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“It was fine, until I began discussing the proposal.” Caz’s eyes darkened. “Mr. Fisher tried to change the subject.”
Megan folded her arms. “I’ll bet he did.”
“I was persistent, at which point he excused himself and went to the men’s room.” Caz smiled coldly. “He went to the men’s room a number of times over the next few minutes.”
“Ah. Well, maybe the food you’d eaten didn’t agree with him.”
“The conversation didn’t agree with him. The last time he left the table, I followed him. He didn’t go to the men’s room, Miss O’Connell, he went to make a phone call. In fact, I’m sure he’d made several phone calls.” He shot a pointed look at the blinking light on Megan’s answering machine. “But the person he was trying to reach wasn’t home…or wasn’t interested in taking his calls.”
“Why don’t I save us both some time, Sheikh Qasim? You wanted to talk about the Suliyam proposal. Frank didn’t. Maybe I should say he couldn’t, because he doesn’t know the first thing about it.”
“That’s correct. And after some pointed questioning, he told me everything. That you’d written it, not he. That Simpson had promised you’d stay in the States and feed him whatever information he might need.”
“And that it wasn’t going to happen, because I wouldn’t play along.”
“Yes.”
“And when Frank came clean, you realized you had a problem. You’ve got a complex plan to deal with, and nobody who understands it.”
‘‘That’s an oversimplification but, yes, that’s the bottom line.’’
“Well, Frank’s a quick study.” Megan smiled coldly. “It shouldn’t take him more than, oh, two or three years to figure things out.”
“I’m sure you think that’s amusing,” Caz said, even more coldly, “but I’m returning to my country tomorrow. There’s no time for Fisher to figure things out—even if he could, which I doubt.”
“And you want me to save your bacon.”
Caz ground his teeth together. Thank God she’d said it, because he doubted if he could.
“Yes.”
Megan smiled. “No.”
“What do you mean, no? Your company wrote this thing. We have a contract—”
“And you have Frank Fisher.” She started past him, toward the door. “Good night, Sheikh Qasim. I wish I could say I’m sorry to see you sweat, but—”
Caz caught hold of her and spun her toward him. “All right,” he said in a low voice, “that’s it. I’ve had enough.”
“And so have I.” Megan’s voice trembled with suppressed anger. “If you think I’m going to go along with you and Simpson, that I’m going to sit by a phone here in Los Angeles and feed information to Frank Fisher—”
“Fisher is out of the picture,” Caz snapped.
“Try telling that to Jerry Simpson!”
“I already did. That’s how I got your address.”
“And I’m telling you again, you’ve wasted your time. I will not let Frank use my work, my ideas, my—
“Damn it, woman, will you shut up and let me talk? I’m offering you the job!”
That did it. For the first time since he’d met her, Megan O’Connell was speechless. She just stared at him, eyes wide with shock, hair loose in a froth of autumn-colored curls, face scrubbed free of makeup.
He remembered what he’d tried to forget. That kiss. The taste. The feel of her in his arms, of her lips parted to his…
“The job?”
Caz cleared his throat. “The job you were supposed to have, as my financial consultant. Will you accept?”
