His Wicked Christmas Wager. Annie Burrows
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chimed. I glanced at the number on the call display and sighed. I let it go to voice mail. I reached my truck and my phone went off again. I ignored it a second time, choosing to climb into my vehicle instead. I sat down with a crunch. A large, yellow envelope was sitting on the driver’s side seat. I yanked it out from underneath me and glared at the logo on the corner. My phone rang a third time. I pounded the answer button irritably.
“Hi, Dad,” I greeted cheerfully through my gritted teeth. “I got the package you left in my truck.”
“Cut the act, son,” he said. “I need you to be somewhere today.”
“It’s the sixth.”
“So?”
“So we have a deal. And this weekend is—”
“Open that envelope.”
“Dad—”
“Now.”
I tore the yellow paper open, feeling a petty bit of satisfaction when the whole envelope split. I scanned the contents.
“This looks like a City ordinance request,” I said.
“It is.”
“What do you want me to do with it?”
“I want you to go to that meeting.”
I glanced at the paperwork again. “It’s today. It’s ten minutes from now.”
“So you’d better hurry.”
“This says the meeting is a private one between the City and the applicant.”
“It is.” My dad paused, then sighed loudly before he continued. “But this request threatens a potentially important project for our company. I want to know what we’re up against. I want to know who we’re up against.”
“Is it even legal for me to be there?” I wanted to know.
“You’re signed on as an observer from the school paper,” he replied.
“Seriously? You think they’re going buy that?”
He ignored me. “This is as important for you as it is for me.”
“I somehow doubt that,” I muttered.
“Joey…one day my company will belong to you.”
I don’t want it. I’ve never wanted it. Even before—I cut myself off midthought. I knew what he was expecting from me, and I made an effort to live up to that. It helped me stay focused, to keep from perpetually laying the blame at my own feet.
But why did it have to be today?
“I haven’t let you down once since I signed that contract. I close more deals than anyone else on your team,” I replied. “But you know why I need this day off, Dad.”
He tried a more sympathetic tactic. “At some point, you have to get past this.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“This has been hard on all of us,” he said.
“It didn’t happen because of you,” I growled. “It happened because of me.”
“It happened because of that woman,” he corrected. “And today, they don’t need you. But I need do. There’s a suit in your backseat. Get dressed and get there. Please.”
He hung up, and I gritted my teeth again, turned the key in the ignition and drove at full speed to City Hall.
* * *
There’s nothing quite as humiliating and infuriating as trying to get dressed in the men’s room at an office building where no one knows you. Except maybe being caught doing it. Which I was. First by an unsuspecting mail delivery boy, then a thick-necked businessman, and finally a cop, all of whom had eyed me suspiciously. As I tucked my dress shirt into my pants and finished a double Windsor knot on my tie, I happened to glance in the mirror, and I saw that my face was red with exertion and embarrassment. I had no time to spare.
I paused very outside the boardroom, doing a quick inventory of the men seated at the table inside. Five stuffed shirts and a stuffed-shirt wannabe. I wondered which one was my dad’s informant.
Not informant, I corrected myself mentally. Informant would imply that Dad is the good guy in this situation.
I knew he wasn’t. Which didn’t bother me as much as one might think. My father wasn’t without scruples. He just did what he had to do to be successful. To stay successful. He ran a hard line in his business pursuits, and it worked.
I should be asking which one is the leak. That’s probably a more accurate descriptor.
One of the stuffed shirts checked his watch, then glanced up and saw me. I hurried to join them at the table, feeling like an imposter. I was sure I might as well have had a sign on my head.
“I’m the…” I trailed off and faked as cough as I almost said the word spy out loud.
“You’re the student observer from the paper at the college?” the wannabe filled in.
“Right. That’s me,” I agreed.
The door swung open and the representatives who were delivering the request to stay my father’s building plans came walking in. I took in the lawyer first. Keith Bomner was a man I recognized. He was big into causes, big into pro bono work and good at taking on both. My dad would be very interested in discovering that Bomner had been at the meeting, and I started to make my first note.
Then I caught sight of the redhead and all logical thought left my brain.
She was dressed the same as she had been earlier this morning, in a hip-hugging skirt and a conservative blouse. As I eyed her from head to toe, I noted with a smile that the only real difference was the lack of mismatched shoes.
My eyes traveled the length of her body a second time, enjoying the subtle muscles in her calves and each curve that led up to the tightly wound bun, fastened at the nape of her neck. I had a perfect view of her creamy throat, and my gaze couldn’t help but rest there. I pictured myself tracing the line of it, working my fingers into that vanilla-scented hair, pulling it free and surrounding myself with it. I imagined it was rich and soft—the kind of hair that would look stunning splayed out across a crisp, white pillow.
What would she do when she spotted me? Would a pretty blush creep up those cheeks?
I hoped to God it would.
My appreciative stare worked to her lips, and I wondered what it would be like to taste them. Would they have the same rich texture of her hair, the same airiness of her scent?
Her mouth. Her neck. Her—my runaway imagination came to a halt as I saw her soft expression change from guarded determination to complete devastation.
My heart sunk, flowing downward with the tilt of her lips, and I watched all the color drain from her face. For one second I thought that the sorrow there was directed at me, but she was staring right at the wannabe stuffed shirt.
Mark, I heard someone say.
Her intent gaze was so focused, it seemed like the object of her interest was the only thing in the room. I didn’t like that she was looking at him like that. I didn’t like that he made those deep brown eyes darken with pain. And as selfish as it was, I really didn’t like that it meant she hadn’t noticed me.
A dangerous rush of emotions coursed through me, and I realized my hands were balled so tightly that white had formed along the ridges of my fingers.
Focus.
A pretty face had never stopped me from doing my job before. I made myself concentrate on Keith Bomner’s words.