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“Why would I make an appointment when I know how desperate you are for an answer to your proposal?” he lobbed back.
“Yet here you are on a Thursday, when I asked for your answer by Monday.”
“You should have known better than to give me an order.”
Son of a bitch had made her wait just to make her sweat.
Annabelle forced out a little laugh. “Can I get you a drink?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? I could fix one if you like.”
“I wouldn’t risk taking a drink from you. I might die on the way home.”
Annabelle slapped her hand to her chest. “What a horrible thing to say. I need you, remember? I wouldn’t kill you—right now.” She smiled sweetly.
He studied her for a moment. “I came here to discuss your proposal.” Folding his large body onto the lavender Scandinavian sofa, he rested his ankle atop his knee and signaled with his hand that she should have a seat across from him.
Annabelle’s fingers clenched the armrests. Who the hell did he think he was, ordering her around in her own office?
After a brief pause, she reluctantly rose from her chair and stalked over to the opposite sofa. Seated, she crossed one leg over the other, her body rigid and tense, noting with satisfaction when his eyes followed the movement. “I’m listening.”
His gaze shifted upward. “I have decided to accept your proposal.”
Annabelle released a slow breath, doing her best not to display her utter relief. “But?”
“What makes you think there is a but?”
“There’s always a but.”
Dante pulled lint from his black socks and smiled to himself, the dimple in each cheek making an appearance. “There is one thing.”
I knew it. “What? Go ahead and tell me now. I can handle whatever curveball you have planned.”
He rubbed his thumbnail across his lower lip—something he did whenever he was weighing options. “How soon would you like to get married?”
“As quickly as possible. I was thinking about May.”
His dark eyebrows angled upward. “That’s only two months away.”
“Time is of the essence. My father is retiring in a few months, and I can’t risk him handing the company to Albert Strong.”
“And what about Nolson Hilderbrandt? How soon can you arrange a meeting with him after we’re married? A week?”
Her eyebrows winged higher. “I can’tguaranteea meeting within a week.”
He dipped his head and looked at her in a penetrating way, expressing his displeasure without saying a word.
Annabelle took a deep breath. She couldn’t afford to screw this up. “One week is impossible. The man is practically a recluse. He hardly ever leaves his estate and mostly works from home now, which I’m sure you know. I’ll arrange a meeting as soon as I can.”
“I hope you’re not trying to play some foolish game with me. I expect you to do what you say, so a meeting with Nolson will be written into the contract. If the terms of the contract are not met, then the agreement is void. Don’t think for one minute that because we will be married you can renege on your promise. Right now, I’m in an agreeable mood. You don’t want me to become… disagreeable.”
Annabelle swallowed. “Understood.”
She knew very well how a ‘disagreeable’ Dante handled his foes. She had heard that one time a supplier tried to renegotiate their terms after he learned of the amount of money Dante would make off the project. He decided he’d bid too low and wanted a greater percentage of the revenue, so he purposely delayed the materials—causing a lock jam in the project’s progress.
Of course, his behavior didn’t sit well with her ex-husband. Delays meant money lost, which meant the charts and tables he loved to analyze would have to be redone and his margins would shrink. Rumor had it, Dante marched into the man’s officehimself, confronted him about the importance of keeping one’s word, and used a technical violation in the contract to yank his business. Other companies followed when they learned what happened. The man went out of business in six months.
