Page 4 of Hate To Be Mine

The woman quickly tapped on her keyboard and flashed a perfectly white smile. “Have a seat.”

I sat and noticed the man with the eyes was prominently featured in many of the posters around the lobby. I could see why. I would buy whatever he was selling.

But I was well aware men like that were not swimming in the ponds I got to fish in. My father’s company did okay and I wasn’t hurting for money, but I wasn’t uber wealthy. And I was definitely not model material. The women draped over my sexy blue-eyed man were all legs and boobs.

I had none of their charms. And when I told people what my job was, the cringe was real.

Most people heard “insurance” and their eyes glazed over like I’d just announced I specialized in watching paint dry. But specialty insurance wasn’t like that at all. We didn’t deal with car accidents or health claims. We dealt with the bizarre, the valuable, and the irreplaceable.

It was exciting. I got to see things most people didn’t.

Last month, we’d insured a champion racing pigeon for a million dollars. The owner had explained the bird’s pedigree and racing record like he was talking about a thoroughbred racehorse.

Before that, there was the famous comedian who’d taken out a policy in case he “lost his sense of humor,” which was essentially disability insurance.

And then there were the cold-feet policies for wealthy couples, protecting six-figure wedding investments in case one of them decided to bail at the last minute. Even super rich people didn’t want to get stuck with a twenty-thousand-dollar wedding gown that would never be worn or a caterer that refused refunds.

It was weird. It was complicated. It was full of contingencies that most people’s brains would never consider in a million years. And I loved every minute of it.

The Blackwell Couture account had the potential to be a disaster, which was why my dad wanted me on the job. It was all going to be very hands on.

The policy itself was massive, including multi-million-dollar coverage for a destination fashion campaign on some pristine island in the South Pacific. The Miratoan government had been incredibly hesitant to allow such a large production on their environmentally protected archipelago. According to my research, it had taken months of negotiation and a substantial donation to their environmental agencies just to get permission. The whole thing was fragile and our insurance policy protected both sides.

If the Blackwells violated the terms of their agreement with Miratoa or if there was an environmental incident, the entire production could be shut down. The live runway show at the end, which was supposed to be streamed globally and attract international press, would be cancelled. Blackwell Couture would lose millions.

And that’s where my father’s company came in. Dad decided to send me along to the island to oversee the entire two-week shoot. It wasn’t standard operating procedure. Usually we just reviewed documentation and trusted our clients to follow the rules. But this situation was too delicate to wait and see. I had to be there to rein in any behavior that could cost us a pretty penny.

“Make sure those Blackwells don’t screw this up,” Dad had told me. “Watch them like a hawk. If they think the rules don’t apply to them, set them straight.”

Oh boy, did I intend to. I would make sure the production operated safely and that no damage was done to any people or to the delicate ecosystem on the island. My eyes drifted back to the man staring me down from some beach location.

Sebastian Blackwell. He would be in charge of the production our policy was insuring. He was the man I would be chasing around the island with the equivalent of a yardstick. If he stepped out of line, I’d whack his knuckles.

Every photo I’d found of him online was a black mark against his character. He was always surrounded by models, actresses, and socialites that did nothing except be rich and beautiful. Hoochies, if I was being totally honest and just a little bitchy. I didn’t know them, but did I have to meet them to know they were all after one thing from him?

Sebastian was always holding a drink, always grinning that megawatt smile and looking like he was having the time of his life at whatever exclusive club or party or yacht he’d landed on.

He did not look like a serious man. And I had very little patience for unserious men.

My eyes drifted back to Sebastian wearing a tailored tuxedo with a gorgeous blonde casually draped on him. His modeling pictures didn’t look all that different from the candid shots I had seen on the internet. Either that was really him and he didn’t have to fake it for the modeling, or he was always faking it.

“Ms. Simmons?”

My focus bounced back to where a woman was standing not three feet in front of me. I had been caught up in my own thoughts. “Yes?”

“Right this way, please. Mr. Blackwell is just finishing up a call.”

She led me down a hallway lined with more framed photos of magazine covers featuring Blackwell designs. More photos of Sebastian with those razor-sharp cheekbones, a jaw cut from granite, and those smoldering blue eyes. I forced myself not to look too closely. The man was extremely attractive. That was just biology. It didn’t mean anything. So what if he won the gene-pool lottery?

Looks were not everything.

The conference room she showed me into was all glass walls and a massive table that could have seated twenty people. It seemed a bit much for just the two of us. Did he think he needed to impress me? Or was this intimidation?

Silly boy, he was going to learn it took a lot more than a big table to impress me.

“They’ll be with you shortly,” the assistant said. “Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?”

“I’m fine, thank you.”