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“I’m afraid that’s nonnegotiable, Mr. McGuire,” she said, pleased with the firm tone of her voice. “I can’t allow you free rein of our stores without supervision. You understand—I have to prioritize customer service and operations above the needs of Graham’s little investigation.” Did she sound bitter? Cassie inwardly winced. Yes, probably, but then it didn’t hurt for this guy to understand the relative importance of this exercise. They might be deciding the company’s future—Cassie’s future—but on a day-to-day level, customers still had to be served, furniture still had to be sold, operations still had to continue. Otherwise there’d be no future to plan for.
“But shouldn’t you be around to manage the store opening?” he tried again.
Yes, she should, but Cassie wasn’t about to admit that she wasn’t capable of being a retail superwoman. She gave what she hoped looked like a carefree shrug when in reality her mind was filled with a list of the seemingly unending tasks that had to be completed between now and next Monday. “It’s mostly all bedded down now. I can handle any last-minute things from the road. Our flight leaves Wednesday, tomorrow, for Perth. We’ll stay overnight and then catch an early flight to Sydney on Thursday. We’ll spend two nights in Sydney and come back to Melbourne on Saturday morning. Monday is a soft opening for the store—the advertising and marketing doesn’t start until later in the week with the official grand opening on Saturday.”
He gave her a considered look and nodded. “So there’s the weekend to finalize things, too, if need be.”
“Exactly.”
He studied her for a while, his eyes searching her face, and Cassie steeled herself not to look away. Eventually his mouth curved into an almost smile and his eyes softened. With a nod of his head, he let Cassie know she’d won. This round.
“Of course,” he said.
“I assure you, we will make our visits as effective and efficient as possible.”
“Effective and efficient works for me.” That teasing tone was back. If she hadn’t just spent the morning with him, going through the financials, and seen his expertise firsthand, she’d wonder if the man ever took anything seriously.
“We have the rest of today here, then we leave first thing in the morning for Perth. It’s an early flight, I’m afraid.”
“Fine with me. I’m an early riser.”
She’d just bet he was. He looked like the type that rose at dawn to go for a run—always one step ahead of the world.
“Would there be a soda in the fridge?” Ronan stood up and stretched subtly, like a panther that had been crouching in the bushes, watching its prey for too long.
“Sure, help yourself.”
He was still wearing his suit, including jacket, and while the office part of the building was air-conditioned, it was definitely warm. Too warm for more than shirtsleeves. Cassie’s own shirt felt suspiciously damp under her arms, but that could be explained by the combination of nerves and heat. It was the weather, the situation, the man. She must remember not to lift her arms too high, just in case her shirt betrayed her.
“Want one?”
Cassie shook her head. She’d stick with water. The caffeine from the morning’s extra coffees was still zinging around in her bloodstream. Any more and she’d start to shake.
He sat down next to her, unscrewing the bottle he’d selected. She expected him to drink straight from it, but he poured the dark liquid into a glass.
She had to remember not to expect anything when it came to Ronan McGuire.
“Have you had enough lunch?” she asked. Much as Cassie loved this room, it was starting to feel a little stifling. Having watched Ronan do something as innocently domestic as get something from the fridge, she was on the verge of reclining and enjoying a little Part Four fantasy about being at home with him—her husband—sitting at their kitchen table, going over the business that they ran together. Two dark-haired little angels—because any children they had would have to be brunette—were tucked up in bed upstairs.
And Cassie was in no position to become CEO of Country Style because she was certifiably insane.
“I’m good,” he said, beaming another of those toothpaste-ad smiles her way.
Did all Americans have teeth like that or just the Californians?
Cassie stood up and managed to plaster what she hoped was a neutral smile on her face. “I thought I’d take you through the warehouse before we move on to looking at our inventory. It might make it easier to visualize the reports.”
“Good thinking.” Ronan stood, as well. “I’d also like to speak to the staff. With your permission, of course.”
“Fine,” she said, because she couldn’t think of a reason to say no. Cassie could just imagine how those conversations might go, though. Her burly, tattooed, hearts-of-gold but gutter-mouthed warehouse guys were going to be less than respectful to a shiny American in a posh suit and tie. The man had product in his hair, for goodness’ sake.
“Just so you know,” she said, “I’ve distributed a memo to staff to let them know only that you’re visiting at the request of Graham to learn more about our business. I didn’t want to cause uncertainty or anxiety for anyone about any potential…changes. No point getting everyone worried over nothing. So I’d appreciate it if you could keep the purpose of your enquiries discreet.”
Ronan nodded. “Of course. And you weren’t lying—I am here to learn more about the business.”
You’re here to determine whether or not I can step up to the top job and we both know it, Cassie wanted to blurt. But now wasn’t the time. Now was the time to play nice, to be a leader in the truest sense of the word, and—for now, anyway—helping Ronan to realize that Country Style was a strong, successful business was in her best interests.
He gestured for her to lead the way.
Cassie paused and looked him up and down. When her eyes returned to his face, the expression in his eyes told her he’d been very aware of her unsubtle review. He wasn’t pleased. Or even teasing. No, his eyes had gone hard again, masking whatever he was thinking. She was reminded of her initial impression—this man was like a bright, beautiful tropical fish with a poisoned spike that could kill its prey in less than a minute. She had a sudden, visceral sense that Ronan McGuire would make a potent enemy. “Uh, the warehouse isn’t air-conditioned,” Cassie said, gesturing to his suit, wincing at her uncertain tone. “You might want to…uh…”
“Lose the jacket?” He visibly relaxed. He was relieved she hadn’t been checking him out, Cassie realized.
He found her that unattractive?
It was ridiculous to be disappointed. And it was just lucky he couldn’t read her mind.
Cassie nodded. “Yeah. It can get pretty steamy out there. It’s supposed to get to thirty-six degrees today, and inside our tin shed it can be even hotter.”
“I assume you have health and safety regulations in place to look after the welfare of the employees?”
It was a simple question with a simple answer. But Cassie’s mouth went dry as she watched him shrug out of his jacket and drape it on the back of his chair. His white shirt was still pristine, a heavy cotton that had no visible logos and screamed “more expensive than you can imagine in your wildest dreams, Cassie Hartman.”
But he didn’t stop there.
“If I’m talking to warehouse guys, I should lose the tie, too,” he said, almost to himself.
It was a good idea, on so many levels.
His fingers loosened the knot of his burgundy tie and the luscious silk slipped through his collar with an illicit whisper. He undid the top two buttons of the shirt and revealed the beginnings of a light dusting of dark hair against smooth, tanned skin. Then his hands worked at his cuffs and a moment later, the shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, exposing muscled forearms sprinkled with that same dark hair.
It was only the burn in her lungs that reminded Cassie to breathe.
This was not a strip show on King Street. But Cassie had a sudden urge to order a cosmopolitan, sit back and watch as he continued. Button. Another button.
She shook her head and sucked in a breath. To give herself recovery time, she looked down at the table and shuffled some papers around. But as soon as she’d managed to tear her eyes away from his delectable body, another element hit her senses—his scent.
He wasn’t as unaffected by the heat as she’d thought—there was a whiff of sweat there, but it was the good kind, the kind that made her want to inhale deeply. It was only just discernable under his expensively discreet aftershave, musky and woody, a smell that reinforced the conflicting impressions Cassie was trying to assimilate. On the one hand, he was all coolly professional sophistication, on the other, he radiated earthy, primal masculinity.
Cassie’s eyes lit on the cuff links from his French-cuffed shirt that were sitting on the table—quirky little enameled blocks decorated to look like dice.
It was an effective reminder of the reality of the situation. They probably cost more than every item of jewelry Cassie owned combined.
And for Ronan, this little exercise was a game. A roll of the dice and Cassie won or lost. It didn’t matter to him. He’d go back to America and his waiting partnership and never think about Country Style or Cassidy Hartman again.
Now was not the time for Cassie’s underdeveloped sex drive to suddenly come to life. Part Three had to wait until Parts One and Two were in place.
She stopped fiddling with the papers and set her eyes directly on his face, bypassing those arms, that chest. “Yes, of course we do.” It came out a little more direct than Cassie had planned.
He frowned.
“Have a health and safety policy,” she clarified, moderating her tone. “The foreman has an ambient-temperature monitor. As soon as it gets over a certain level, we send everyone home. And we try to plan our shifts around the weather report during summer. For example, today we started at dawn to ensure we could receive and store the stock before the heat really hit.”
He nodded, seeming to take Cassie’s undisguised defensiveness in stride.
“Good to hear. Shall we?”
He raised that single eyebrow again, but this time Cassie was prepared; she’d fortified herself and the expression didn’t melt her into a messy puddle.
“Absolutely. Follow me.”
CHAPTER THREE
RONAN WAS READY TO FALL into bed by the time he got back to the hotel after a full day at Country Style. But, determined not to let the jet lag win, he changed his clothes, ran a couple of miles on the hotel gym’s treadmill and then swam a few laps. A quick meal from room service and he was feeling better—still tired, but now in a physical sense, not just a blurred, fuzzy, jet-lagged sense.
He cracked open his laptop and crawled into bed with it, sitting a nightcap of substandard Scotch from the minibar on the side table. A quick review of his emails and then the whisky and he’d be guaranteed a decent night’s sleep before he had to get up at dawn to catch the plane to Perth.
Two hundred and fourteen emails.
Not bad, considering it had been a full day since he’d last checked.
Only one of them from his father. Requesting a progress report according to the subject line—no surprises there. Ronan’s finger hovered over the delete key, but then remembered how much was riding on this job. Instead, he clicked on the message, and his father’s brusque words filled the screen.
Ronan
Report back on progress with Taylor job ASAP—client expects interim recommendations by end of week. You know what outcomes are sought. Keep your nose clean. Keep your pecker cleaner!
Patrick Conroy
President and CEO, Conroy Corporation
Didn’t even bother to sign it “Dad,” just his full name and company signature, which was as effective a reminder that Ronan was in the doghouse as anything else.
Ronan bristled at the warning in the email. As if he were a child. As if the point hadn’t been made loud and clear before he’d left San Francisco.
It was why he’d made a last-minute decision to use his grandmother’s maiden name for this job. He didn’t want the CEO-son stigma following him around the world. “Ronan Conroy” brought too much baggage with it, whereas “Ronan McGuire” was nice and anonymous. It gave him space and time to think through what had happened—which was exactly what his father had hoped for by sending him to Australia in the first place.
The past month had been a mess. Everything had been going so well up until then, or so he’d thought. Now that he looked back on it, he wondered just how long the storm had been brewing.
An image of Sarah Forsythe swam up in his mind’s eye and made him shudder.
Ronan didn’t like to think of himself as the kind of man who spent time tying himself up in knots over regrets, but he couldn’t let this one go.
How had he not predicted what would happen? How had he been so wrong? Probably because he’d been concentrating on the long blond hair and the swimsuit-model body hidden within prim business suits, he reflected ruefully.
It wasn’t as though he’d never slept with a client before. It was a line he’d crossed, but always carefully. This time he hadn’t been so careful. He’d simply seen what he wanted and he’d taken it.
He’d been groomed his entire life to take over the leadership of Conroy Corporation one day. And until recently, he’d thought that was what he wanted. The last job he’d managed—a complex M&A in New York—had been a goldmine. A runaway success for the client had resulted in a tidy packet of consulting fees—and a newly polished reputation for Conroy Corporation on Wall Street. Ronan had been full of his own success.
He and Sarah, an accountant with one of the companies, had worked long hours together. When, toward the end of the job, a late night turned into drinks after work, they’d both had one too many. And when the night had ended with them sharing her bed, he’d been reasonably sure they were on the same page. It had been mutual; two consenting adults seeking pleasure in each other. These things happened in high-pressure environments. It was a release valve for both of them.
The next morning Ronan had tried to let her down easy. Given her a bit of the patented Ronan Conroy charm. She’d smiled, walked away, and Ronan had thought things were fine as he focused on tying up the loose ends as the job came to a close.
Two days later, he was on a plane, summoned back to his father’s office where a lawyer’s letter threatening a sexual harassment lawsuit was waved in his face.
Ronan had been incensed. His father had been so livid Ronan had actually feared for his health, watching him go puce with rage.
The words of their fight still echoed in his mind. His father had accused him of coasting, of not taking things seriously, of having a sense of entitlement over his career at Conroy Corporation, of being immature and shortsighted. Ronan had argued the exact opposite: he’d never been granted the slightest advantage, always had to work twice as hard as everyone else, never taken a shortcut, never once ridden on his father’s coattails.
Patrick Conroy had made Ronan work his way up the ranks just like any other employee.
No, not like any other employee.
Ronan had had to work harder, longer and more diligently than anyone to get even half the recognition.
And it stung. Not that Ronan wanted to be given a free ride, but once, just once, it would have been nice to know that his father considered him a worthy successor. He wasn’t looking for special treatment—just acknowledgment that his hard work had been worth it, that his natural talent for the business made him stand out.
But no.
Always conscious of the optics, Patrick Conroy had practiced reverse discrimination, putting more complex and difficult hurdles in front of his son than anyone else.
The partnership should have been his as soon as he’d got back from New York.
Unlike his father, Ronan knew that it didn’t matter what the reality was; there’d be plenty of people at Conroy Corporation who would greet the news of his partnership with a sneer and a joke about nepotism. But anyone who’d ever worked with him knew that Ronan not only deserved that partnership, he’d worked harder than anyone else in order to win it.
And then one stupid move, one wrong decision…
He was angry—with his father, with Sarah, with the world.
Also, even if he wasn’t quite ready to admit it aloud, with himself.
Ronan made his living from analyzing situations and predicting outcomes—and he was damn good at it. But he’d screwed this one up, big-time. How had he not seen that Sarah wasn’t just looking for one night of mutual fun? He’d been high on success, full of himself and his New York triumph, the partnership he’d had to bust his ass to achieve finally within his grasp.
Only to have it jerked away after one little mistake.
He blew out a breath and shook his head, trying to focus. All he had to do was make a decent job of this Country Style project and he’d be back on track. Simple.
Ronan scanned the subject lines of all his other emails and decided there was nothing desperately urgent. He could deal with the rest of them on the plane tomorrow.
He closed the laptop, drained the Scotch, switched off the light and lay back and stared up at the ceiling. Alert and awake, despite his physical and mental exhaustion.
“Damn.” He swore again, more savagely, punched the pillow and rolled on his side. His mind was racing and wouldn’t shut down. His thoughts still tumbled over each other, churning over his current predicament.
His entire future was riding on this Taylor job. He’d been sent to Australia as a punishment, just like the British convicts that had settled the country. But it was also his last chance of redemption. His chance to prove to his father—and to himself—that he really did care about some things. Like his future.
Like not becoming a laughingstock.
Did you hear the one about the CEO’s son who got demoted?
