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He shouldn’t have fallen for her tricks. Damn it, he knew better. What had gotten into him? Why had he let her anger him? And why hadn’t he made sure someone else was in the room during the entire standoff?
The only blessing Dom could count was that Arianna-the-piranha hadn’t accused him of sexual harassment.
Still, he was here in Jane O’Toole’s office to be evaluated—probably to commence “sensitivity training,” anger management and who knew what else. General kowtowing, he supposed.
In the meantime, he had a market analysis due, the regulators breathing down his neck and the licensing agreements to sign off on. Arianna would be nosing around every step of the way, erasing the dots from his i’s and smudging the crosses on his t’s. Anything she could use to trump up a case against him—she’d latch on to it with those flesh-eating fangs of hers.
Dom realized that Jane O’Toole was saying something to him. “What?” he asked gruffly. “I didn’t catch that.”
His eyes went from her mouth to her neckline, where she was fidgeting with—hoo, boy—a string of pearls. Again his male radar perked up. Hmm…
As soon as she followed his gaze, she dropped them as if they were hot.
He lifted a corner of his mouth. He didn’t mean it as a sneer exactly, but she seemed to take it as one, since she stiffened.
She was extremely attractive, with a mess of dark curly hair. This was cut at a sensible chin length and offset by huge brown eyes. Her cheekbones weren’t high but soft and rounded, blending into a surprisingly strong square chin.
She had plenty of interesting curves, too, though they were mostly hidden by a dark green pantsuit. He had a suspicion that lush, heavy breasts nestled against the lucky lining of her jacket. If Dom had met her in a bar—not that he usually went to bars, except to play pool—well, hell, he might have stiffened, too. So to speak.
His eyes strayed once again to the pearls at her neck, and he fought off an image of them in a darker, duskier place—attached to a scrap of silk.
“I asked you if you’d like a cup of coffee, Mr. Sayers.” The flush in her cheeks had spread down to her neck now, providing an interesting background for her pearls.
“Coffee would be great,” he said. He accepted it with thanks, omitting sugar or cream. He focused on the hot, black stuff and not Jane O’Toole’s possible tastes in lingerie. Grow up, Sayers. But hell, he felt all of thirteen, having been sent to the principal’s office.
Ms. O’Toole mixed her own coffee with as many cancer-causing substances as she could scrape together and stirred the disgusting brew with a long stick, which she tossed into the trash. “Why don’t we go into my office?”
The other two women involved in the kinky undies discussion—a six-foot Harley babe and a prim china doll—had vanished behind their respective doors. Dom shrugged and followed Principal O’Toole into her den of discipline. They might as well get on with his knuckle rapping.
“Have a seat,” she told him. She walked to a filing cabinet and bent over the second drawer, retrieving a sheet of paper from a manila folder. “This is a permission form—I always videotape my first session with a client. Then I’ll make a couple of tapes midway through our course together and one during the very last meeting. It’s just to document progress. I don’t release them to anyone, under any circumstances. But I do need you to sign off on the form.”
Dom folded his arms across his chest and told her he didn’t like the idea at all.
“Why not?” she asked calmly. “Is there something about being taped that threatens you?”
“No, Ms. O’Toole. I don’t feel threatened. But I would like to discuss a few issues with you and I don’t necessarily want them on record.”
She sat in her cushy leather chair opposite him and crossed her legs. Then she folded her hands across a leather-bound notebook in her lap. A pen emerged from the bundle of fingers, punctuating her air of cool disapproval like an exclamation point. Damn Arianna. He’d already been tried, judged and found lacking. But all Jane O’Toole said was, “Fine.”
“I want you to know that I’m not a behavioral problem,” he said. He could hear the anger in his own voice; saw her note it. “I do not have insubordination issues. I am not a chauvinist jerk who is unable to work for a woman. Is that clear?”
“Crystal,” she said. “So now that you’ve told me what you’re not, how about telling me what you are?”
“I’m a red-blooded American guy who doesn’t enjoy being manipulated by a power-hungry bitch.”
Her jaw dropped open and he heard her teeth click together as she shut it. Gotcha.
“Mr. Sayers, I’ve been called a lot of things during the course of my career, but that is a first.”
“I meant Arianna DuBose, not you!”
“I’m relieved to hear it. So tell me more about your working relationship with Ms. DuBose.”
A nice open-ended question. Gave him lots of rope to hang himself. Well, what the hell. He already had. “Ms. DuBose is an ambitious sociopath, and I happened to get in her way.”
“I see.”
“No, I don’t think you do. I was in line for a promotion and should have been a shoo-in. Suddenly the other regional managers were eyeing me uneasily, and Arianna got the job. Now she’s got it in for me. She wants me gone.”
Jane O’Toole took a careful sip of coffee and set her cup down on a side table. She uncrossed and recrossed her legs, unconsciously exhibiting lean, muscular calves. “So you’re battling a certain resentment that Ms. DuBose was promoted ahead of you. I can see how that would make you angry.”
She didn’t believe him. Of course she didn’t. It all sounded like sour grapes to his own ears. And paranoid, to boot. Dom felt tension growing in every muscle, fresh anger seeping through his veins. Arianna had him just where she wanted him: by the short and curlies. But by God, he wasn’t going to let her win. He had to get through to this O’Toole woman.
Charm. Where had his charm gone hiding? He almost growled out loud. Due to the sheer injustice of the situation, his charm had been squished beneath his heel like an old piece of gum. But he’d better figure out how to scrape some off and resurrect it into a nice big pink bubble, or Jane would unwittingly help Arianna destroy his career.
Ugh. The harder Dom thought about charm, the more it eluded him. He was mad, damn it. Justifiably so. And worse, he was embarrassed. How dare Arianna send him to this woman, like a rowdy child in need of a paddling?
He got up out of his chair and paced Jane’s office a couple of times. She just watched him out of those brown eyes, schooled carefully to be dispassionate. But he could sense her judgment, and it wounded his pride.
“Ms. O’Toole, it’s very clear to me that you think I’m a swine.”
The lashes fluttered over those baby browns and she bit her lip. “No, of course not.”
He snorted, walked back to the chair he’d been sitting in and pounded the back of it with his fist. “Come off it. You think I’m a pig.”
She raised a brow. “Your choice of words, not mine.”
Dom bared his teeth at her. “And you’re right. I am angry. But not for the reasons you think. However, I’m too irate to discuss all of this with you at the moment, so I’m going to put an end to our session.” He turned on his heel, walked to the door and opened it.
Jane sat in her chair and made a couple of notes. Then she got up and followed him to where he was standing gazing down at the catalogue she’d tossed on the sofa by the door. He was unable to look away from the tiny silk G-strings available in hot-pink or midnight-black, the ones with the—
He heard the click as she clutched at her necklace. Turned to see the red flash into her cheeks once again. He raised a brow, knowing that he shouldn’t voice the words even as he said them. “It’s always best…not to dangle pearls before swine, Ms. O’Toole.”
JANE REACHED HER LIMIT WITH this comment. She banished the blush from her cheeks and removed her hand from her necklace. “No one dangled anything in front of you, Mr. Sayers. You rooted out the mud all by yourself. And it’s clear to me that you’re trying to knock me off balance so that I’ll let you run away.”
He froze. The faint devilry and arrogance that had risen with his mocking eyebrows disappeared, and his lips flattened. “Run away?”
She nodded and continued on the offensive. “As fast as you can get your snout out the door.” It was the only way to get him back into her office and address the issues at hand.
Sayers’s shoulders seemed to grow wider and a definite glint shone in his eye. “I don’t run from anything, Jane O’Toole. Not sociopathic bosses and not smug little psych majors with an ambition to fix what ain’t broke. Understand?”
Oh, but I will fix you, Mr. Attitude. You just don’t know it yet. All men need to be fixed! “Yes, Dominic Sayers, I believe I do. Now, since we’ve established that you’re not running away, let’s step back into my office—shall we?” Ha! I’ve got you now.
His eyes narrowed. He couldn’t walk out the door and still retain any self-respect. And he knew it. She restrained a smile. Was it her imagination or did every faint pinstripe on the man’s suit indicate a bullet trajectory—all of them aimed right at her?
Jane smiled at his back as he stalked once again toward her office. Hostility and annoyance buzzed around them like a thousand angry horseflies.
She dropped into her chair and made a couple more notes. This made her look official and professional and gave her a moment to think. Continue on the offensive, she told herself. Just take the bull by the horns. Maybe that way he’ll smash some excellent psychological china….
“So, Mr. Sayers. How long have you entertained hostile thoughts toward women? Does this date back to your childhood?”
He fixed her with an extremely black, dangerous stare—and then he began to curse. She ignored the actual words and just let him vent. But in the meantime she couldn’t help but admire the way he filled out his suit, the jump of the muscles in his stern jaw as he got pithy with her and the truly miraculous bone structure of his face. The man had cheekbones that would make a sculptor weep.
When he finally stopped with an insult to her profession, she said graciously, “I’m so glad we’ve had this time together,” and opened her appointment book. “I’d like to visit you at the office on Monday, all right? Nine-ish, shall we say?”
Sayers appeared to choke on that breath he was taking. “Lady, are you out of your mind?”
“No, I’m certainly not. Let’s identify what just happened here. Since you were too proud to walk out that door, when I asked you a question you resented, you exhibited enough hostility that you hoped I’d be horrified and back out of working with you. I’m not going to do that. Of course, again it’s your choice. You can retreat from the battlefield and refuse to work with me.” She watched him carefully for a moment. “But then I’ll have to log that in my evaluation. And if what you say about the, uh, sociopathic Ms. DuBose is true, then won’t you just be playing into her hands?”
2
BY THE TIME DOMINIC SAYERS left her office, Jane was smug in the knowledge that she’d won the round. Oh, yes indeed—he was down for the count, with her high heel firmly planted between his handsome shoulder blades. It was a darn good feeling—but she couldn’t help questioning how long it would last. Dominic would be armed and dangerous next time they met. She had to prepare herself. And she had to get him to talk to her.
Besides being angry, who was this man? She didn’t have many clues. And if she couldn’t figure out who he was, how was she going to figure out how to fix him?
She stared at the obnoxious, broad, dark back of Sayers as he walked to his hunter-green Jaguar and unlocked it. The guy didn’t saunter exactly. He just walked casually, with confidence radiating off what she had to admit were exceptionally nice shoulders. She wondered fleetingly what he looked like in a snug T-shirt before her gaze dropped to his backside, which was so fine that she could watch it like a television. She wouldn’t be at all surprised if strange women pinched it on the street….
That’s when he caught her, acknowledging her stare with one of his own.
Annoyed at herself, she turned on her heel, only to have her gaze fall on the glossy Vicky’s Secret catalogue that had launched some of the trouble between them. Because there was trouble between them, no doubt about it—layers of disturbance that had to do not only with a battle of wits but also with an underlying resistance to each other. Jane didn’t like this one bit. Because the flip side of resistance was…attraction.
How could she be attracted to a foul-mouthed self-professed swine? Well, truth to tell, he was more of a grizzly bear.
Jane had always loved a good fight. And she usually won—just as she had today. But she was attracted to Sayers, God help her.
Ugh. There it was, lying out in the open for her to deal with. But how?
She snatched the offending lingerie catalogue off the sofa and stuffed it into the nearest circular file.
The planet was littered with Vicky’s Secret catalogues. Bombarded with bras, plastered with panties. She was so used to seeing them, modeled by half-naked nymphets, that she hadn’t thought to hide the damned catalogue in the depths of the cleaning closet.
And out of all the possible selections in such a catalogue, Mr. Sayers had to have caught her looking at that one. Jane clutched the pearls at her neck and let her fingers slide along the smooth orbs, trying not to imagine how they might feel slithering into dark, sensual crevices. She shifted from one foot to the other, feeling heat blossom on her skin at an unbidden image of Sayers trailing his fingers after them….
Then she slapped herself in the forehead. What was wrong with her? Jane stuck her foot in the wastebasket and stomped on the damn catalogue just to make herself feel better.
Shannon’s door opened behind her. “Now that’s a good look for you, O’Toole.”
With dignity, Jane removed her foot from the container.
“Almost as good a look as the beet-red on your face an hour ago.”
Jane shot her a look that communicated two words: bite me.
“So what’s up with him, and why do you look like you just ate a nail sandwich?”
Jane sighed. “He doesn’t want to be here. Remember how thrilled I was to hear from that female VP? The one from Zantyne?”
Shannon nodded.
“Well, she’s the one who sent Mr. Sunshine this morning. And he does seem to have an attitude problem. He’s going to be a tough client.”
“Not to mention a hot one!”
Jane ignored the comment completely, as well as the smirk on her friend’s face.
“But if you do well with him,” Shannon guessed, “we could get a lot more business from Zantyne—business that we need if we want to break even this year, service the business loans and hire a receptionist.”
“Exactly.”
Shannon tapped a long fingernail against her teeth. The fingernail was purple. Yesterday it had been blue.
“Hey, Shan? Your nails aren’t going to be green tomorrow, are they? I mean, we—”
“Have a corporate image to uphold, yes, I know. Trust me, once I have my first clients in here next week, the claws will be short and neutral. But until then I’m a free spirit, honey. And green’s not a bad idea…MAC has a new metallic mint color out. Thanks for reminding me.”
Jane looked down at Shannon’s toes, which gleamed—alternately striped and polka-dotted with silver and purple. She shook her head. “Where do you find the time?”
“Exactly where you find the time to run on your treadmill like a gerbil on a wheel. Back to this hunky guy with the eyebrows. Convince him that he can use you for his own purposes, and then he’ll relax.”
Jane nodded slowly, trying to ignore the dirtier connotations of being used for Sayers’s own purposes. Stop that! He’s a client.
Shannon might have a few nuts in her center, but she was often unexpectedly brilliant. “I think you’re right,” Jane said in her best crisp and professional tones. “He’s not the kind of personality who will accept help. He needs to be in control.”
Shannon smirked. “Hmm. Kind of like some other people I know…”
“Hey, it’s not my fault I’m a Virgo. I was born that way.”
“No, I think you dictated the exact date and time you exited the womb. You also took notes, cc-ing the doctor and your parents.”
Jane was smart enough to check the door this time for roving clients before shooting the finger at Shannon. Oh, yes, she had Finesse.
SHE WAS DRAWN BACK INTO HER office by the ringing phone and she could still smell Dominic Sayers’s scent as she picked up the receiver. “Jane O’Toole.”
“Hi, honey.”
Her heart turned over at the sound of her father’s voice, monotone and depressed, as he was most of the time. She worried about him constantly. “Hey, Dad. What’s up?”
“Gilbey got himself fired again. Don’t know what to do with that boy.”
Jane plopped into her leather chair, squishing all the air out of the seat cushion in an indelicate whoosh. She slipped off one brown leather pump and rubbed the arch of her bare foot against the toe of the other. “What happened this time?”
“Some BS about how the foreman doesn’t like him, wrote him up for being a minute late, yada yada.”
She’d heard it all before—many times—which was probably why she was allergic to the blame game. Her brother Gilbey, just like Dominic Sayers today, always had a boss who was out to get him. And conveniently for Gilbey, the boss always did. Then Gil didn’t have to work while he “searched” for his next job. It was all very convenient. Jane sighed.
“Dad, he’s not going to grow up if you don’t kick him out of the house. He’s going to remain mentally seventeen forever—and he’s twice that age!”
Her father muttered something.
