Only with You (9 page)

He watched her for a moment, and then nodded once with something that looked like disappointment.

“That’s it?” she asked snidely. “You’re not going to grill me on why with a perfect college GPA, top-notch alma mater, and a couple impressive degrees to my name, I’m here fetching you coffee and figuring out how to rid your walls of animal heads?”

Gray shrugged. “If I thought you’d tell me the truth, I might ask. But if you’re going to continue with your evasive bullshitting, I’m not going to waste my time.”

Sophie scowled and tensed as she waited for him to move down the résumé. No doubt his interrogation over her education was just a lead-in to give her a hard time about her lack of office experience.

But he said nothing.

“I didn’t bullshit you,” she said finally.

He gave her a look.

“Well not
all
of it was lies,” she amended. “I really do like cute boys.”

His lips twitched in something that may have been a smile. “I’m sure you do,” he said.

“You’re not thinking about me as a call girl again, are you?”

“Ms. Dalton, I’m fairly certain that human resources would be in here pretty quickly if I started thinking about my assistant in such an intimate manner. Perhaps we could avoid such references going forward?”

“If I don’t mention The Incident again, can I keep my job?” she asked.

His silence wasn’t a good sign.

“Explain to me why you want this job,” he said.

“Well, gosh, unemployment
does
have a certain appeal, but I find I’m rather fond of having money for frivolous things like food, rent, condoms.”

“If you’re trying to endear yourself as an employee, you’re doing a miserable job.”

She bit her lip. Why did she keep baiting this man? This was so not the time for her snark to come out in full force, and yet she couldn’t seem to muster the polite, professional assistant routine around him the way she could everyone else in the office.

And even when she tried, he seemed to see right through it.

Gray leaned back in his chair and ran a hand over his mouth. “I’m not going to ask you to leave, Ms. Dalton. Despite our unconventional meeting and the fact that you don’t seem to respect me in the least, you’re competent. More important, people seem to like you. To be honest, I could use some of that popularity to help people get accustomed to my…style.”

Ah, so Mr. Perfect was aware of his shortcomings.
Interesting. “So you’re keeping me around because I’m popular?”

“Something like that,” he said.

Sophie considered. He had a point. She
was
good at that sort of thing. And it could be kind of fun to give a personality makeover to someone so socially stunted. Her brain was already bubbling with ideas.

“A project,” she said thoughtfully. “How fun! I promise it won’t be as painful as you think. I just need a month, and soon all of your weekends will be filled with golf rounds, cocktail parties, poker games…”

He winced. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I just meant that I could use your presence to buffer my…impatience.”

“Oh, is that what they’re calling it these days?”

He looked as though he wanted to smile but managed to resist the urge. Sophie was oddly disappointed. What would he look like without the pinched tension in his face?

“You have entirely too much of a smart mouth to be anyone’s assistant, Ms. Dalton.”

“For the last time, call me Sophie. This isn’t 1793. First names in the office are normal.”

“We’re not
friends
, Ms. Dalton, we’re colleagues. And casual workplace or not, I like to keep some semblance of mutual respect.”

“Fine, if you want to act like an eighteenth-century dandy, who am I to intervene?” She steeled herself for the big question. “But…I can stay?”

“You can stay,” he said quietly. “For as long as it suits you. Which, judging from your personality, I’d assume would be another few weeks before you move on to bigger and better things?”

Sophie tapped a fingernail against her lips. “Bigger things…such as dancing at bachelor parties and installing a pole in my living room to practice my moves?”

He gave one of his lopsided almost-smiles, and Sophie felt something warm and tingling in the vicinity of her lady parts. Annoying how the begrudging twitch of those unsmiling lips was somehow more rewarding than another man’s full grin.

“So we’re good?” Sophie asked tentatively.

“We’re…okay. Just no more thigh-high boots, no more rambling stories about your childhood, and no more climbing up ladders.”

“I make no promises,” she said cheekily, before wiggling her fingers at him and heading toward the door. “Now if there’s nothing else, I’ll go find someone a bit more…suitable to pull down Davie, eh?”

“Fine,” he mumbled. “Oh, and I did have one question.”

She turned and waited.

“The coffee you brought me this morning. There was cream in there.”

Sophie rolled her eyes. “Yes. There was.”

“You’ve always brought me my coffee black before.”

“Mm-hmm.” She studied her chipped fingernails. “And you really thought I wouldn’t notice that you dumped in two creamers as soon as I turned my back?”

She could have sworn she saw him blush. It was…cute? No, that wasn’t quite right. But it was something.

“I think it’s sweet that you didn’t want to hurt Beth’s feelings,” she teased. “She informed me with great pride that she’d guessed that you like your coffee black.”

“I think we’re done here,” he said, a distinct red creeping over his cheeks. “And don’t tell Ms. Jennings about the cream-in-the-coffee thing.”

Sophie raised an eyebrow. “Okay?”

He shrugged awkwardly and didn’t meet her eyes. “There’s really nothing to be accomplished by telling her that I don’t like it black.”

She cocked her head. “But you
don’t
it like black.”

“Just don’t mention it, okay?” he snapped. “Honestly, is occasionally keeping your mouth shut
that
difficult?”

“Fine. Can I go?”

“Please do. And Sophie,” he said, stopping her for the third time.

She sighed and spun around. “Yeessssss?”

“That, um…moment by the ladder?”

“Yeah?” Her voice had gone unintentionally husky.

“It meant nothing. It never happened. Got it? You and I…We’re not…I’d never be—”

She felt the hot rush of humiliated anger. She might no longer be an actual prostitute, but apparently she was still a worthless tramp.

“I get it,” she spat out. “You’d never be interested in someone like me. Loud and clear.”

“Good, then,” he said with a nod. “We’re agreed, then—it was all a big mis—”

Sophie let the door slam before he could finish the sentence.

G
ray mentally added yet another item to his list of Rules to Live By:

Never agree to another man’s business meetings.

Martin Brayburn hadn’t asked Gray for much upon his departure. The older man had bowed out graciously, leaving Gray to run the company as he saw fit.

Except for one solitary request: a meeting with Peter Blackwell and his son.

It should have been harmless. It could have even been
lucrative
. The Blackwells owned a chain of small boutique hotels on Maui. Nothing fancy, but the real estate was prime. And even better, they were looking to sell.

But that wasn’t why Martin had requested Gray take the meeting. Peter Blackwell was Martin Brayburn’s oldest friend, and his son, Alistair, was Martin’s godson.

Martin’s request had been personal, and Gray had agreed without a second thought. Something he was now regretting.

The meeting was a complete nightmare, starting with its participants. The younger man across the desk was probably close to Gray’s own age of midthirties, but the bloated frat-boy appearance and ill-fitting navy suit made him look like a pimpled intern.

Gray was willing to bet that Alistair Blackwell had no business experience beyond a childhood lemonade stand.

His father, Peter Blackwell, was at least respectable on paper, but instead of being the expected polished businessman ready to talk numbers, Peter had turned out to be an aging, sentimental entrepreneur with an elevated estimate of his company’s worth. Gray was dismayed to hear a constant chorus of loyalty, family, and nostalgia, and not one solid reference to
profit
.

If the Blackwells thought Gray was going to buy their outdated line of Maui resorts based on some touchy-feely bullshit, they clearly hadn’t done their homework. Maybe Martin Brayburn would have fostered such crap out of sentimentality, but Gray had no tolerance for it.

“…as I’m sure big Pops here will tell you,” Alistair was saying in a faintly out-of-breath voice, “you can’t be expecting us to roll over and play dead like a couple of happy pups, you know? Just because we’re from the
islands
doesn’t mean we don’t know a thing or two about big business!”

Gray resisted the urge to stand up and walk out. After all, this was
his
office and he needed this deal.

“Mr. Blackwell,” Gray said, putting an end to Alistair’s rambling, “I’m sure you can understand the position that Brayburn Luxuries is in. We’re very interested in the location of your properties, but all of our research has shown that the hotels themselves are quaint at best. Your asking price isn’t realistic for a franchise that barely warrants a three-star rating.”

Peter’s mouth tightened into a thin line, and Alistair began another babble session. “Just because our bathrooms aren’t marble, doesn’t mean we’re not located on the best little stretch of Hawaiian paradise—”

Peter held up a wrinkled, tanned hand. “Alistair, I’m sure Mr. Wyatt knows all about the waves and the state of our guest rooms. I think what he’s telling us is that, regardless, Brayburn Luxuries isn’t going to pay us what we want for our property.”

Gray resisted the urge to plow his fingers through his hair. This wasn’t going well. What he’d fully expected to be a slam-dunk negotiation was turning into a bloody war. Peter Blackwell was
supposed
to be a competent businessman who, after Gray’s logical explanation, would understand that the hotel chain he’d launched decades ago was not worth his asking price.

And Alistair shouldn’t even be here. Gray wished he could hand the younger man a twenty-dollar bill and tell him to go check out the Space Needle while the adults did the thinking. But judging from the way Peter gazed at his son in blind, fatherly affection whenever Alistair spouted his verbal diarrhea, Gray knew he had to tread carefully.

Problem was…he wasn’t entirely sure how to do that.

Gray wasn’t about to pay double the properties’ worth just to appease an older man’s ego. But neither was he willing to give up the deal. He needed a way to read these people quickly and determine their weak point. Trouble was, he didn’t have the faintest clue how.

He tried once again to reach them with logic. “Mr. Blackwell, I’d like to reiterate that Brayburn is, of course, still interested, but we have to be realistic—”

“Who is that?” Alistair interrupted.

Gray stifled his annoyance and followed Alistair’s gaze through the glass wall of his office.

Ah.
Sophie.

Leave it to his little pain-in-the-ass assistant to distract his most pivotal, prospective clients at the most inopportune time. Not that she meant to, of course. But then, that seemed to be Sophie’s MO. Making a mess of his life just by breathing.

Alistair was gaping, and even Peter seemed a little dazzled. Gray narrowed his eyes and tried to view Sophie objectively. As if she hadn’t made it her life’s purpose to get under his skin.

He scowled. Her long blonde hair fell in loose waves down her back, reminding him uncomfortably of the sex-kitten look she’d been sporting in Las Vegas. The memory of how her hair had smelled when he’d practically groped her during the ladder debacle made him even more uncomfortable.

He shifted in his seat.

Jesus.

Whether it was in an elevator, or her parents’ bathroom or his own damn office, he couldn’t seem to keep his damn hands off her.

Sophie Dalton is not for you
, he reminded himself for the hundredth time.

Sure, she sent him a couple hot gazes and let her voice go all breathy when he got too close. But that’s what women like Sophie did. They teased. They played.

And then they left.

He gritted his teeth and turned his attention to the Blackwells, but they were still captivated by the little blonde in the other room.

“That would be my assistant,” Gray said, in delayed response to Alistair’s question.

Peter reluctantly drew his eyes back to Gray, but Alistair continued to stare at Sophie’s backside, all but salivating. Gray’s annoyance with the man skyrocketed. “I’m assuming we can get back to
business
, unless there was something you needed, Mr. Blackwell?”

Alistair jumped, and Gray suspected that his father had just delivered a quick kick to his shin.

Gray tried to pick up where they left off. “So, as I was saying, while I can appreciate the value of the land, the value of the resorts themselves is unfortunately not up to Brayburn standards—”

Once again, he’d lost the attention of the two men he was trying so hard to impress.

“Excuse me, Mr. Wyatt?”

Shit.
Sophie stood in the doorway and the effect of tumbling golden hair, ocean-blue eyes, and matching little outfit was even more distracting close-up than it had been from through the glass wall.

The Blackwells were enchanted.

Gray gave in to a sigh. “Yes, Ms. Dalton?”

“I just wanted to see if I could get you gentlemen a coffee-and-pastry tray, sir, if you haven’t already eaten.”

Gray had already had coffee and his usual breakfast of spinach and egg-white omelet at home, but he supposed there was no way he’d regain the men’s attention until they’d had a close-up view. God, he missed his old assistant. Mary had been short, stout, and irritable. Gray wouldn’t have had to deal with
her
distracting his most important clients.

“Thank you, Ms. Dalton, some coffee would be great.”

“Coming right up. I’m sorry I didn’t offer sooner. I didn’t realize you had a meeting this morning.”

Of course she didn’t. Probably because he intentionally hadn’t put it on the calendar she had access to. He’d hoped to spare the Blackwells the experience of Early Morning Sophie. The woman was pure menace before ten a.m. And
after
ten, for that matter.

So pretty much she was a nightmare around the clock. Always singing, smiling, dancing.

Yesterday she’d actually tried to sign him up for a book club.

Book club.

Today, however, her special brand of Sophie charm was working in his favor. The Blackwells couldn’t get enough. Hell, neither could he.

Three pairs of male eyes watched as she trotted out of his office to fetch coffee, tight butt practically begging for male attention.

Twenty minutes later, Gray was no closer to making headway on the acquisition on this increasingly unappealing resort chain when Sophie returned with a carefully prepared tray. She must have sensed the importance of the meeting, because the tray looked like it belonged in Versailles, circa 1683.

“I thought I said ‘coffee,’” he muttered. The tray was overflowing with croissants, mini quiches, doughnuts, bagels, and a large pile of fruit.

She balanced the tray on the corner of Gray’s desk and ignored him completely, saving all her smiles for the Blackwells. “How would you like your coffee, gentlemen?” she asked. “Mr. Wyatt here takes his
black
, but I’ve brought cream and sugar, as well as a variety of flavored sweeteners.”

Sophie shoved a mug in Gray’s direction without looking at him, and he nearly smiled. She’d added cream.

“Just a pinch of sugar and a splash of regular old cream for me, dear,” Peter was saying, suddenly taking on the persona of a kindly grandfather. This gentle old man sounded absolutely nothing like the stubborn hard-ass Gray had been dealing with five minutes prior.

“How do
you
like
your
coffee?” Alistair asked Sophie while unsubtly fingering his greasy comb-over.

She likes it with sugar. Lots of it
, Gray thought.

“Mr. Blackwell, surely a confident man like you doesn’t need someone like me to determine your coffee preparation.”

Gray thought he heard traces of disdainful sarcasm in Sophie’s tone, but Alistair ate up the compliment. “I’ll try that hazelnut-flavored creamer there; I like things sweet.”

Smiling serenely, Sophie prepared the coffee and handed it over to Alistair, their fingers brushing. Sophie flushed, and Alistair all but licked his lips.

“Sophie, how’s your boyfriend?” Gray snapped abruptly. Cue the awkward moment of silence. A Grayson Wyatt specialty.

What the hell am I doing?
Gray thought. He never blurted, he didn’t call his assistants by their first name, and he certainly didn’t ask about their personal lives.

She looked startled, but recovered quickly. “Oh, you mean Will? He’s just a childhood friend who still hangs around. We’re not together.”

He stared hard at her. That was certainly not the impression she’d given him that night at her parents’ house. She’d called Will her
date
. He should have figured she wouldn’t stick with anyone long term. Will was probably just another of her playthings.

In an effort to break the awkward tension, Sophie glanced at the Blackwells and rolled her eyes. “In case you can’t tell, Mr. Wyatt’s a little overprotective of his employees. It’s one of the reasons we all love working for him so much.”

Gray cleared his throat in warning, but the other men seemed oblivious to her sarcasm.

“I could tell that straightaway about your boss here,” said Peter. “His dedication to his people and his company is one of the main reasons I’m considering Brayburn Luxuries to acquire my company.”

“How interesting, what kind of company?” Sophie asked, settling herself on the corner of Gray’s desk like they were discussing favorite movies. Her hip was inches from Gray’s hand, which he snatched back so quickly he nearly knocked over his coffee cup.

Get a grip, Grayson.

“Oh, just a little set of Hawaiian resorts I started a few years back,” Peter was saying. “I’m getting too old to deal with all the maintenance and taxes. I’d hoped Alistair here would be taking over, but he’s focused on his own career goals.”

Like what, selling hemp bracelets on the beach?
Gray wondered.

“I love Hawaii,” Sophie gushed. “What island?”

“Just the prettiest little strip of Maui you’ve ever seen.”

“It must be so hard to part with it,” Sophie said to Peter, laying a hand on his arm.

The move
should
have seemed calculating and phony, but Gray had to give her credit: She was good. She made it seem genuine.

Peter blushed. “Oh, it’s just business, I guess. The important thing in life is family,” he said with an adoring look at his insipid son.

“Well, you couldn’t choose better hands to leave your business in,” Sophie said as she began assembling plates of food. “I haven’t had the pleasure of working with Mr. Wyatt for very long, but he has the best reputation and is so smart with money.”

Gray stifled the hollow stab of disappointment. He had a fleeting wish that she’d compliment his
person
. Not his accomplishments or his brains or his résumé. Just him. Just Gray. When was the last time anyone had looked beyond the suit?

And why did he even care?

Lost in thought, Gray barely noticed that Sophie was neatly concluding his meeting for him. In the span of fifteen minutes, she had sweetly trapped Peter into a second meeting next month to further discuss the offer.

She’d been equally adept at evading a dinner date with Alistair, which Gray was grateful for. The last thing he needed was his assistant dating his star client. Even if this particular client had as much use as a third nipple.

Gray shook the hands of both men, amazed at the difference in their mood after Sophie had worked her magic. They were all smiles and agreeability. Sophie showed them to the elevator with promises that she
absolutely
would check out their resort website, and
of course
she would read Alistair’s blog.

He knew he should thank her for her interference, but he couldn’t quite find the words. He felt an irritating combination of resentment and appreciation for the ease with which she managed people. And to give credit where it was due, Gray couldn’t deny that she’d very likely saved an important business deal using nothing but perky breasts and fake smiles.

Was he annoyed or grateful? Or aroused?
Shit.

She’d also surprised him by being savvy. And he hated surprises.