Now all the damned hearts seemed to be flying right out of her mother’s eyes. She didn’t believe Michaela.
Under any other circumstances, with any other man, she would have told Flo about that kiss. How sensual it had been, how spicy-sweet he’d tasted. She couldn’t even say the wine had gone to her head, because it hadn’t.
But with all those hearts and butterflies flying around the room, she couldn’t tell her mother a thing.
And tonight, she would dream about that kiss.
Troy couldn’t be sure if yesterday’s cruise had been a success or not.
There’d been that exquisite kiss, but then Michaela immediately claimed it was a mistake. And she’d had the captain head back to the marina.
That kiss. He’d relived it in his dreams last night—the taste of her, the feel of her skin beneath his palms, the delicious scent of her arousal.
Oh yeah, that kiss had been a total success. But getting her to see they needed to be together? Not so much. Maybe the cruise and picnic had been a complete failure.
He stared out the window of his San Jose office. The location of the high-rise was one of the reasons he’d chosen Los Gatos as his home. While some thought San Jose was just a suburb of San Francisco, they were wrong. It was the hub of Silicon Valley, and close to Morgan Hill and Gilroy, where many companies were fleeing the high cost of rent and construction in the rest of the Bay Area.
He watched as a helicopter carefully placed a massive new air conditioning unit on a building a stone’s throw from his. The task was accomplished with precision, every calculation accurate.
If only he could be as accurate in determining how to get Michaela to see him as more than just a billionaire.
His desk phone buzzed.
He’d chosen not to have an expensive office filled with expensive furniture. But he did enjoy the creature comforts of a well-stocked sideboard, including a refrigerator and a top-of-the-line espresso machine. Instead of stopping by Santa Cruz 9 every day for his specialty coffee, he could have made it here in his office. But once he’d seen Michaela—though he hadn’t known her name at the time—the espresso machine had been gathering dust.
He leaned over the desk to push the intercom button. “Yes, Betsy?”
“The-there…” Betsy stammered. In her late forties, Betsy was a consummate professional. She never stammered, no matter what or who showed up at his door.
Suddenly, he knew exactly who would incite stammering in his usually unflappable administrative aide. He pushed the intercom button once more. “Send him in.”
Betsy stammered again. “It… it’s…” She seemed to suck air, the sound of it rushing over the intercom. “He’s not alone.”
Good Lord. Who the hell could be with Fernsby?
When his office door opened, his first thought was, Un-freaking-believable. Fernsby flourished a hand for Susan Spencer and Flo Killian to precede him into the office.
“Nice digs,” Flo said.
“Great view,” Susan added.
He had to admit the sight sometimes struck him dumb, especially as the sun set over the city. His desk was ordinary oak, stained a dark shade, and only four chairs sat around the conference table. But the sofa was comfortable. He occasionally slept on it when he’d been working late, if he hadn’t already fallen asleep at his desk. His computer, to which he’d attached two monitors, was state of the art. But he didn’t have any Van Gogh paintings hanging on the walls or Ming vases in the corner.
He should have offered them coffee, but he didn’t want to let them get a toehold in his domain.
“I can do this myself,” he said, harsh emphasis in his voice. He knew exactly what this little conclave was all about.
Flo arched an eyebrow. She wore leggings with patches of colorful material on them. Her tunic blouse, matching the material on her leggings, fell in flowing folds past her hips. Flo would have made everything herself, and she looked both elegant and relaxed.
But they weren’t here to talk about clothing.
“Judging by my daughter’s state when she returned from your cruise yesterday,” Flo said sweetly, “you clearly can’t do it yourself.”
The moment she said it was the moment he accepted that she was right. That kiss had been amazing, glorious even. But Michaela had jumped right back into her chainmail armor and felt farther away from him than ever.
Faced with Flo, Susan, and Fernsby, admitting that felt like some sort of surrender. But if he didn’t admit defeat, he feared that any relationship with Michaela was screwed beyond all recognition. FUBARed, in military parlance.
Though he avoided scuffing his shoes on the carpet like a little kid, he managed to say, “All right, fine, I need your help.” Then he added, “Please.”
