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“Mr. Kane’s office,” Evelyn announced before knocking exactly three times on a large wooden door.
“Come,” the muffled voice ordered from the other side, a strange mix of irritation and command.
Arlie’s stomach performed an impromptu death roll as Evelyn gingerly turned the ornate handle and peeked into the opening. “Miss Banks for you.”
“Fine.”
Evelyn Norris stepped back, giving Arlie’s elbow an encouraging squeeze before shuffling off down the hall.
Heart rattling against her ribs like a trapped bird, Arlie squared her shoulders, tilted her chin up, and opened the door.
Her first thought when she saw Samuel Kane standing beside a desk roughly the size of a boxcar was that she shouldn’t have brought her portfolio, she should have brought a crash helmet. Because the second her eyes locked with his, her knees decided to turn to butter.
A thousand times she had rehearsed this scene in her head. A thousand times she had failed to adequately prepare herself for the man standing before her.
The Samuel Kane she had invented for these mental practice runs was a slightly older version of the quiet, studious teenager she had known. Tall and lean, maybe with a good start on a receding hairline. Definitely wearing some kind of pretentiously recognizable designer suit.
The suit part she’d been right about.
Damned if she hadn’t been dead wrong about how that suit would fit him.
His coat hung from a polished mahogany coat rack to the left of his desk, allowing Arlie an unfettered view of the pale blue shirt clinging to his broad, rounded shoulders and a torso clearly honed by hours, days, probably years, in the gym. A crisp sapphire tie hung down the center of his chest, anchored in place by a gleaming gilded lion tiepin. Below the tawny leather belt circling a lean waist, the fitted pinstripe slacks hugged the powerful, corded muscles of his long legs.
Then there was his face.
Many an afternoon when she had come to Fair Weather to help her mother with the food for a large gathering, she’d invented elaborate excuses to steal glimpses of Samuel while he’d sequestered himself in the family’s library, a pile of books next to him on the Regency end table. From her covert vantage, she’d watched as he’d turned page after page, pausing only to push his glasses up his nose with the tip of his left index finger at regular intervals.
As a young man, he’d had an almost poetic sensibility with full sensitive lips and prominent cheekbones, a lock of dark hair flopping over his brow. The hair and lips remained intact, but years and a goodly dose of testosterone had broadened his jaw, chiseling it into a dangerous outcropping above the crisp angle of his starched collar. Beyond the actual changes in his features, Samuel looked like every ounce of his relentless thirst for knowledge had been distilled into hunger itself. Lean. Predatory. Ruthless.
“Arlie Banks,” Samuel said, coming around his desk. “Thank you for coming.”
She hadn’t realized she’d frozen in the entryway until he closed the distance between them with purposeful strides. When he was close enough for Arlie to catch a current of soap, aftershave and pressed wool, he held out his hand.
After a beat of hesitation, she slid her small, sweaty palm into his, surprised by the electric jolt that shot straight to her heart when his fingers closed over hers.
“Of course,” she said, trying to seem confident and calm as she met the eerie golden-green eyes he’d inherited from his late mother. “Thank you for thinking of me.”
“I didn’t.” He motioned her toward the chair directly opposite from his expansive desk.
“Oh?” Arlie tried to ignore the stab of disappointment as she primly seated herself.
“It was Marlowe.” Samuel walked around behind his desk and slid into the wide wing-backed leather chair with practiced ease.
“Oh,” was the most intelligent answer Arlie could manage.
Marlowe Kane, one grade below and several levels of social sophistication above Arlie, had mostly ignored her during high school. Sometime after college, Arlie had been surprised to receive a connection request from her on a social media employment site. No one had been more shocked than Arlie when she discovered that Marlowe had traded in her pom-poms for an MBA and a job as the corporate comptroller at Kane Foods International.
“She mentioned that you were the artistic director of Gastronomie, but that you’d recently left the company.”
A single bead of cold sweat crawled down Arlie’s ribs like an unwelcome insect as she silently prayed that he didn’t ask for any further details. “That’s correct.”
Samuel leaned forward in his chair, light from the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him gilding the crown of his dark, sleek head. “Why?”
