Tempting the Billionaire (13 page)

“Yes.” He met her gaze. “Pete is a golfing buddy of one of the owners. Plus, it would give you the opportunity to get caught up on Lori’s requests.”

Shane was taking Peter Murphy to Georgia and leaving her here to coddle the whims of his ex-girlfriend? Rather than do what she felt like doing, which was shoot laser beams from her pupils, she forced a smile.

“Sure,” she said. “No problem.”

“Great,” Shane said. Then he blew past her, leaving the room without a backward glance.

S
peedos? Seriously?”

Crickitt chuckled at Sadie’s observation. Sadie sipped her margarita. The pool bar was crowded, giving them plenty of people watching to do today.

Crickitt, for one, was relieved for the distraction, even if it was Hairy Speedo Guy. Shane and Murphy were probably arriving in Atlanta right about now, a thought that only made her wonder what she’d missed out on staying in Ohio.

“I love Sundays,” Sadie mused, leaning back in her lounger. “They’re like free days.”

Crickitt tilted her head at her friend. When Sadie called to ask her to go with her for a drink and a dip, Crickitt assumed it was because Sadie wanted to talk about Aiden. So far, she’d brought up everything but him.

“Are we pretending nothing is going on with you and Aiden?” Crickitt rolled to her side and studied Sadie’s profile.

“That would be nice,” she said flatly. Then Sadie turned, her eyes obscured by a giant pair of dark sunglasses. “What do you want to know?”

“What happened?”

She took a breath. “He’s pretending he and Harmony are still married because he thinks keeping his mother worry-free gives her a better chance at beating the cancer.”

Crickitt blinked as if she’d been slapped. That was a lot of information for one sentence.

“What’s going on with you and Hot Boss?” Sadie asked, lifting her drink again.

“You’re not going to elaborate?”

“Nope.” Sadie’s eyebrows rose over the rims of her shades. “So? Hot Boss? Details.”

Crickitt thought for a moment. “He took a guy named Peter to Atlanta with him on a business trip instead of me and put me in charge of his ex-girlfriend while he is away.”

“Yikes.” Then she nodded sagely. “Told you all men were bastards.”

Crickitt recapped Lori’s conversation from last week. “What do you think she meant by ‘he’d be worth it’?”

“That he’s amazing in bed.”

She was afraid of that.

“So, are you going to sleep with him?” Sadie asked.

“What? No! I mean, that’s sort of…off the table.”

“Oh, honey, that’s never off the table.” Sadie slid her glasses into her mane of sun-kissed blond hair and studied her through narrowed eyes. “You’re falling for him, aren’t you?”

Crickitt laughed, the sound born of nerves and the need to stall while she thought of something reasonable to say. “Of course not. I might have a crush on him, but that’s all.” But it wasn’t just a crush. And she knew it. “I never should’ve gone on a date with him.”

“You went on a date with him?” Sadie sat up like someone threw a cold glass of water on her bare midriff. “Where did he take you?”

“John Adams Reserve. He packed a picnic. Baked me cookies. Kissed me within an inch of my life.” She smiled weakly.

“Aww, that’s kind of sweet,” Sadie said.

“It was sweet.” Until she’d overreacted to his suggestion of casual sex, which, she’d admit, was beginning to sound a lot better than
no sex
. In her defense, her date with Shane was the first date she’d been on in eleven years. It was also the first time in as long since she’d touched her lips to anyone’s other than Ronald’s. No wonder she’d pulled into her shell like a startled turtle.

“So what’s the problem?” Sadie asked.

Me
, Crickitt wanted to answer. “We work together. Sleeping together would be a bad idea.” And he’d obviously agreed since then, an idea that made her chest ache. He hadn’t been gone very long at all, and already she missed him.

“Yes, but it’s not like you two can get fired over a fling,” Sadie said. “He’s in charge.”

“Maybe that’s what worries me,” Crickitt muttered. Shane in charge of her heart, her feelings, her future…now that was worrisome.

“You are entitled to be nervous, you know,” Sadie said, her tone softer. “You haven’t been divorced all that long. I’m sure you were expecting to date a few jokers before running across some”—she waved a hand as if searching for the words—“billionaire hottie in a thousand-dollar suit.”

“Right?” Crickitt wholeheartedly agreed. “It’s a big adjustment.”

“Huge.” Sadie’s lips kicked into an irreverent smile. “Well, let’s hope it’s huge. Otherwise, why bother?”

Crickitt couldn’t help smiling.

Sadie dragged her sunglasses over her eyes and stretched out again. “Whatever you do, don’t fall for him,” she advised, her voice going guitar-string tight.

Crickitt started to ask about Aiden again, but Sadie pursed her lips and whistled long and low. “Jeez-a-loo, look at the pecs on that lifeguard.”

Crickitt let the topic drop, and soon her thoughts looped back around to the picnic by the waterfall and how, if she’d have said yes, Shane would have taken her on the trip instead of Peter Murphy. In between meetings and business dinners, she knew they would have shared more than cheesecake for dessert.

And regardless of her job or her convoluted feelings over her boss, Crickitt had a sneaking suspicion Lori LaRouche was right.

Shane would have been worth it.

S
hane pinched the bridge of his nose as Peter Murphy launched into another story about a “smoking hot chick” he’d picked up at a bar. This time he blessedly glossed over the details. Details, after spending a week in the man’s company, Shane decided were mostly fiction.

Peter was a twenty-eight-year-old manager who reminded Shane of a nineteen-year-old frat boy. Worse, Peter assumed his stories impressed Shane when, really, the overblown tales of testosterone did nothing but showcase the manager’s idiocy.

They made it back a day early. As it turned out, Peter, while a blithering moron when he and Shane were one-on-one, was professional and friendly with the business owners, including the man he used to work for. His style was showy, but at least he knew when to rein it in.

They’d left the potential investors with enough information to make their decision. The board would talk to their shareholders at a meeting next month and get back to Shane with their answer then.

When the limo pulled to a stop in front of August Industries, Shane burst from the car like the hostage he’d been for the last eight hours and forty-seven minutes.

He should get on his knees in front of Crickitt and beg her forgiveness for not taking her. Of course he couldn’t share the real reason he hadn’t asked her to go—that his attraction for her was a snapping, snarling beast at the end of its tether. The last test either of them needed was an intimate out-of-town trip.

Still, she would have thrived in that environment. Peter’s clumsy prose and self-focused conceit had nothing on Crickitt’s confidence and pinpoint honesty.

Peter and Shane parted ways on the sidewalk, and Shane paused to glance up at his building. Crickitt was likely up there now, burning the six thirty oil when she should have clocked out at five.

He dialed her desk phone. At the first ring, his heart buoyed to his throat. He hadn’t spoken to her all week, choosing to e-mail instead. Partially because his traveling companion indulged in office gossip the way an alcoholic inhaled vodka tonics. Yes, Peter had plenty to say about his fellow employees. Once Murphy picked up on the casual manner in which Shane talked to Crickitt, the gloves would be off. It wouldn’t take long for rumors to spread about the CEO and his assistant. In Peter’s defense, it was getting harder and harder to believe Shane and Crickitt were “just friends.”

He couldn’t quite believe it himself.

Crickitt’s smooth voice interrupted his thoughts. He started to say hello, then felt his face fall as she continued speaking in low monotone.

Voice mail.

Shane ended the call and frowned at his phone, weighed down by…something. Disappointment, maybe. He would have liked to update her on the meeting and have a good chuckle at Peter’s persistent misuse of the word “literally.” Hearing her throaty laugh would go a long way toward easing the tension in his shoulders.

“You’re back.”

Shane looked up to see Crickitt stepping out of August Industries, the glass doors swishing shut behind her. She strode toward him wearing a Caribbean blue blouse, which highlighted her eyes, and a short skirt over legs that stretched for miles. A smile slid across his face as he took in all of her bronzed skin. She returned it with one of her own, the sheer force socking him in the gut. Seeing her felt like coming home.

He wanted to touch her so badly, he had to stuff his hands in his pockets to keep from doing it.

“We wrapped early,” he said. “How was your week?”

“Smooth sailing. I sent you a detailed e-mail this afternoon.” She gestured with her head. “Are you going up?”

Not now that she was in front of him.

He was sorting through excuses to ask her to dinner or out for a cup of coffee when she spoke.

“I’d better go. I’m meeting a friend in a few minutes.”

“Sadie?” he assumed.

“Um, no.” Darting her eyes to one side, she said, “My ex-husband.” She shrugged. “I know. I can’t believe I agreed to meet with him, either.”

She was right. He couldn’t believe it. And he didn’t like it. He tried to read her expression but failed. Was it regret? Guilt?

Anticipation?

He hoped not.

“He wants to talk,” she muttered.

Talk. Hadn’t Aiden been “talking” to Harmony, too? And now look at him. Sacrificing himself for the good of the herd. Would Crickitt’s ex wriggle his way back into her arms? And what would stop her from taking him back? Certainly not Shane. He’d inserted his foot into his mouth twice already, first recommending casual sex and then insisting their attraction for one another was temporary. Right about now he wanted to extract that foot and kick himself in the rear with it.

“Guess I’ll go up.” He took a step toward the building. “Thanks for holding down the fort.”

“Have a good night.”

Soon she’d be flashing that same tender smile to her ex-husband. A thought that made Shane’s stomach sink like he’d swallowed a cinder block. He watched as she fished her keys from her bag, her hips swinging as she balanced the bag over one shoulder. One hand went to her head to arrange her curls, and Shane’s gut twisted as he pictured her ex leaning in for a kiss hello, her hair brushing his cheek, smelling sweet and looking sweeter.

Even as panic rose within him, he knew he couldn’t go to her. What would he say?
No, don’t go back to a man who gave you over a decade of stability. Stay here with me, I can offer you a few hours of commitment at a time.

Once she was out of sight, he stalked to the door and swiped his key card. He wondered if it was possible for her to look more beautiful than she did today, and then he wondered how angry on a scale of 1 to 10 she’d be if he followed her to her next destination and broke her date’s nose.

In his darkened office he turned on the desk lamp, followed by his computer. As it hummed to life, he stood at the expanse of windows behind his desk and watched the cars below. Mothers headed home to make dinner for their families, fathers traveled to Little League games, and at least one woman was meeting with a former spouse who didn’t deserve her.

Feeling uncharacteristically melancholy, Shane collapsed into his office chair and sorted through his e-mail. A message from Crickitt stood out, and he read it twice, hearing her voice and inflection as clearly as if she was standing there reading it to him. And wishing he’d had the guts to suggest dinner with him instead.

With more force than necessary, he clicked the mouse, shutting down his computer. He’d see her tomorrow morning and then he’d find out what happened during her “meeting.”

Just as soon as he came up with a legitimate excuse to grill his PA about her personal life.

Eight o’clock came and went. So did eight fifteen, eight twenty-three, and eight thirty-two. Crickitt still wasn’t in her office. Shane knew because he’d been standing there for several minutes, grimacing at her vacant desk chair.

He’d ended up working late last night. On the way home, he toyed with the idea of calling her under the guise of a work-related question. But when he palmed his cell phone, images of her with a faceless, nameless man popped into his head and he’d pocketed the phone. Shane didn’t want to know what, if anything, they were doing.

Pivoting on his heel, he breezed through the waiting room, arriving at Keena’s desk. “Crickitt?”

She answered his one-word query with a shrug.

He took out his phone. No missed calls, no text messages. No voice mails waiting.

Keena lifted the receiver and punched a button on her desk phone. “There is a new message.”

He waited impatiently.

“She’s ill, said she couldn’t get out of bed.”

Shane’s fists clenched at his sides. An immediate and unwelcome image of her tangled in her mismatched bedding with her former husband flashed in his mind. By the time he marched back to his office, he’d envisioned the entire evening. The candlelight on the table highlighting her clear blue eyes, the bottle of champagne making her feel warm and loose and spontaneous. She and her ex had a history together, plenty of good-old-days memories to share. What else had they shared, he wondered, his gut giving a sickening twist.

He never should have let her go.

Shane slammed a file drawer closed on his finger and swallowed a string of swearwords. “Dammit,” he growled, unsatisfied with the lame vulgarity. The day that started badly had continued to spiral.

Townsend called to give him the bad news. They’d since changed the company’s name from MajicSweep to Swept, but that wasn’t the problem. The problem was the updated logo was virtually identical to the logo of a popular franchise in Florida. The establishment, named Sweets, boasted “Fifty Live Nude Girls a Night” on their marquee. Henry was not happy his flagship brand was, as he put it, “now associated with the dregs of society.”

Shane sorted through Crickitt’s desk drawer, locating the file for Swept, and lifted her desk phone. He spoke with Angel, arranging an emergency meeting in Tennessee. They’d work all weekend if needed, but this situation would be rectified by Monday. When she grew quiet, Shane realized he’d been on the verge of yelling, so he’d hung up before he took out his displaced anger on her.

He settled the phone onto the receiver and stared blindly at the file in front of him. There wasn’t anything worse than revisiting past business. For August Industries to continue growing, he needed to spend his time on new business, new clients. Snafus like the one with Townsend cost the company valuable time, money, and manpower.

If the signs had gone up and the ads gone to print, the oversight could’ve ruined Townsend’s chance at establishing a unique and remembered brand. Not to mention the risk of August Industries getting sued for stealing the strip club’s trademark.

Shane slammed the desk drawer shut. He swore again, the harsher word making him feel marginally better.

“Shane?”

The small voice belonged to Crickitt, who stood in her doorway, dark circles under her eyes, a slight flush on her cheeks. He had the unexpected urge to pull her into his arms, ask if she was all right. Then he remembered what she spent the evening doing, and who she spent it with, and frowned at her instead.

“Feeling better, I see.”

“We thought it might be food poisoning. He wasn’t feeling well this morning, either.”

She let him stay.
So much for Shane hanging on to the thread of hope that he’d jumped to the wrong conclusion.

Shane stood stiffly and headed for her door. “Now that you’re here, you can pack your things.”

Crickitt’s blood chilled. Pack her things? Was she fired? For calling in sick?

“Shane—” she started.

“I’d like to leave in the next hour.”

Did he mean he’d like
her
to leave in the next hour?

“Angel and Richie are expecting us by nine tonight,” he said. “You can sleep on the way if you need to.”

When Crickitt responded, it was to his closed office door. Sighing, she turned to find Henry Townsend’s file open on her desk. Her color drawings for Swept’s logo had been crossed out with a bold black X. She lifted the paper, hands shaking. Crickitt spent several hours drawing it, the night she’d tentatively leaned in and kissed Shane for the first time. And he’d marked it through, effectively ruining the sketch, and in a way, nullifying a memory she treasured.

Swallowing down a gelatinous lump of sadness, she reached for the phone to call Angel and find out what she’d missed.

Crickitt had expected Shane to be grateful she’d shown up today. She could have stayed home, wanted to after she’d barely held down a bowl of vegetable soup for lunch. Too late now. She was here, and soon she would be on her way to Tennessee.

During the limo ride to her apartment, Shane remained resolutely silent, his eyes focused on the newspaper open on his lap. At her apartment, she reached for the handle, not wanting to interrupt him but needing to know how many outfits to pack. “How many days are we staying?” she asked.

“As many as it takes,” he said, spearing her with a look that made guilt swim in her stomach.

Fifteen minutes later, Thomas tossed her luggage into the trunk and she clambered into the backseat. Shane met her with an expectant glower.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, tempted to tack on the word “now.”

“You changed.”

She smoothed her hands along the skirt of the light summer dress. Stylish and comfortable, it was the no-brainer choice for a six-hour car ride. Instead of asking why her changing chafed him, Crickitt simply folded her hands into her lap and looked out the window.

The car was quiet save for the classical music drifting from overhead speakers and the occasional pencil scratch as Shane jotted down notes. The monotony of wheels rolling on pavement soon lulled Crickitt to sleep.

She stirred from a dream starring Shane, but in it he wasn’t cold and distant, he was holding her close, whispering promises into her ear. Before she could remember his pronouncements, the hazy, fringed edges dissipated, leaving her feeling empty and alone.

She tuned in to her surroundings gradually, becoming conscious of a pleasant weight on her arms, the smell of Shane teasing her senses. Crickitt opened her eyes. Her upper half was covered by Shane’s suit jacket. Shrugging into a stretch, she pressed it against her nose and breathed in the smell of him.

Shane leaned back on the seat, arms crossed, his long body taking up the entire seat. His eyes were closed, but even in sleep a neat furrow dented the space between his brows. He wasn’t menacing with his tie loose and three buttons open on his shirt, and she fought the very powerful urge to slip onto the seat and curl into him.

Crickitt eased up as quietly as she could, watching his chest rise and fall with each breath. Maybe she should have pressed him to talk to her instead of assuming his mood was caused by Townsend.

Maybe something had happened in Georgia. Maybe the deal fell through. Or maybe something happened last night when he’d returned to his office. Being greeted with a week’s worth of messages and work would have been overwhelming enough without adding the bad Townsend news.