But it was no use talking to a politician, they talked right over you.
“Don’t worry about it. Sam’s a great guy, he’ll treat you right, no question. But I really do need to warn you of something, Ms. Pearce, and it’s serious.”
Her heart thudded and she looked up into Sam Reston’s hard, impassive face. He could hear perfectly, since Mayor Villarreal was talking at the top of his voice.
“Yes, Mr. Mayor?”
“Don’t ever play poker with him. Man’s ashark.” A loud guffaw and the connection was broken.
Nicole slowly slid the phone closed and looked up at Sam Reston. He was standing utterly still; the only thing moving was that enormous chest as he breathed quietly. He had the extreme good taste not to look smug or self-satisfied. There was no expression at all on that hard, dark, bearded face. He simply watched her to see what she would do.
She held out the phone by one end and he took it by the other. For a moment they were connected by five inches of warm plastic, then Nicole dropped her hand.
They looked at each other, Nicole frozen to the spot, Lowlife—no, Sam Reston—as still as a dark marble statue. There was no sound, absolutely nothing. The building could have been deserted, there weren’t even the normal sounds of air-conditioning or the elevators swooshing up and down.
Everything was still, in suspended animation.
Nicole finally took a deep breath.
Ooooo-kay.
Well, it looked like Lowlife—Sam Reston—wasn’t a serial killer or a drug dealer. Actually, he, um, was the owner of a company she knew to be very successful. The success of Reston Security constituted a significant portion of the gossip machine that was alive and well in the Morrison Building. Reston Security was certainly much more successful than Wordsmith, which was clinging to life by the occasional IV line of new clients.
If the extremely dangerous-looking, seriously scruffy man in front of her, watching her quietly, was Sam Reston of Reston Security, then surely she could do this.
A deal was a deal. If he could somehow open her door and allow her to make her videoconference call, she would owe him far more than could be repaid by a couple of hours spent consuming a meal.
He was watching her quietly, and standing oh-so still.
9:23.She took a deep breath. “Okay, you have a dinner date, for an evening of your choosing.” She gestured behind her. “But you’re going to have to open my door, Mr. Reston, right now. I have a very important business call coming in at 9:30 sharp, and if I don’t make that call, then our deal is off.”
He dipped his head gravely. “Fair enough. And the name is Sam.”
“Nicole.” Nicole gritted her teeth, glancing at the big clock at the end of the corridor and wincing. However Sam Reston was going to get her into her office, he’d have to do it in the next six minutes or she was toast. “I wonder…is there a building super with a master key?”
“No.” He shook his head. “So—we have the deal?”
“Um, yes. We do.” Nicole barely refrained from tapping her toe.
“You’ll go out to dinner with me tonight?” he pressed. At her look, he shrugged broad shoulders. “Ever since I left the Navy and became a businessman, I’ve learned to nail agreements down.”
Actually, he looked like the kind of man who would enforce deals at the end of a gun. But she’d promised.
“As a new businesswoman myself, I’ve learned to keep my word. So, yes, I accept your invitation. Now, please open my door. And if you kick it open, I’ll expect you to pay damages.”
“Of course,” he murmured.
Nicole shot a glance at her watch. Damn. It had taken her several days to set up this conference call. The client was a Wall Street “Master of the Universe,” almost impossible to pin down to an appointment.
The “Master” in question was an anal retentive and when he said a 9:30 conference call, it would be 9:30 to the second, and she knew that he’d never call again if she wasn’t on the line. In a harsh, nasal New Yawk accent, the words spilling out almost more quickly than she could understand them, he’d told her he couldn’t have anyone wasting his time because his time was worth at least a thousand dollars a minute.
The message couldn’t have been clearer.Be at the end of the line at 9:30 or else.
Nicole worked with two retired professors of economics, one of whom had been born in Russia and had come to the States as a teenager, and another who had studied in Moscow for ten years. They would be perfect for the big, long-term translation job and she had every intention of asking the Master of the Universe top prices. Her commission off the deal would go a long way toward paying for the night nurse.
Four minutes to go. She was going to lose this appointment, and probably the client. So much for…
She looked up from her wrist and blinked.
