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She started up the ladder.
“They relate to Chantal in a particular way,” he said. “They see her look as an idealized version of themselves. These are people that put great stock in the value of beauty products to their lives, and they want to know that you put great stock in them, as well.”
“You’re suggesting I could replace an MBA and eight years of experience with a good makeover?”
What kind of a man would think that?
“Yes,” he said.
She stopped. She couldn’t believe he’d actually said it out loud.
“But,” he continued. “I’m also suggesting you’ll blow the competition out of the water when you have both.”
“You think Chantal is my competition?”
“I think Roger thinks she’s your competition. I think you could do a makeover with your eyes closed. And I think she’s only a threat to you if you let her be a threat to you.”
“So I’m choosing to have this happen?”
All she’d ever done was her job. She’d shown up early every day for eight years. She’d written speeches and press releases, planned events, supported her coworkers, solved problems and taken the message of Lush Beauty far and wide. If her performance evaluations were anything to go by, she’d been more than successful in her role as PR manager.
“You’re choosing not to fight it,” said Hunter.
“I shouldn’t have to fight it.” When had hard work and success stopped being enough?
“Too bad. So sad. Are you going to let her win?” He paused. “Do you want your career path to end?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She loved her job.
“I’m the one being ridiculous? Chantal’s nipping at your heels, and I’m the one being ridiculous?”
“Why do you care?”
There were a few seconds of silence. “Why do you think I care?”
Sinclair didn’t have an answer for that, so she finished climbing the ladder.
“I’m not saying it’s right,” he spoke below her. “I’m saying that’s the business you’re in. And you’re the PR manager. And, yes, I’m sorry, but it matters. And, as for why I care.”
He stopped talking, and she held her breath.
“I like you? I slept with you? You’re an asset to Lush Beauty? You’re family? Take your pick. But I’m about done fighting, Sinclair. If you don’t want my help, I’m out of here.”
She dipped her paintbrush, feeling hollow and exhausted. Hunter’s words pulsed in her ears, while paint dribbles dried on her hands. She pretended to focus on the painting while she waited for the door to slam behind him.
Emotion stung her eyes.
She didn’t mean to fight with him.
It wasn’t his fault that Chantal was prancing around the city like a poster child for Luscious Lavender. It wasn’t his fault that Roger was interfering in her management of the PR department. And what did Sinclair want from Hunter, anyway? For him to intervene with Roger?
Not.
She could take care of her own professional life.
Sort of. Maybe.
Because a tiny, little voice inside her told her some of what Hunter said made sense.
She focused on the paint, stroking it into the corner, listening for his footfalls, for the door slamming, for him walking out of her life.
“I’m sorry,” his unexpected words came from behind and below her. “I should have approached that differently.”
She stopped midstroke. Shocked, relieved and embarrassed all at the same time. She set down the brush.
“No,” she spoke to the wall. “I’m the one who’s sorry.”
Silence.
“Will you come down then?”
She gave a shaky nod. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him as she started down the ladder. Maybe all of what he said made sense. Maybe she’d been hasty in dismissing a makeover. After all, what could it hurt to try?
What exactly was the principle she was standing on? She’d always wanted the world to take her seriously. She hadn’t wanted a free ride because of looks and glamour. But did she want to put herself at a disadvatange?
“I suppose,” she said as her foot touched the floor and she turned toward him. “It wouldn’t kill me to try the shampoo.”
“That a girl.” His voice was full of approval.
“It’s just that I never wanted to cheat,” she tried to explain. “I never wanted to wonder if a promotion or a pay raise, or even people’s reactions to me were because of my looks.”
“You’re not cheating. You’re leveling the playing field. Besides, being beautiful has nothing to do with makeup and mousse.” He shrugged out of the ruined jacket and tossed it on the floor. He whipped off his tie. “You’re beautiful, Sinclair. And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”
Her heartbeat thickened in her chest, wondering what would come off next.
But he rolled up his sleeves. “Okay, let’s get to work.”
That threw her. “We’re going to the office?”
“We’re painting your walls.”
“You want to spend the afternoon here?”
“You bet.”
By late afternoon, Sinclair’s arms were about to fall off. Her shoulders ached, and she was getting a headache from the paint fumes. Her latest can was empty, so she climbed down the ladder to replace it.
Hunter appeared, taking the can from her hands.
“You’re done,” he said.
“There’s another whole wall.”
He pointed across the room. “See that bag over there? Full of bath oil, shampoo and gel?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I want you to take it into the bathroom and run a very hot, very deep bath. In fact—” he set down the paint can and propped up his roller “—I’ll do it for you.”
Before she could protest, he picked up the shopping bag and marched into the bathroom.
She heard the fan go on and the water gush from the faucet. She knew any self-respecting woman would fight against his high-handed behavior. But, honestly, she was just too tired.
After a few minutes, he returned to the living room. He didn’t talk, just unplugged her CD player and gathered up the two compact speakers. He popped out U2 and replaced it with Norah Jones.
Then he was back to the bathroom.
Curiosity finally got the better of her, and she wandered in to find her tub full of steaming, foamy water, and three cinnamon-scented candles flickering at the base of the tub. They’d been a Christmas gift from somebody at the office. But she’d never used them.
“I never have baths,” she admitted.
“Why not?”
“Showers are more efficient.”
“But baths are more fun.”
“You have baths, do you?” she couldn’t help but tease.
He faced her in the tiny room. “Guys don’t take baths. They want girls to take them. It makes them all soft and warm, and in the mood to get beautiful.”
She gave a mock sigh. “It’s time-consuming being all girly.”
He grinned. “Piece of cake being a guy.”
“Double standard.”
“You know it.”
“Still.” She glanced down at the steaming water. “It does look inviting.”
“That’s because it is.” He reached across her shoulder and flicked off the light.
“Time to take off your clothes,” he rumbled.
A sensual shiver ran through her, and she reflexively reached for the hem of her T-shirt.
But his large hands closed over hers to stop them. “I mean after I leave.”
“You’re leaving?”
He kissed her forehead. “I didn’t come here to seduce you, Sinclair.”
Suddenly, she wished he had.
“Don’t look at me like that. I’m going to paint for a while, or we’ll never finish.”
“I can paint later.”
His finger brushed over her lips to silence her. “The price of being a guy. Your mission is to get all glammed up and frou frou. My mission is to give you the time to do that.”
Then he winked, and left the room, clicking the door shut behind him. And Sinclair shifted her attention to the deep, claw-footed tub.
It looked decadently wonderful. He’d set out the shampoo, bath gel and lotion. And he’d obviously poured some of the Luscious Lavender foaming oil into the water. She’d spent the last six months thinking about the artsy labels, the expensive magazine ads, the stuffed sample gift baskets for the ball, and the retail locations that needed some extra attention promotions-wise. Funny, that she’d never thought much about the products themselves.
The water steamed, and the lavender scent filled the room, and the anticipation of that luxurious heat on her aching shoulders was more than tempting.
She peeled off her T-shirt, unzipped her jeans, then slipped out of her underwear. She eased, toe-first, into the scorching bathwater, dipping in her foot, her calf, her knee. Then she slowly brought in her other foot, bracing her hands on the edges of the tub to lower her body into the hot water.
After her skin grew accustomed to the temperature, and her shoulders and neck began to sigh in pleasure, her thoughts made their way to Hunter. He was on the other side of that thin wall. And she was naked. And he knew she was naked.
She pictured him opening the door, wearing nothing but a smile, a glass of wine in each hand. He’d cross the black and white tiles, bend to kiss her, maybe on the neck, maybe on the lips. He’d set down their glasses. Then he’d draw her to her feet, dripping wet, the scented oil slick on her skin. His hands would roam over her stomach, her breasts, her buttocks, pulling her tight against his body, lifting her—
Something banged outside and Hunter swore in frustration. Clearly, he wasn’t out there stripping off his clothes and popping the wine cork. She was naked, not twenty feet away, and he was dutifully painting.
She sucked in a breath and ducked her head under the water.
Four
By the time Sinclair emerged from her bathroom, wrapped in a thick, terry robe, her face glowing, her wet hair combed back from her face, Hunter had cleaned up the paint and ordered a pizza. The smell of tomatoes and cheese wafted up from the cardboard box on the breakfast bar while he popped the cork from his housewarming bottle of wine.
“How did you know sausage and mushroom is my favorite?” she asked as she padded across the paint splattered tarps.
“I’m psychic.” He retrieved two stools from beneath the tarp, then opened the top of the pizza box.
“How’d it go in there?” he asked her, watching her climb up on one stool.
She arranged the robe so that it covered her from head to toe, and he tried not to think about what was under there.
She smiled in a way that did his heart good. “I’m a whole new woman.”
“Not completely new, I hope,” he teased as he took the stool facing her. The covered breakfast bar was at their elbows.
She grinned. “Don’t worry. I saved the best parts.”
“Oh, good.” He poured them each a glass of the pinot. “So, are you ready to move on to makeup?”
She reached for a slice of pizza. “You planning to help me with that, too?”
