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It was too bad he wasn’t in the market for a high-maintenance, high-powered career woman.
“So what do you do for a living?” he asked, after the flight attendant had come by to deliver bowls of warmed nuts and take their drink orders. Milk for her, coffee for him.
She picked out an almond. Then a pecan. “I’m in scandal management.”
Okay, he could see that.
She seemed like the type who could take a highly emotional, probably volatile situation and boil it down to something manageable. “I recently started my own firm.” She reached into a pocket of her carryall and plucked out a business card. Winslow Strategies. Crisis Management by the Very Best. It had her name featured prominently, printed in the same memorable green as her eyes, and a Dallas address.
He started to hand it back. She gestured for him to keep it, so he slipped it into the pocket of his shirt. “Business good?”
She gestured affably, looking reluctant to be too specific. “There’s always someone in trouble.”
I’ll bet. “But to have to hire someone to get yourself out of it?” He couldn’t keep the contempt from his voice.
“People hire lawyers all the time when they find themselves in a tight spot.”
Imagining that line worked on a lot of very wealthy people, he sipped his coffee. “Not the same thing.”
She turned slightly toward him, tilting her head. “It sort of is,” she said, her voice a little too tight. “Words can hurt. Or mislead. Or falsely indict. So can actions.” She paused to sip her milk and let her words sink in, then set her glass down on the tray. “It’s important when in the midst of a potentially life-altering, and especially life-damaging event, to have someone on your side who isn’t emotionally involved, calling the shots and orchestrating everything behind the scenes.”
Her exceptional calmness rankled; he couldn’t say why. “Creating a publicly acceptable narrative,” he reiterated.
She lifted a delicate hand, gesturing amiably. “I prefer to think of it as a compelling explanation that will allow others to empathize with you. And, if not exactly approve of or condone, at least understand.”
“And therefore let your client off the hook,” he said grimly, reflecting on another time. Another situation. And another woman whose actions he resented to this day. “Whether they deserve to be spared any accountability for what they’ve done or not.”
Taken aback, Hope Winslow squinted at him. “Are you speaking personally?”
Hell, yes, it had been personal! Being cheated on and then backed into a corner always was. Not that he regretted protecting the innocent bystanders in the situation. They’d done nothing to deserve having their names dragged through the mud.
“I’m guessing that’s a yes,” she said.
The silence stretched between them, awkward now. She continued to look him up and down, asking finally, “Are you always this black and white in your thinking, Captain Lockhart?”
His turn to shrug. He finished what was left of his coffee. “About some things, yeah.” He set the cup down with a thud. The flight attendant appeared with a refill.
When they were alone again, Hope continued curiously, “Is that why you chose the military as a career?”
It was part of it. The rest was more personal. “Both my grandfathers served our country.” His dad had passed on the opportunity. He and one of his four siblings had not.
“And...?” she prodded.
He exhaled, not above admitting that honor was everything to him. “There’s not a lot of room for error—or gray areas—in the military. It’s either right or it’s wrong.” Simple. Basic. Necessary. Unlike the way he’d grown up.
She stared at him. “And you think what I do is wrong.”
“I wouldn’t have put it that way,” Garrett said.
A delicate pale brow arched. “But you think it, don’t you?”
Wishing she hadn’t put him on the spot, he returned her sharp, assessing gaze. “You’re right. I do.”
“Well, that’s too bad, Captain.” Hope Winslow took a deep breath that lifted her opulent breasts. “Because your mother, Lucille Lockhart, has hired me to represent your entire family, as well as the Lockhart Foundation.”
He took a moment to let the blonde’s announcement sink in. Feeling as if he had just taken a sucker punch to the gut, he grumbled, “So the way you kept checking me out before we boarded, the fact that we’re both seated in first class on this flight, side by side, was no accident.”
“Lucille said you’d be difficult. I needed to talk with you before we landed and I wanted to get started early. And to that end...”
She finished her milk, put her tray away, retrieved her carryall from beneath the seat and took out a computer tablet. She brought up a screen titled Talking Points for Lockhart Foundation Crisis and set it in front of him. “I want you to memorize these.”
One hand on the cup, lest it spill, he stared at her. “You have got to be kidding me.”
The hell of it was, she wasn’t. “There’s a press conference later today,” she informed him crisply, suddenly all business. “We need you to be ready.”
This was like a replay of his past, only in a more formal venue. He hadn’t played those games then, and he certainly wasn’t getting sucked into them now. “No.”
Hope leaned closer, her green eyes narrowing. “You have to be there.” Her tone said the request was nonnegotiable.
His mood had been grim when he got on the plane. It was fire and brimstone now. No wonder his mother hadn’t wanted to be specific when she’d sent out that vague but somewhat hysterical SOS and let him know he was needed in Dallas ASAP.
He worked his jaw back and forth. “Why? I don’t have anything to do with the family charity.”
“You’re on the board of directors.”
Which basically did nothing but meet a couple times a year and green light—by voice vote—everything the CEO and CFO requested. “So are my mother and all my siblings.”
“All of whom have been asked to participate and follow the plan.” Hope paused, even more purposefully. “Your mother needs you to stand beside her.”
Garrett imagined that was so. Lucille had been vulnerable since his dad’s death. Knowing how much his parents had loved each other, that they’d been together for over forty years, he imagined the loss his mom felt was even more palpable than his own.
But there were limits as to what he would do. In this situation or any other. “And I will,” he promised tautly. “Just not like a puppet on a string. And certainly not in any scripted way in front of any microphones.”
* * *
ONE LOOK AT the dark expression on Garrett’s face told Hope there was no convincing him otherwise. Not while they were on the plane, anyway.
So she remained quiet during the descent. Thinking.
Strategizing.
By the time the aircraft landed in Dallas, she knew what she had to do.
She waited for him to catch up after they’d left the Jetway and walked out into the terminal, dragging her overnight bag behind her. “Your mother is sending a limo for us.”
He slung his duffel over one brawny shoulder. “Thanks. I’ll find my own way home.” He turned in the direction of the rental cars.
Hope rushed to catch up, her long strides no match for his. “She’s expecting us at the foundation office downtown.”
“Okay.”
Desperate to keep Garrett Lockhart from getting away from her entirely, she caught his arm, steering him off to the side, out of the way of other travelers. “Okay, you’ll be there?” she asked, as amazed at the strength and heat in the powerful biceps as by the building awareness inside of her. She had to curtail this desire. She could not risk another romantic interlude like the last. Could not!
One second she’d been holding on to him. Now he had dropped his duffel and was holding on to her. Hands curved lightly around her upper arms, oblivious to the curious stares of onlookers, he backed her up against a pillar, his tall, powerful physique caging hers. The muscles in his jaw bunched. “Get this through that pretty little head of yours. You are not in charge of me.”
Like heck she wasn’t! This was her job, gosh darn it. Refusing to be intimidated by this handsome bear of a man she lifted her chin. Valiantly tried again. “This crisis...”
He stared her down. “What crisis?”
He had a right to know what they were dealing with, but best they not delve into the exact details here, with people passing by right and left. She swallowed in the face of all that raw testosterone, the feel of his hands cupping her shoulders, the wish that... Never mind what she wished! “I’d prefer...”
He didn’t wait to hear the rest. Pivoting, he picked up his olive-green duffel, slung it back over his shoulder and headed for the doors out of Terminal B.
She raced after him, her trim skirt and high heels no match for his long, masterful strides. She would have lost him entirely had it not been for the contingent waiting on the other side.
No sooner had he cleared the glass doors than a group with press badges rushed toward him, trailing his sixty-eight-year-old mother.
As usual, the willowy brunette socialite was garbed in a sophisticated sheath and cardigan, her trademark pearls around her neck. Despite the many conversations they’d had this morning, Lucille Lockhart also looked more frazzled than she had the last time Hope had seen her. Not a good sign.
“Garrett, darling!” Lucille cried, rushing forward to envelope her much taller son in a fierce familial hug, the kind returning military always got from their loved ones.
Just that quickly, microphones were shoved into his face. “Captain Garrett! What do you think about the broken promises to area nonprofits?” a brash redhead demanded while cameras whirred and lightbulbs went off.
“Were you in on the decision not to pay them what was promised?” another reporter shouted.
“Does your family want the beneficiary charities to fail in their missions? Or did they take the money from the foundation, slated for the area nonprofits, and use it for personal gain?”
Lucille clung to Garrett all the harder, her face buried in his chest. With a big, protective arm laced around his mother’s shoulders, Garrett blinked at the flashbulbs going off and held back the approaching hoard with one hand.
“Don’t answer,” Hope commanded.
* * *
LIKE HE HAD an effing clue what to say. He had no idea what in tarnation the press was referring to.
Out of the corner of his eye, Garrett saw another woman approaching. She was pushing a convertible stroller with a hooded car seat snapped into the top. Dimly aware this was no place for an infant, Garrett turned back to the crowd. His mother looked up at him. “Listen to Hope,” Lucille Lockhart hissed.
Like hell he would.
More likely than not, it was Hope Winslow’s “management” of the crisis that was turning it into even more of a media circus. Certainly, she’d whipped his mother into a frenzy with her dramatics.
“Of course we didn’t take money out of the foundation for our own personal use,” he said flatly, watching as Hope signaled vigorously to an airport security guard for help. “Nor do we want to see any area charities fail.” That was ridiculous. Especially when his family was set to give away millions to those in need.
“But it appears money did not end up in the right hands,” another chimed in. “At least not this past year.”
“Say the foundation is looking into it,” Hope whispered, just loud enough for him to hear.
Ignoring her, he turned back to the reporters and reiterated even more firmly, “No one in my family is a thief.”
“So they are just what, then? Irresponsible?” another TV reporter shouted. “Heartless?”
An even more asinine charge. Garrett lifted a staying hand. “That’s all I have to say on the matter.”
More flashbulbs went off. A contingent of airport security stepped in. They surrounded the reporters, while on the fringes the young woman with the baby resumed her resolute approach. As she neared, Garrett could see it looked as though the young woman had been crying. “Hope! Thank heavens we found you!” the young lady said in a British accent.
Now what? Garrett wondered, exhaling angrily. Was this seemingly heartfelt diversion yet another part of the scandal manager’s master plan? Bracing for the answer, he swung back to Hope, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Who’s this?”
Abruptly, Hope looked as tense and on guard as he felt. “Mary Whiting, my nanny,” she said.
Chapter Two (#ufbc312c9-65ce-53b9-835a-4154de038578)
Nanny? Hope Winslow had a nanny, Garrett thought in shock. And a baby?
“Mary? What’s going on?” Hope asked in alarm. She dashed around to look inside the covered car seat on top of the combination stroller/buggy. Not surprisingly, Garrett’s mother—who longed for grandchildren of her very own—was right by Hope’s side.
All Garrett could see from where he stood was the bottom half of a pair of baby blue coveralls, two kicking bootie-clad feet and one tiny hand trying to catch a foot.
Hope’s smile was enough to light up the entire world. She bent down to kiss the little hand. Garrett thought, but couldn’t be sure, that he heard a happy gurgle in return.
Apparently, all was well. With the infant, anyway, he acknowledged, as his mom stepped back to his side.
Hope put her arm around the young woman. “Has something happened?”
The nanny burst into tears. “It’s my mum! She collapsed this morning. They say it’s her heart. I’ve got to go back to England.”
Ignoring the inconvenience for her and her child, Hope asked briskly, “Do you have a flight?”
Mary pulled a boarding pass out of her bag. “It leaves in an hour and a half.”
Hope sobered. “Then you better get going, if you want to be sure and get through international flight security.”
Mary handed over the diaper bag she had looped over one shoulder. “Max’s just been fed and burped, and I changed his nappy. Unfortunately, I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”
Hope nodded. “Take all the time you need...”
“Thank you for understanding!” Mary hugged Hope, gave the cooing baby in the carriage an affectionate pat, then rushed off to catch her flight.
Meanwhile, the reporters were still trying to talk their way past the security guards. Eyeing them, Hope said, “We better get out of here.”
Garrett’s mom pointed toward the last section of glass doors off the baggage claim. “There’s my driver now.”
* * *
GARRETT HELD THE door while Hope and his mother charged into the Dallas afternoon heat.
His mom entered the limo first and slid across the seat. Hope disengaged the car seat from the stroller and gently set it inside. She followed, more concerned with getting her baby settled and secured than the flash of leg she showed as her skirt rode up her thighs.
Ignoring the immediate hardening of his body, Garrett got in after them. Trying not to let what he had just seen in any way mitigate his initial impression of Hope, he sprawled across the middle of the opposite seat while the two women doted on the baby secured safely between them. “You are such a darling!” Lucille cooed to the baby facing her. “And so alert!” His mother beamed as the infant kicked a blue bootie-clad foot and waved a plump little hand. “How old is he?”
