The CEO Buys in (Wager of Hearts #1) (2 page)

“Half a dozen times,” Archer said. “I got over it.”

“Ah yes, the stoic, laconic jock,” Miller said. “If I wrote you in a book, you’d be too much of a stereotype and my editor would complain.” He gave a gusty sigh. “Since we agree that women are nothing but trouble, maybe we should play cards. It would distract us from our problems.”

“Cards? Where the hell did you get that idea?” Nathan asked. Miller’s conversational zigzags were beginning to irritate him.

The writer smiled crookedly. “Don’t they say, ‘Unlucky at love, lucky at cards’? Although it’s hard to predict who will get the good luck in this group.”

“I don’t buy it,” Archer said, leaning forward. “Everyone at this table knows you make your own luck. We wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

Nathan nodded. “Luck is the residue of design.”

“We’re all big on quotations tonight,” Miller needled.

Archer made a sharp gesture to silence them. “How important is finding a woman you want to spend the rest of your life with?”

Neither Nathan nor Miller spoke, so Archer continued, “Pretty damned important. How much effort has any of us put into the search?” He gave them each a hard look. “I’m guessing not a lot. We see the same women at every event. Friends or colleagues fix us up. Maybe we even get a napkin slipped into our pocket and call that number.”

“Speak for yourself on that last one,” Miller said. That surprised a huff of laughter out of Nathan.

Archer acknowledged the interjection with a tight smile. “Our problem is lack of focus. We aren’t making this a primary objective in our lives, so we’re failing.”

Nathan grunted in disagreement. “So we should be wife hunting instead of running a business or winning football games or writing the next bestseller? If you’re that desperate, hire one of those executive matchmakers.”

“That’s like using a ghostwriter,” Archer said.

Miller barked out a laugh.

“At least the transaction would be honest,” Nathan said.

Archer sat forward. “How badly do you want a wife and family?”

Nathan considered the unhappy dynamics of his own family. Maybe there was a reason he had a hard time finding love. Maybe he couldn’t recognize it. But yes, he wanted it, if only to do it better than his father had. “I’m listening. Miller?”

For a moment the writer looked downright sober. “Hell, yes, I’m still looking. What’s the point of all this if you’ve got no one to share it with?” He waved a hand around at the expensive liquor, the ornate paneling, and the antique bronze chandeliers before he turned back to Archer. “And of course, you need a passel of sons to toss footballs with in your white-picket-fenced yard.”

“I’m hoping for daughters,” Archer said. “But yeah, I want kids. So what I’m saying is, we need a game plan.”

The writer held up his hand. “I have a better idea.” His eyes glittered with sly intent. “Gentlemen, I propose a challenge.”

Nathan and Archer waited.

“We go in search of true love. We keep looking until we find it.”

“This challenge is a load of garbage,” Archer said. “How do you prove you’ve found true love?”

“A ring on her finger. Sorry, Archer,” Miller said.

“A ring doesn’t prove anything,” Nathan pointed out.

“I’ve spent—what?—a half an hour with you gentlemen. And I’m confident you would not put a ring on a woman’s finger unless you believed you would spend the rest of your life with her.” Miller sat back and shifted his gaze between the two of them.

Nathan shook his head. “You’ve had too much to drink. And so have I.”

“I say we make it a bet,” Archer said, his pale-blue eyes intense. “We need to stake something valuable on the outcome.”

The writer gave him a bleak smile. “The stakes are our hearts.”

“We need to bet something more valuable than that,” Nathan said, sucked back into the discussion in spite of himself.

A gleam of malevolent excitement showed in Miller’s eyes. “All right, a donation to charity.”

“Too easy,” Archer said.

Miller lifted a hand to indicate he wasn’t finished. “Not money: an item to be auctioned off. It must have intrinsic value, but it must also be something irreplaceable, something that would cause each of us pain to lose.”

“Who chooses this irreplaceable artifact?” Nathan asked. The alcohol fumes must have been clouding his brain, because he found himself intrigued.

“You do,” Miller said.

“So this is an honor system,” Archer said.

Miller laid his hand over his heart. “A wager is always a matter of honor between gentlemen.”

“A secret wager,” Nathan said, his competitive spirit aroused. “We write down our stakes and seal them in envelopes. Only losers have to reveal their forfeits.”

“I think we require Frankie for this,” Miller said, twisting in his seat to address the bartender. “Donal, is the boss lady still awake?”

“Ms. Hogan never sleeps, sir,” Donal said. “I’ll call her.”

“Miller, it’s well after midnight. Leave the woman alone,” Nathan said.

But Donal had already picked up the house phone. He spoke a couple of sentences and hung up. “She’ll be here in ten minutes.”

“We’ll need three sheets of paper and three envelopes,” Miller said before turning back to the table. “I’ve done a lot of stupid things when I was drunk, but this may be the most ridiculous one.” He looked at Nathan and then at Archer. “We can cancel this right now before it goes any further.”

Teresa’s face floated through Nathan’s mind, and his anger came to a boil. “I’m still in.”

“You backing out, Miller?” Archer asked.

The writer shook his head. “Pardon my moment of sanity.” He took a swallow of bourbon. “Gentlemen, I suggest we ponder our stakes.”

Nathan leaned back in his chair, taking a mental inventory of his possessions. There wasn’t much he gave a damn about. That was the problem with his whole life these days. Then an idea crossed his scotch-soaked mind.

“That’s a downright unpleasant smile, Trainor.” Miller was lounging in his chair, dangling his glass over one of its arms.

“I’ve decided on my wager,” Nathan said.

“Are you sure it’s something that would draw a high bid?”

“I guarantee it.” Nathan tossed back the rest of his drink.

Miller turned to Archer. “Have you made your decision?”

“Made it five minutes ago.” Pulling a silver pen out of his pocket, the quarterback sat forward and scrawled a number with multiple zeroes following it on his napkin before reversing it for Nathan and Miller to read. “Just to sweeten the pot, we should add a significant monetary donation to the charity.”

“Done,” Nathan said, impressed by the scale of the quarterback’s suggestion. The man was a competitor.

The door to the bar swung open, and a tiny white-haired woman in a navy-blue pantsuit strode in. “Gentlemen, I understand there’s illicit gambling going on in my establishment.” She had a whiskey-hoarse voice with a tiny lilt of Irish. “I want a piece of it.”

The three men stood and Miller laughed. “Frankie, we’re wagering on matters of the heart, and you haven’t got one.”

Frankie’s green eyes snapped with amusement. “Clearly, I can feel pity, because I let you join my club.”

Nathan pulled a chair up to the table and held it for the club’s legendary founder. Frances “Frankie” Hogan had started with nothing and had made a billion dollars, but had been refused entry to New York’s most exclusive clubs. So she’d bought a magnificent brownstone and established the Bellwether Club, with rules that excluded most of the old-money crowd. Which meant, of course, that the old money wanted in.

As they all settled into their chairs, Donal brought over the stationery Miller had requested, along with three Montblanc Meisterstück pens.

“You’re famous for your honesty and your ability to keep a secret,” Nathan said to Frankie.

“Along with ruthlessness, cunning, and sheer cussedness,” Miller murmured.

Nathan silenced him with a stare before turning back to Frankie. “So we’re entrusting you with the personal stakes in our wager, sealed in separate envelopes. Each one of us can win or lose individually, but it takes the agreement of all three to declare someone a winner.”

“I’ll want to read them to make sure they’re legit,” Frankie said.

Nathan looked around the table. The other men nodded.

“What’s the time frame?” Frankie asked.

“One year,” Archer said. “Anyone who hasn’t claimed their stakes back by then is declared a loser.”

Frankie raised her eyebrows in surprise. “A long-term game.”

Since they hadn’t originally set a time limit, Nathan considered Archer’s proposal. The quarterback was right; this project shouldn’t be rushed. He nodded. “One year. Miller?”

“Agreed,” the writer said without hesitation.

Nathan had the thought that they were all drunker than they appeared.

“I’ll lock them in my private safe,” Frankie said. “Who’s going first?”

Miller picked up a pen and scrawled his name on an envelope before pulling a sheet of thick cream vellum toward him. “I’ll trust my fellow bettors not to read over my shoulder.” He scribbled several words on the paper and handed it to the club owner.

Frankie read it and gave him a long, appraising look before she folded the sheet and sealed it in the envelope.

Archer used his own pen to write his forfeit. Frankie whistled when she read the paper but made no other comment as she sealed the envelope.

Nathan addressed his envelope and wrote a description of the gift on the sheet. Frankie read it before raising a troubled gaze to his. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

She slid it into the envelope. “You’ll inform me anytime someone is approved as a winner, or else we will meet in my office in one year’s time.” She stacked the envelopes in front of her. “I certainly hope whatever you win is worth what you all might lose.”

Nathan thought about Teresa and the succession of women before her. “It will be life changing.”

“That explains the stakes,” Frankie said, gathering the envelopes and standing up. “Good night, gentlemen.”

They stood and watched her stride out of the room. Miller raised his glass. “To our wager of hearts. May we be guests at each other’s weddings.”

“Trainor Electronics. May I help you?” Chloe Russell smiled into her headset as she spoke, knowing it would make her sound friendlier. She nodded to the three middle-aged men who came through the office’s front door carrying laptop cases and wearing button-down shirts and khakis. Middle managers. In the two days she’d been temping at Trainor Electronics, she’d learned that the high-level executives had their own entrance two floors up.

“Chloe, it’s Judith. I’ve got a new assignment for you.”

“But I’ve been here such a short time. Won’t it look bad if you pull me out so soon?”

“It’s still at Trainor Electronics, so, no. The CEO’s executive assistant has come down with this darned flu. He needs a temp.”

“CEOs of multinational corporations don’t use temps. They take someone else’s assistant and let their underlings deal with the temp,” Chloe said, smiling at the twentysomethings sauntering by with their laptop carriers slung over their shoulders. Probably programmers.

“You’ve heard the word
epidemic
?” Judith asked. “Everyone’s sick.”

Luckily, Chloe never got sick.

“Besides,” Judith said, “you’re way overqualified to run a reception desk. You belong in the executive suite. And the pay is higher.”

Higher pay was good. She needed it to hire a companion for Grandmillie so that she didn’t have to go to a nursing home. “When can I start?” Chloe asked.

“As soon as Camilla gets there to replace you out front. Then head over to HR and they’ll introduce you to your new boss.”

“Got it,” Chloe said. “Thanks for the raise.”

“You’ll probably get overtime too. I hear Mr. Trainor works long hours.”

Not so good. She didn’t like to leave her grandmother alone. Grandmillie always told her it was fine, but Chloe worried. That’s why she was so determined to scrape together the money for a caretaker.

She glanced down at her outfit and frowned at the blue cotton blouse, beige trousers, and navy ballet flats. She’d dressed for entry-level clerical, not executive assistant. She’d gotten good at gauging those nuances of the corporate world after two months of temping for Judith’s agency. Once Camilla arrived she’d take fifteen minutes to dash out and buy a faux silk scarf to throw on. There was a discount clothing store down a side street from Trainor Electronics’ skyscraping office building. She could find something in her price range there.

Chloe made a slight adjustment to the red-and-blue striped scarf as she followed Roberta Stern, head of human resources, out of the executive elevator. Chloe had twisted her brown hair up into a sleek bun that mostly hid the blonde streaks and applied some red lipstick she’d found to match the scarf. Both adjustments made her look older and more sophisticated. The one thing she couldn’t fix was her flat shoes. In her opinion, executive assistants should wear heels.

At least the carpeting on the top floor was so thick that it felt like her feet would be entirely hidden from view as they sank in. The receptionist behind the front desk looked like a model out of the pages of
Vogue
, with her perfectly fitting black suit and high cheekbones. Chloe’s scarf suddenly reeked of bargain basement.

Roberta stopped at the desk. “Priscilla, this is Chloe Russell. She’ll be working for Mr. Trainor until Janice is feeling better.”

To be fair, Priscilla gave her a genuine smile that showed no judgment of Chloe’s wardrobe inadequacies. “If you have any questions about where things are up here, just ask me,” she said.

A resource. Chloe had learned to value those when she came into a new working environment. Some office workers were more willing to share knowledge than others. In fact, some were downright hostile to a temp, something that always baffled her, since she was no threat to their jobs. Judith said it was because Chloe was too good at hers and made them look bad. So Chloe tried to keep a low profile, although she refused to do subpar work.

Roberta led her down a long, wide corridor lined with paintings Chloe wished she had time to examine more closely. They were clearly originals and one looked like a Van Gogh, her favorite artist. Well, she would be able to admire them when she took a bathroom break. She assumed her new boss allowed those.

At the end of the corridor, massive double doors made of dark wood stood open. A beautifully sculptural wood-and-chrome desk sat just beyond them, empty.

“That’s your workstation,” Roberta said as they passed by the desk. “I’ll get you set up with a password and show you the internal office system once you meet Mr. Trainor.”

The head of human resources was going to show her how the computer worked? Usually she was lucky if a fellow admin told her which desk she should use. Were the staff members so intimidated by their boss?

Roberta knocked on the inner door, which was slightly ajar. “Mr. Trainor?”

“Yes, come in.” His voice sounded muffled.

Roberta pushed the door fully open and walked through. Chloe fiddled with her scarf again and went in behind her.

No one was there. The burgundy leather chair behind the huge U-shaped desk with three widescreen computer monitors sat vacant. She glanced right, toward one wall of windows, to see a couch and four chairs comfortably arranged like a living room. All unoccupied. The conference table and chairs to the left were also empty.

“Mr. Trainor?” Roberta appeared as baffled as Chloe.

“Just a second. My processor needed an update,” the voice said, this time emanating from somewhere in the vicinity of the desk. A large hand appeared on top of the desk, and then a man rose up behind it, his broad shoulders going up and up and up.

Chloe let her eyes skim over the tall, lean body, lingering a moment on the muscles the rolled-up sleeves of his white dress shirt revealed in his forearms. She checked out the shoulder breadth again. Definitely impressive. But it was the clean, sharp line of his jaw, the thick waves of his longish brown hair, and the intensity of his gray eyes that lit a spark of something irritatingly primitive deep in her belly.

She’d never met a CEO who looked like this before. They were usually older, balder, and chubbier.

“We have techs to do that,” Roberta said.

“I like to feel a circuit board every now and then,” her new boss said.

Chloe had to smother a spurt of laughter.

Roberta gestured Chloe forward. “Mr. Trainor, this is Chloe Russell, the temporary executive assistant who’s filling in for Janice while she’s sick.”

Chloe stepped up to the edge of the desk and stretched out her hand across the wide surface. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Trainor.”

“Chloe.” He nodded and shook her hand before he turned to Roberta. “A temp?”

The HR manager spread her hands in apology. “There’s a flu epidemic. The temp agency has total confidence in Chloe’s ability to work at a high level.”

“Right,” he said. With a smile that was clearly forced, he looked at Chloe. “Well, we’ll figure it out.”

Squelching the little flare of annoyance at Trainor’s assumption that she wouldn’t be able to
figure it out
, Chloe managed a tight smile in return.

“I’m going to get her set up on the computer at Janice’s desk,” Roberta said. “Then she’ll be ready to go.”

Trainor nodded and sat down in the big chair, swiveling away from them toward a computer screen before they’d started to leave. So that was how it would be. All business. Chloe was good with that.

After Roberta gave her a quick tutorial on the executive e-mail and messaging system, Chloe smoothed her hair back, picked up a pad of paper and a pen, and knocked on Trainor’s door.

“Come in.” This time he was leaning back in his chair, contemplating one of the computer screens. He rotated to face her and gestured to the two square leather chairs set in front of his desk. “Have a seat. So all I do is answer e-mails, read and write reports, and go to meetings. You’re in charge of facilitating those functions, particularly the meetings. I value punctuality.”

Then he gave her a smile. It drew fascinating brackets at the corners of his very masculine lips. Chloe had a hard time breathing.

She sat down abruptly and sucked in oxygen as she tried to remember what she’d wanted to ask him. “Roberta showed me your calendar. Would you like an e-mail reminder twenty minutes before each item on your schedule if the meeting is in-house?”

“Good suggestion,” he said. “How are you at proofreading?”

Feeling on firm ground now, she said, “I majored in English.” Typos seemed to jump out at her when she read anything, something that often drove her crazy when reading articles on the Internet.

He turned his chair and swiped his fingertip over his screen first in one direction, then another, then a third. He had long, tapering fingers, so he looked rather like a magician casting a spell. “I’ve just sent you a report one of my associates drafted. It needs cleaning up. That’s your first job.”

“Yes, sir,” Chloe said.

His brows drew together. “Sir?”

“Mr. Trainor.”

He seemed about to say something, but instead shrugged and turned back to his computer screen.

Chloe returned to her desk, fighting down the mix of gut-punching attraction and mild resentment Trainor evoked in her. She didn’t mind the resentment, but she needed to eliminate the attraction. He was the CEO of a giant, heartless corporation, just like the one that had sucked her father dry.

The report Trainor had sent her—an analysis of a recent marketing campaign written by someone named Richard Sinclair—needed more than just cleaning up. She debated a moment before she hit the intercom button. “Mr. Trainor, may I suggest some edits for this report? I’ll use tracking so you know what I’ve changed.”

“You want to edit the report?” His surprise came through her headset clearly.

“For clarity,” Chloe said. In for a penny, in for a pound. “I’ve worked in marketing before, so I know the jargon.”

She’d also worked in sales, accounting, and just about every other department a business could have. That was the joy and pain of working for start-ups; they were understaffed, so she filled in wherever she was needed. Unfortunately, she also brought the Russell jinx down on them. No fewer than three of the last four companies she’d worked for had failed. It had taken only three months from the day she was hired for the most recent one to close its doors. However, she refused to give up and work for a soulless corporation like Trainor Electronics except on a temporary basis. Her father’s experience had convinced her to avoid that career path. His employer had used his brilliant mind and given him a pittance in return.

A moment of silence. “Go ahead,” Trainor said and hung up.

She set alarms to remind herself to alert her boss about his meetings, and dug into the mess of charts and graphs and disorganized analyses. It got so bad that she created a whole new document with her changes. There were interruptions, of course, as the phone rang and a parade of visitors had to be vetted. However, the phone wasn’t as busy as she’d expected because Priscilla screened all the calls first and only put through those she thought Trainor might have an interest in taking.

“This job is cake,” Chloe muttered to herself as she attached the rewritten report to an e-mail and hit “Send.”

Trainor’s office door swung open, and the man himself emerged. Her gaze went straight to his sculpted forearms, then lifted as he ran one hand through the thick waves of his hair, making it look tousled, as though he’d just gotten out of bed. He frowned down at her from his considerable height. “Did you go to lunch?”

She glanced at the time on the computer screen: 2:03. She’d been so engrossed in the editing, she’d missed her one o’clock lunchtime. Her stomach growled. “Should I go now?”

“Could you order in sandwiches for both of us? I have a meeting in thirty minutes, and I’d like you to take notes.”

“I don’t know shorthand,” Chloe confessed. Almost no one did anymore, but maybe he was old-school.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “You’re just window dressing.”

Maybe she should be insulted, but that reminded her that she was underdressed for her new position. She wasn’t going to add any luster to her boss’s reputation in this outfit.

But that wasn’t a problem she could fix. Lunch was. Not that she knew where she was going to get lunch in less than twenty minutes. “What would you like on your sandwich?”

He hesitated, the first time she’d seen him do that. “Keep it plain.”

“No food allergies? You’re not a vegetarian?” Better safe than sorry.

Trainor shook his head, making one hank of waving hair fall onto his forehead. Her fingers twitched with a longing to feel the texture as she brushed it back. He removed temptation by striding down the hall to enter another office door. She couldn’t help watching the way the fabric of his trousers shifted over the muscles of a very tight behind. Chloe shook her head. Not going there.

Chloe hoped Priscilla was at her desk and knew the drill. CEOs didn’t like to be bothered with mundane details like buying lunch. She’d had to pay for a few herself when she could ill afford it. Luckily, Judith always paid her back.

She pushed the intercom button. “Priscilla,” she said in a low, urgent tone, “how do I get sandwiches for the big boss pronto?”