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CHAPTERTWO
Disbelief sucker-punchedNoah square in the chest. No,shesucker-punched him.
His mystery woman from the gala stepped from his dreams and into his office. Auburn waves fell in ringlets around a soft, heart-shaped face, setting off eyes the color of the Texas sky after a thunderstorm. Freckles dusted her nose and cheeks, and her cotton-candy pink lips beckoned him over for a taste.
She stood about five-seven, with round curves that made him dream of grabbing tight and going for a long, slow ride. A flowing skirt wrapped around her from waist to floor, and her top exposed both shoulders and ahintof midriff. She looked as if she’d dressed for a day at the beach, not the office.
And damn it, now he was picturing the decadent beauty splashing in the surf in nothing more than a bathing suit that barely covered the essentials.
“Mr. Whitlow,” the woman said, confidence polishing her voice smooth. “I’m Emma Morgan with Reynolds, Clark & Morgan. You requested a meeting?”
“Uh, Reynolds, Clark & Morgan?”
“Yes.” She lifted her leather portfolio. “You wanted to discuss the Lone-Star Tech matter.”
Due to all the blood plunging from his head to his groin, his brain didn’t want to engage. The woman of his literal dreams was Emma Morgan, the attorney David had been grooming to take over the firm when he and Mary eventually retired?
“She’s young,” David had said, “but don’t let her age fool you. I’ve never worked with anyone better. She’s smart, a barracuda in court, and speaks three languages. She’s the entire package.”
The picture David painted had intrigued Noah. He’d planned to drop by the firm at some point for an introduction, but something always got in the way. He’d expected someone with schoolmarm buns and an ill-fitting pantsuit. Not her. Not the woman who’d nearly obliterated his higher brain functions in a single instant. How was he supposed to focus on anything but his desire to draw her close and indulge in the fantasies that had tormented him for weeks?
Emma cursedherself for not insisting they hold off this meeting until she could change clothes.The outfit didn’t make the lawyer, she reminded herself.The mind did. But that was hard to internalize with Noah Whitlow standing before her in his tailored three-piece suit, looking like a model from a male magazine. His unrelenting gaze roaming her body didn’t help, either. What she’d deduced must be irritation made the golden flecks in his brown eyes burn.
“If you’ll please give us a few moments,” Ethan Whitlow said to her with a dismissing wave of his hand, “my cousin and I were in the middle of a conversation that we need to finish.”
While she wouldn’t classify the clipped edge of Ethan’s words as meanness, it was undoubtedly mean adjacent. And Emma tried to avoid men with malice in their voices; in her world, fists all too often followed angry words.
“Actually,” Noah Whitlow said, “Ms. Morgan will not be leaving. You will be, Ethan, but you’re right. We need to finish our discussion. Now, however, isn’t the time. If you’ll speak with my assistant on your way out, we’ll arrange a time that’s suitable for both of us.”
Without another word, Noah strode to the sitting area on the far side of the expansive office and folded his sleek frame onto one of four dark leather chairs, the move dominance and dismissal wrapped into one, and it didn’t go unnoticed by the other Whitlow in the room. For a split second, she feared Ethan might not go, but on a mumbled curse, he stormed out. She clambered out of his way. Angry men always made her think back to a childhood she wished she could forget.
“Come, Ms. Morgan.” Noah Whitlow motioned to the chair opposite him. “We have much to discuss.”
“Of course.”
Head on straight, Ems.
Her legs trembled as she ambled toward him, a wounded gazelle walking willingly toward a mighty lion. Airy filaments of late-morning light streamed through the banks of floor-to-ceiling windows and played over him in an ethereal glow. His golden-brown tie matched the hue of his eyes, and raven-black hair fell to his shoulders in a silky curtain. He was the pinnacle of four-point-six billion years of human evolution.
All hail Mother Nature.
He studied her from beneath dark lashes, but he didn’t speak. She wished she knew what was going through his head, but his expression was as hard to read as a legal contract printed with black ink on black paper. That said, she had a clue what was likely annoying him.
As she sat, she tugged the front of her shirt down to cover her exposed belly. “I apologize for my outfit. I usually don’t dress so unprofessionally at the office, but I was about five minutes away from boarding a plane to Cancún when I heard about David.”
“Cancún? So youaredressed for a day at the beach.” His gaze sharpened—nodarkened—and he drew in a slow breath as if trying to calm himself.
Okay, what wasthatabout?
His cell rang. “One moment, Ms. Morgan.” He retrieved his phone from his pocket, the device sleek and beautiful without a bulky protective case. “Whitlow.” Face impassive once again, he remained silent for a long moment. “I don’t want your excuses, Jack,” he finally said. “I want that prototype on my desk in thirty days, as agreed, or you’ll be dealing with my legal team. And trust me, it’ll be the last business failing you will ever make.” He paused. “Jack, no. No.No.” His voice never rose, but each “no” became sharper and more clipped. “I. Am.Talking.And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut up and let me.”
The sheer authority in his voice sent unease dancing down her spine and made her sit just a little straighter.
“Thirty days, and not a second longer. Do I make myself clear?” He didn’t wait for a response, simply ended the call, and placed his phone on the end table to his right. “Sorry for the interruption, Ms. Morgan.”
“It’s not a problem.” Not that she would have told him if it had been.
“Before we get started, do you have any updates on David’s heart attack?”
