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Then she knew. He’d never told any of those other women how he liked his sex. He wouldn’t have told her, if he hadn’t been desperate for release from the dryad’s spell. Now she was the only woman he knew who could give him what he wanted. She could be a toothless hag with the interpersonal skills of a filth-covered hermit, and he wouldn’t care, as long as she slapped his ass while his cock was filling her.
She crumpled his card in her fist. She wouldn’t be calling him. Ever.
* * * * *
Dermot frowned at the numbers scrolling by on his screen. It was an enticing proposition.
He shifted position, trying not to think about his enticing Irish witch. It seemed that everything he did lately reminded him of her.
With his usual thoroughness, he’d read her first Silver Moon book. She’d described a ritual of renewal performed naked in the woods. The image that had sprung to his mind at her words was so arousing, he’d had to stop reading and relieve his massive hard-on.
Dermot sighed and forced his attention back to the report on his screen. Silver Moon publishing was a lucrative business opportunity. The returns weren’t quite up to his standards, but he could easily trim costs in warehousing and transportation by piggybacking on other Stone investments.
Then there was the matter of increasing the value of their assets. With her beauty, self-possession, and quick wit, Eileen was a natural for the talk show circuit. They could start her out on some of the smaller networks that catered to women’s issues—much of the resurgence of interest in witchcraft was part of a women’s empowerment groundswell. Slanting the material to attract potential buyers would be trivially simple. The viewers would love her. And they’d become ardent buyers of Eileen’s books.
The fact that many network studios were located in Manhattan, where his primary office was also located, was an added bonus. There’d be many hours surrounding her television appearances during which Eileen would be at loose ends, and in need of companionship. Companionship he was eager to supply.
They wouldn’t have to spend all their time in bed. There were plenty of places he’d love to take her, showing her his favorite parts of the city. They’d dine at his favorite restaurants, listen to music or dance at his favorite clubs, maybe even go to a show or a museum if she was interested.
He smiled, anticipating the leisurely process of getting to know everything that interested her. Everything she enjoyed. Everything that gave her pleasure.
He absent-mindedly caressed the casing of his computer with his thumb, stopping as soon as he realized what he was doing. Instead, he reached for the phone.
He’d waited for her to call him. He’d waited two weeks, longer than he was accustomed to waiting for anything. So now he’d take matters into his own hands.
* * * * *
Eileen shook her head, certain she’d heard her agent incorrectly. Switching the phone to her other ear, she asked, “Would you repeat that, please?”
“Silver Moon is considering booking you on the talk show circuit for your next book’s release, and needs to know if you’d be comfortable discussing your beliefs on the air.”
That’s what she’d thought he’d said. “Why? They never showed any interest in publicity before.”
“Some shakeup in the company, I hear. The new management wants to increase the v
alue of the company’s assets, and that means building their lead author’s name recognition.”
“Stone.”
After a pause even longer than the usual transoceanic delay, her agent said, “That’s what the rumor mill says. But how’d you hear that all the way in Ireland?”
“Never you mind. Tell them I’ll be coming to discuss it with them, if they’ll be paying my way.”
Although he tried, her agent couldn’t convince her to give a more definitive answer. He promised to relay her response and hung up.
Eileen put down the phone and stared out her kitchen window at the trees beyond. She’d wondered how Dermot Stone would react to her not calling him. Now she knew.
She’d called him arrogant before, but she hadn’t comprehended the magnitude of his arrogance. He was willing to buy her publisher—or at least invest heavily in the company—to get her to come to him.
A horrible suspicion rose in her mind, souring her stomach. Did he expect to buy her along with the company? Was the television offer supposed to be the incentive to lure her into his bed?
She sighed. No. That didn’t seem like Dermot’s style.
Her gaze wandered over the pile of magazines stacked on the kitchen table; lifestyle magazines discussing his eligible bachelor status, entertainment magazines with photos of the premier events he’d attended, and business magazines analyzing a merger between one of his companies and the offshoot of a French conglomerate.
She recalled one of the quotes he’d given the business magazine. “I have no desire to win every game. But I only play when I can be confident of winning.”
He’d been referring to his skill at picking underrated companies in which to invest, returning 80% of them to profitability within five years. He had been scoffed at by the business press for turning down lucrative investment deals, only to have his instincts proven correct two or three years later. Some companies were now hesitant about approaching him as a possible investor, fearing that if he rejected their offer, no one else would be willing to risk the investment.
