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He’d given up correcting the little man. What did it matter how Simpson addressed him as long as he found the right man to get the job done?
He had. The proposal was everything Caz had hoped for and more. He’d searched hard for the right firm to handle the account, narrowed his choices to three and asked them to come up with written proposals for the best possible utilization of investment funds in Suliyam.
Three months later, each company had submitted a fine proposal. Still, making the final decision had been easy. The T S and M report stood head and shoulders above the others. Caz knew he’d found his man.
Simpson was an annoyance, but Frank Fisher, whose name was on the proposal, was brilliant. He was the right person for the job: logical, methodical, pragmatic.
All the things Megan O’Connell wasn’t.
The woman was a creature of temper and temperament, all blistering heat one moment and bone-chilling ice the next. Their encounter proved, as if proof were necessary, that she could not possibly have written the document in question.
It took no great genius to figure out that Simpson was right about her.
She’d accept the money Caz had offered and be grateful for it. The thought of paying her off infuriated him, but sometimes the old saying was right. Better to placate the occasional jackal than to lose the entire flock.
Caz glanced at his watch. Almost seven. He was meeting Fisher for dinner. He hadn’t intended to bother with such a meeting—Fisher was making the flight to Suliyam with him tomorrow, so there’d be plenty of time to talk—but Fisher hadn’t been present this morning. He was tying up loose ends on another account, Simpson said.
No problem, Caz had answered.
But he’d reconsidered. He really did want to meet Fisher as soon as possible. There was always the faint chance they wouldn’t hit it off. If Fisher were anything like Simpson, for instance. If Caz intimidated him simply by being there, they’d never be able to work together.
That was one thing about Megan O’Connell. She damned well hadn’t been intimidated. She’d treated him as if he was a man, not a prince. She’d kissed him that way…
Enough.
He had to clear his mind for the meeting ahead. He’d set it up only a little while ago, on the phone with Simpson.
“I’d like to have dinner with Mr. Fisher this evening,” he’d said.
Well, that might be difficult to arrange, Simpson had replied. It was late in the day. Fisher wasn’t in the office. He might not be able to make a meeting called at the last moment.
“I’ll expect him to meet me at seven,” Caz had said, cutting through the excuses.
A more suspicious man might even think Simpson was trying to keep him from meeting Frank Fisher until it was too late, but that was ridiculous. Simpson would want Fisher to be on his toes for their first encounter. Meeting this way, after the man had put in a day’s work, might not be the best time for him to shine.
Why else would Simpson sound nervous? Surely not because he didn’t think Fisher couldn’t handle questions on the fine points and subtle implications of the proposal he’d drafted.
The O’Connell woman wasn’t capable of such complex work. Simpson had laughed at the very idea. Caz had come to that same conclusion on his own. She was a brash, fiery redhead whose talents lay in a very different direction than finance.
And he’d kissed her.
Her taste lingered on his lips, her scent in his nostrils. He could almost feel the softness of her breasts against his chest, the delicate tilt of her pelvis against him.
Damn it. He was turning hard, just thinking about that kiss.
Why? Why had he kissed her? He didn’t like her. What man would like a woman who threatened his plans?
Sure, some men didn’t have to like a woman to want to bed her, but he wasn’t one of those men. The papers printed lies about him as a womanizer. He’d long ago given up protesting because the protests only added fuel to the fire.
The truth was, he never slept with a woman unless he found her interesting and intelligent.
Megan O’Connell was interesting and intelligent, but she was also a liar. He didn’t want to sleep with her.
No, he didn’t.
Caz muttered a word he’d learned not in Suliyam but in the American university he’d attended. The restaurant where he was to meet Fisher was just ahead. He’d been there before, always without his entourage. It was a small place with good food where nobody recognized him or bothered him.
That made it perfect for tonight. A pleasant me
