t you ever, ever turn and walk away from me again. Don’t you ever call me a thief again. I did something stupid, and I admit it. And I don’t have the money right now, but I’ll get it to you if I have to work my fingers to the bone….” She waited for the sneer. She waited for the derisive laughter. None came.
“Okay.”
Okay? That was it? It took the wind out of her sails. What next? They stared each other down like two cats balanced on an alley wall. His stare was thoughtful, contemplative, making her feel like a beetle under a magnifying glass. She hoped he wasn’t directing the sun’s rays at her.
She couldn’t stop him from looking at her, but while he was doing it, darned if she wasn’t going to take the opportunity to size him up, too. He must have known how good looking he was. Why else would he have chosen a suit that was the exact charcoal gray as his eyes? Why else would he have worn a shirt the color of a glacier’s heart, and a tie of garnet that set those coals alight? His silver-rimmed glasses framed his face so well, he could have stepped down from a poster in an optometrist’s window. No wonder he knew the brands she was wearing. He was a bit of a metrosexual himself. And