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Ah, she’d guessed right. He made a wide circle around her, not bothering to hide how he was checking out her best dress as he headed for the desk. Frances held her pose until he was almost seated. Then she reached into her small handbag—emerald-green silk, made to match the dress, of course—and pulled out a small mirror and lipstick. Ignoring Logan entirely, she fixed her lips, making sure to exaggerate her pouts.
Was she hearing things or had a nearly imperceptible groan come from the area behind the desk?
This was almost too easy, really.
She put the lipstick and mirror away and pulled out her phone. Logan opened his mouth to say something, but she interrupted him by taking a picture of the desk. And of him.
He snapped his mouth shut. “Frances Beaumont, huh?”
“The one and only,” she purred, taking a close-up of the carved details on the corner of the desk. And if she had to bend over to do so—well, she couldn’t help it if this dress was exceptionally low-cut.
“I suppose,” Logan said in a strangled-sounding voice, “that there’s no such thing as a coincidence?”
“I certainly don’t believe in them.” She shifted her angle and took another shot. “Do you?”
“Not anymore.” Instead of sounding flummoxed or even angry, she detected a hint of humor in his voice. “I suppose you know your way around, then?”
“I do,” she cheerfully agreed. Then she paused, as if she’d just remembered that she’d forgotten her manners. “I’m so sorry—I don’t believe I caught your name?”
My, that was a look. But if he thought he could intimidate her, he had no idea who he was dealing with. “My apologies.” He stood and held out his hand. “I’m Ethan Logan. I’m the CEO of the Beaumont Brewery.”
She let his hand hang for a beat before she wrapped her fingers around his. He had hands that matched his shoulders—thick and strong. This Ethan Logan certainly didn’t look a thing like the bean-counting lackey she’d pictured.
“Ethan,” she said, dropping her gaze and looking up at him through her lashes.
His hand was warm as his fingers curled around her smaller hand. Strong, oh yes—he could easily break her hand. But he didn’t. All the raw power he projected was clearly—and safely—locked down.
Instead, he turned her hand over and kissed the back of it. The very thing she’d implied he should do earlier, when they’d had an audience. It’d seemed like a safe move then, an action she knew he’d never take her up on.
But here? In the enclosed space of the office, with no one to witness his chivalrous gesture? She couldn’t tell if the kiss was a threat or a seduction. Or both.
Then he raised his gaze and looked her in the eyes. Suddenly, the room was much warmer, the air much thinner. Frances had to use every ounce of her self-control not to take huge gulping breaths just to get some oxygen into her body. Oh, but he had nice eyes, warm and determined and completely focused on her.
She might have underestimated him.
Not that he needed to know that. She allowed herself an innocent blush, which took some work. She hadn’t been innocent for a long time. “A pleasure,” she murmured, wondering how long he planned to kiss her hand.
“It’s all mine,” he assured her, straightening up and taking a step back. She noted with interest that he didn’t sit back down. “So you’re the appraiser Delores hired?”
“I hope you won’t be too hard on her,” she simpered, taking this moment to put another few steps between his body and hers.
“And why shouldn’t I be? Are you even qualified to do this? Or did she just bring you in to needle me?”
He said it in far too casual a tone. Damn. His equilibrium was almost restored. She couldn’t have that.
And what’s more, she couldn’t let him impinge on her ability to do this job.
Then she realized that his lips—which had, to this point, only been compressed into a thin line of anger or dropped open in shock—were curving into a far-too-cocky grin. He’d scored a hit on her, and he knew it.
She quickly schooled her face into the appropriate demureness, using the excuse of taking more pictures to do so.
“I am, in fact, highly qualified to appraise the contents of this office. I have a bachelor’s degree in art history and a master’s of fine art. I was the manager at Galerie Solaria for several years. I have extensive connections with the local arts scene.”
She stated her qualifications in a light, matter-of-fact tone designed to put him at ease. Which, given the little donut stunt she’d pulled, would probably actually make him more nervous—if he had his wits about him. “And if anyone would know the true value of these objects,” she added, straightening to give him her very best smile, “it’d be a Beaumont—don’t you think? After all, this was ours for so long.”
He didn’t fall for the smile. Instead, he eyed her suspiciously, just as she’d suspected he would. She would have to reconsider her opinion of him. Now that the shock of her appearance was wearing off, he seemed more and more up to the task of playing this game.
Even though it shouldn’t, the thought thrilled her. Ethan Logan would be a formidable opponent. This might even be fun. She could play the game with Ethan—a game she would win, without a doubt—and in the process, she could protect her family legacy and help out Delores and all the rest of the employees.
“How about you?” she asked in an offhand manner.
“What about me?” he asked.
“Are you qualified to run a company? This company?” She couldn’t help it. The words came out a little sharper than she had wanted them to. But she followed up the questions with a fluttering of her eyelashes and another demure smile.
Not that they worked. “I am, in fact,” he said in a mocking tone as he parroted her words, “highly qualified to run this company. I am a co-owner of my firm, Corporate Restructuring Services. I have restructured thirteen previous companies, raising stock prices and increasing productivity and efficiency. I have a bachelor’s degree in economics and a master’s of business administration, and I will turn this company around.”
He said the last part with all the conviction of a man who truly believed himself to be on the right side of history.
“I’m quite sure you will.” Of course she agreed with him. He was expecting her to argue. “Why, once the employees all get over that nasty flu that’s been going around...” She lifted a shoulder, as if to say it was only a matter of time. “You’ll have things completely under control within days.” Then, just to pour a little lemon juice in the wound, she leaned forward. His gaze held—he didn’t even glance at her cleavage. Damn. Time to up the ante.
She let her eyes drift over those massive shoulders and the broad chest. He was quite unlike the thin, pale men who populated the art world circles she moved within. She could still feel his lips on the back of her hand.
Oh, yes, she could play this game. For a short while, she could feel like Frances Beaumont again—powerful, beautiful, holding sway over everyone in her orbit. She could use Ethan Logan to get back what she’d lost in the past six months and—if she was very lucky—she might even be able to inflict some damage on AllBev through the Brewery. Corporate espionage and all that.
So she added in a confidential voice, “I have faith in your abilities.”
“Do you?”
She looked him up and down again and smiled. A real smile this time, not one couched to elicit a specific response. “Oh, yes,” she said, turning away from him. “I do.”
Three (#u5aa978d0-710e-530f-ba53-5c496bf1f888)
He needed her.
That crystal clear revelation was quickly followed by a second—and far more depressing one—Frances Beaumont would destroy him if he gave her half the chance.
As he watched Frances move around his office, taking pictures of the furniture and antiques and making completely harmless small talk about potential buyers, he knew he would have to risk the latter to get the former.
The way all those workers had been eating out of her hand—well, out of her donut box? The way not a single damn one of them had gotten back to work when he’d ordered them to—but they’d all jumped when Frances Beaumont had smiled at them?
It hurt to admit—even to himself—that the workers here would not listen to him.
But they would listen to her.
She was one of them—a Beaumont. They obviously adored her—even Delores, the old battle-ax, had bowed and scraped to this stunningly beautiful woman.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” she said in that delicate voice that he was completely convinced was a front. She kicked out of her shoes and lined one of the conference chairs up beneath a window. She held out her hand for him. “I’d like to get a better shot of the friezes over the windows.”
“Of course,” he said in his most diplomatic voice.
This woman—this stunning woman who’s fingertips were light and warm against his hand as he helped her balance onto the chair, leaving her ass directly at eye level—had already ripped him to shreds several times over.
She was gorgeous. She was clearly intelligent. And she was obviously out to undermine him. That’s what the donuts had been about. Announcing to the world in general and him in particular that this was still the Beaumont Brewery in every sense of the word.
“Thank you,” she murmured, placing her hand on his shoulder to balance herself as she stepped down.
She didn’t stick the landing, although he couldn’t say if that was accidental or on purpose.
Before he could stop himself, his arm went around her waist to steady her.
Which was a mistake because electricity arced between them. She looked up at him through those lashes—he’d lost count of how many times she’d done that so far—but this time it hit him differently.
After almost a month of dealing with passive-aggressive employees terrified of being downsized he suddenly felt like a very different man altogether.
“Thank you,” she said again, in a quiet whisper that somehow felt more honest, less calculated than almost every other word she’d uttered so far. Imperceptibly, she leaned into him. He could feel the heat of her breasts through his suit.
As soon as he was sure she wouldn’t fall over, he stepped well clear of her. He needed her—but he could not need her like that. Not now, not ever. Because she would destroy him. He had no doubt about that. None.
Still...an idea was taking shape in his mind.
Maybe he’d been going about this all wrong. Instead of trying to strip the Beaumont out of the Beaumont Brewery, maybe what he needed to do was bring in a Beaumont. The moment the idea occurred to him, he latched on to it with both hands.
Yes. What he really needed was to have a Beaumont on board with the management changes he was implementing. If the workers realized their old bosses were signing off on the reorganization, there wouldn’t be any more mass food poisonings or flu or whatever they’d planned for next week. Sure, there’d still be grumbling and personnel turnover, but if he had a Beaumont by his side...
“So!” Frances said brightly, just as she leaned over to adjust the strap on her shoe.
Ethan had to slam his eyes shut so he wouldn’t be caught staring at her barely contained cleavage. If he was going to pull this off, he had to keep his wits about him and his pants zipped.
“How would you like to proceed? Ethan?” It was only when she said his name that he figured it was safe to look.
As safe as it got, anyway. More than any other woman he’d seen in person, Frances looked as if she’d walked right off a movie screen and into his office. Her hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders and her eyes were a light blue that took on a greenish tone that matched her dress. She was the stuff of fantasies, all luscious curves and soft skin.
“I want to hire you.”
Direct was better. If he tried to dance around the subject, she’d spin him in circles.
It worked, too—at least for a second. Her eyes widened in surprise, but she quickly got herself back under control. She laughed lightly, like a chime tinkling in the wind. “Mr. Logan,” she said, beaming a high-wattage smile at him. “You already have hired me. The furniture?” she reminded him, looking around the room. “My family’s legacy?”
“That’s not what I mean,” he replied. “I want you to come work for me. Here. At the Brewery. As...” His mind spun for something that would be appropriate to a woman like her. “As executive vice president of human resources. In charge of employee relations.” There. That sounded fancy without actually meaning anything.
A hint of confusion wrinkled her forehead. “You want me to be a...manager?” She said the word as if it left a bad taste in her mouth. “Out of the question.” But she favored him with that smile he’d decided she wielded like other people might wield a knife in a street fight. “I’m so sorry, but I couldn’t possibly work for the Beaumont Brewery if it wasn’t owned by an actual Beaumont.” With crisp efficiency, she snatched up her cape and elegantly swirled it around her shoulders, hiding her body from his eyes.
Not that he was looking at it. He felt the corners of his mouth curve up in a smile. He had her off balance for possibly the first time since she’d walked onto the Brewery property.
“I’ll work up an appraisal sheet and a list of potential buyers for some of the more sentimental pieces,” she announced, not even bothering to look over her shoulder as she strode toward the door.
Before he realized what he was doing, he ran after her. “Wait,” he said, getting to the door just as she put her hand on the knob. He pushed the door shut.
And then realized he basically had her trapped between the door and his body.
She knew it, too. Moving with that dancer’s grace, she pivoted and leaned back, her breasts thrust toward him and her smile coy. “Did you need something else?”
“Won’t you at least consider it?”
“About the job offer?” She grinned. It was too victorious to be pretty. “I rather think not.”
What else would she be thinking about? His blood began to pound in his veins. He couldn’t admit defeat, couldn’t admit that a beautiful woman had spun him around until he hadn’t realized he’d lost until it was too late. He had to come up with something to at least make her keep her options open. He could not run this company without her.
“Have dinner with me, then.”
If this request surprised her, it didn’t show. Instead, she tilted her head to one side, sending waves of beautiful red hair cascading over her cloaked shoulders. Then she moved. A hand emerged from the folds of her cloak and she touched him. She touched the line of his jaw with the tips of her fingers and then slid them down to where his white shirt was visible beneath the V of his suit jacket.
Heat poured off her as she flattened her palm against him. He desperately wanted to close his eyes and focus on the way her touch made his body jump to full attention. He wanted to lower his head and taste her ruby-red lips. He wanted to pull her body into his and feel her skin against his.
He did none of those things.
Instead, he took it like a man. Or he tried to. But when she said, in that soft whisper of hers, “And why would I agree to that?” it nearly broke his resolve.
“I’d like the chance to change your mind. About the job offer.” Which was not strictly true, not any longer. Not when her palm moved in the smallest of circles over his heart.
“Is that all?” she breathed. He could feel the heat from her hand burning his skin. “There’s nothing else you want from me?”
“I just want what’s best for the company.” Damn it all; his voice had gotten deeper on him. But he couldn’t help it, not with the way she was looking up at him. “Don’t you?”
Something in her face changed. It wasn’t resignation, not really—and it wasn’t surrender.
It was engagement. It was a yes.
She lightly pushed on his chest. He straightened and dropped his arm away from the door. “Dinner. For the company,” she agreed. He couldn’t interpret that statement, not when his ears were ringing with desire. “Where are you staying?”
“I have a suite at the Hotel Monaco.”
“Shall we say seven o’clock tomorrow night? In the lobby?”
“It would be an honor.”
She arched an eyebrow at him, and then, with a swirling turn, she was gone, striding into the reception area and pausing only to thank Delores again for all her help.
He had to find a way to get Frances on his side.
It had nothing to do with the way he could still feel her touch burned into his skin.
Four (#u5aa978d0-710e-530f-ba53-5c496bf1f888)
In the end, it’d come down to one of two dresses. Frances only had four left after the liquidation of her closet anyway. The green one was clearly out—it would reek of desperation to wear the same dress twice, even if Ethan’s eyes had bugged out of his head when he’d looked at her in it.
She also had her bridesmaid’s dress from her brother Phillip’s wedding, a sleek gray one with rhinestone accents. But that felt too formal for dinner, even if it did look good on her.
