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And dang it, he must have clued in on the direction of her thoughts. He didn’t move. But the temperature of the room rose a few sweat-inducing degrees. Or maybe that was just her body catching fire as he treated her to the full force of his lethal appeal.
His hot perusal did not help matters when it came to the temperature. What was it about his pale hazel eyes that dug into her so deeply? All he had to do was look at her and sharp little tugs danced through her core.
It pissed her off. Why couldn’t he be ugly, with a hunchback and gnarled feet?
Which was a stupid thing to wish for because if that was the case, she wouldn’t be in this position. She’d never have hooked up with him in Vegas because yes, she was that shallow and a naked romp with a man built like Hendrix had righted her world—for a night.
Now she’d pay the price for that moment of hedonism. The final cost had yet to be determined, though.
Hendrix set her phone down on the desk, correctly guessing he had her attention and the threat of expulsion had waned. For now. She could easily send him packing if the need struck. Or she could roll the chair back a few inches and move the man into a better position to negotiate something of the more carnal variety. This was a solid desk. Would be a shame not to fully test its strength.
No. She shook her head. This was the danger of putting herself in the same room with him. She forgot common sense and propriety.
“Since I’m already in the zone of crazy,” he commented in his North Carolina–textured twang, “you should definitely hear me out. For real this time. I don’t know what you think I’m proposing, but odds are good you didn’t get that it starts and ends with a partnership.”
That had not come across. Whatever he had in mind, she’d envisioned a lot of sex taking center stage. And that she’d have to do without because she’d turned over a new leaf.
A partnership, on the other hand, had interesting possibilities.
As coolly as she could under the circumstances, she crossed her arms. Mostly as a way to keep her hands to herself. “Talk fast. You’ve got my attention for about another five minutes.”
Two
Hendrix had been right to follow Rosalind. This bare storefront had a story behind it and he had every intention of learning her secrets. Whatever leverage he could dig up might come in handy, especially since he’d botched the first round of this negotiation.
And the hard cross of Roz’s arms told him it was indeed a negotiation, one he shouldn’t expect to win easily. That had been his mistake on the first go-round. He’d thought their chemistry would be good trading currency, but she’d divested him of that notion quickly. So round two would need a completely different approach.
“What is this place?” he asked and his genuine curiosity leaked through. He had a vision in his head of Rosalind Carpenter as a party girl, one who posed for men’s magazines and danced like a fantasy come to life. Instead of tracking her down during an afternoon shopping spree, he’d stumbled over her working.
It didn’t fit his perception of her and he’d like to get the right one before charging ahead.
“I started a charity,” she informed him with a slight catch in her voice that struck him strangely.
She expected him to laugh. Or say something flippant. So he didn’t. “That’s fantastic. And hard. Good for you.”
That bobbled her composure and he wouldn’t apologize for enjoying it. This marriage plan should have been a lot easier to sell and he couldn’t put his finger on why he’d faltered so badly thus far. She’d been easy in Vegas—likable, open, adventurous. All things he’d assumed he’d work with today, but none of those qualities seemed to be a part of her at-home personality. Plus, he wasn’t trying to get her into bed. Well, technically, he was. But semi-permanently, and he didn’t have a lot of experience at persuading a woman to still be there in the morning.
No problem. Winging it was how he did his best work. He hadn’t pushed Harris Family Tobacco Lounge so close to the half-billion mark in revenue without taking a few risks.
“What does your charity do?” he asked, envisioning an evening dress resale shop or Save the Kittens. Might as well know what kind of fundraiser he’d have to attend as her husband.
“Clowns,” she said so succinctly that he did a double take to be sure he hadn’t misheard her. He hadn’t. And it wasn’t a joke, judging by the hard set of her mouth.
“Like finding new homes for orphan clowns?” he guessed cautiously, only half kidding. Clown charity was a new one for him.
“You’re such a moron.” She rolled her eyes, but they had a determined glint now that he liked a lot better than the raw vulnerability she’d let slip a few minutes ago. “My charity trains clowns to work with children at hospitals. Sick kids need to be cheered up, you know?”
“That’s admirable.” And he wasn’t even blowing smoke. It sounded like it meant something to her and thus it meant something to him—as leverage. He glanced around, taking in the bare walls, the massive and oddly masculine dark-stained desk and the rolling leather chair under her very fine backside. Not much to her operation yet, which worked heavily in his favor. “How can I help?”
Suspicion tightened her lush mouth, which only made him want to kiss it away. They were going to have to fix this attraction or he’d spend all his time adjusting her attitude in a very physical way.
On second thought, he couldn’t figure out a downside to that approach.
“I thought you were trying to talk me into marrying you,” she said with
a fair amount of sarcasm.
“One and the same, sweetheart.” He gave it a second and the instant his meaning registered, her lips curved into a crafty smile.
