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Sinclair hit the buzzer, letting Hunter into the building.
She didn’t know whether she’d been brilliant or stupid to take him up on his offer to paint, but there was no turning back now.
She’d dressed in a pair of old torn blue jeans and a grainy gray T-shirt with “Stolen From the New York City Police Department” emblazoned across the front. Her hair was braided tight against her head, and she’d popped a white painter’s cap on her head. She had no worries that the tone of the evening would be sexy in any way.
The bell rang, echoing through the high-ceilinged, empty room. Her living room furniture was in storage for another week. But she’d already finished the small bedroom, so it was back together.
She opened the front door and the hinges groaned loudly in the cavernous space as Hunter walked in.
“Nice,” he said, looking around at the tarp-draped counters and breakfast bar, the plastic on the floors, and the dangling pieces of masking tape around the bay window.
“It has a lot of potential,” she told him, closing and locking the oak door. There was no doubt it was smaller than he’d be used to, but she was excited about living here.
“I wasn’t being sarcastic, honest.” He held up a bottle of wine. “Housewarming.”
“That might be a bit premature.” She still had a lot of work to get done.
He glanced around the room for somewhere to set the bottle down. “In a cupboard?” he asked, heading for the alcove kitchen.
“Beside the fridge,” she called.
He got rid of the wine and shrugged out of his windbreaker. Then he returned to the main room in a pair of khakis and a white T-shirt that were obviously brand-new.
She tried not to smile at the outfit.
It really was nice of him to come and help. Still, she wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity to tease him.
“You don’t do home maintenance often, do you?”
He glanced around the tarp-draped room. “I’ve seen it done on TV.”
“It’s not as easy as it looks,” she warned.
He shot her an expression of mock disbelief. “I have an MBA from Harvard.”
“And they covered house painting in graduate school?”
“They covered macroeconomics and global capitalism.”
She fought a grin. “Oh sure, go ahead and get snooty on me.”
“Dip the brush and stroke it on the wall. Am I close?”
“I guess you might as well give it a try.”
“Give it a try?”
Her grin broadened at his insulted tone.
He bent over and pried open a paint can. “You might want to shift your attitude. I’m free labor, baby.”
“Am I getting what I paid for?”
“Sassy,” he said, and her heart tripped a beat.
“You need to shake it,” she told him, battling the sensual memory. He’d called her sassy in Manchester. In a way that said he wanted her bad.
“Shake it?” he interrupted her thoughts.
She swallowed. “You need to shake the paint before you open the can.”
He raised his brow as he crouched to tap the lid back down.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“You bet. Nothing like keeping the billionaire humble.”
“Don’t stereotype. I’m always humble.”
“Yeah. I noticed that right off, Mr. Macroeconomics and Global Capitalism.”
“Well, what did you take in college?”
She hesitated for a second then admitted it. “MBA. Yale.”
“So, you took macroeconomics and global capitalism?”
“Magna cum laude,” she said with a hoity toss of her head.
“Yet you can still paint. Imagine that.”
She glanced at him for a moment, trying to figure out why he hadn’t escalated the joke by teasing her about the designation. Then it hit her. “You got summa, at least, didn’t you?”
He didn’t answer.
“Geek,” she said.
He grinned as he shook the paint. Then he poured it into the tray.
She broke out the brushes, and he quickly caught on to using the long-handled roller. Sinclair cut in the corners, and together they worked their way down the longest wall.
“What do you think of the Crystal Spa chain?” he asked as his roller swished up and down in long strokes.
“I’ve never been there,” said Sinclair from the top of the step ladder. This close to the ceiling lights, she was starting to sweat. She finally gave in and peeled off her cap.
Wisps of strands had come loose from her braid. Probably she’d end up with cream-colored specks in her hair. Whatever. They were painting her walls, not dancing in a ballroom.
“You want to try it?”
She paused at the end of her stroke, glancing down at him. Was he talking about the Crystal Spa? “Try what?”
“I was thinking, we shouldn’t let the Millennium’s refusal stop us. We should consider other spas.”
Was he serious? More importantly, why hadn’t she thought of that?
She felt a shimmer of excitement. Maybe her spa idea wasn’t dead, after all. And the New York-based Crystal Spa chain would be an even better choice than the Millennium.
She’d learned from the Millennium experience. She’d make sure she was even better prepared for a pitch to the Crystal.
“Can I try out the Crystal on my expense account?” she asked with a teasing lilt.
“Of course.”
Scoffing her dismissal, she went back to painting. “Like Roger would ever go for that.”
Besides, she didn’t have to test out the Crystal Spa to know it was fantastic. Everyone always raved.
“Forget Roger, will you?” urged Hunter. “Here.”
She glanced back down.
With the roller hooked under one arm, he pulled out his wallet. Then he tossed a credit card onto her tarp-covered breakfast bar. “Consider this your expense account.” She nearly fell off the ladder. “You can’t—”
“I just did.”
“But—”
“Shut up.” He went back to the paint tray. “I know the spa idea’s great. You know the spa idea’s great. Let’s streamline the research and make it happen.”
“You can’t pay for my spa treatments.”
“Osland International can pay for them. It’s my corporate card, and I consider it a perfectly legitimate R & D expense.”
Sinclair didn’t know what to say to that. Trying out the spa would be great research, but still…
He rolled the next section. “It’s not like I can go in there and check out the wax room myself.”
She cringed, involuntarily flinching. “Wax room?”
He chuckled at her expression. “Buck up, Sinclair. Take one for the team.”
“You take one for the team.”
“I’ve done my part. It’s my credit card.”
“They’re my legs.”
“Who said anything about legs?”
She stared at him. He didn’t. He wouldn’t.
“We were this close!” She made a tiny space with her thumb and index finger. “This close to having a totally professional conversation.”
“I’m weak,” he admitted.
“You’re hopeless.”
“Yeah. Well. Irrespective of what you get waxed, and whether or not you show me, it’s still a good idea.”
It was a good idea. And her gaze strayed to his platinum card sitting on the canvas tarp. Even if he couldn’t keep his mind on business, this was not an opportunity she was about to give up. “I’m thinking a facial.”
“Whatever you want. I need to know if they can deliver the kind of opportunity we’re looking for.”
“What if they’re locked into a supplier contract like the Millennium?”
Hunter shrugged. “Every business is different. We’ll deal with that when and if it happens. Tomorrow good for you?”
She nodded.
With only twelve days until Valentine’s Day. There was no time to lose.
Three
The next day, lying on her back in uptown Manhattan’s Crystal Spa, a loose silky robe covering her naked body, Sinclair was feeling very relaxed after her facial massage. A smooth, cool mask was drying on her face. Damp pads protected her eyes, and she found herself nearly falling asleep.
“Sinclair?”
She was dreaming of Hunter’s voice. That was fine. Dreaming never hurt anybody.
“Sinclair?” the voice came again.
No.
No way.
Hunter was not in this room.
Warm hands closed up the wide V of her robe. “No sense playing with fire,” he said.
“What are you doing here?”
“I need permission to cancel your appointments for this afternoon.”
She tried to form words, but they jumbled in her brain and turned into incomprehensive sputters.
“We need to fly to L.A.,” Hunter told her matter-of-factly.
“This is a dream, right? You’re not really here.”
