Involvement with the male of the species in other than the professional or platonic realm simply did not fit into her life plan. There would be no misery for her such as she saw day in and day out through her work. She wanted no part of the hassles of marriage, the bickering about the sharing of responsibilities, the arguments about money matters and career. Above all she wanted none of the heartache she’d known as a child when her parents’ marriage had fallen apart. She had suffered enough then to last her a lifetime. Indeed, the avoidance of sexual entanglement seemed a small price to pay for emotional well-being.
As she wiggled her toes over the rim of the open drawer, her thoughts wandered recklessly. A man like Sloane Harper, she decided, would demand things. His air of command would inspire total subservience. She, however, was subservient to no man. Hard work and her own innate intelligence had earned her the respect of the majority of her peers. It was what she wanted and she prized it.
Sloane Harper. The Silver Fox. Was he an opportunist? Silverwasthe color of that magnificent head of hair—but was he indeed the proverbial fox? Strangely disquieting, the question was with her for the afternoon, set aside only occasionally by the demands of one or another of her more immediate legal concerns. It didn’t help that John stopped by for a final jab late in the day.
“Remember, kid,” he said grinning from the door, “the fox is known for its cunning….”
She said nothing, reluctant to legitimize his warning by dint of response. Her narrowed gaze was sufficient to convey her distaste for his humor. But he slipped away undaunted.
By the time six o’clock rolled around, she felt duly out of sorts. With foresight she had taken a few moments to touch up her makeup and brush through the tangle of her waves. The end result, she decided with a wry grin at the rosy image that faced her in the ladies’ room mirror, would certainly pass muster.
But when the tall figure, fresh despite his own long afternoon of meetings and unfairly handsome in his dark gray linen suit, appeared at the entrance to her office, her composure tottered.
“All set?” His deep voice surged across the room to enliven her every sensitive nerve. She looked evasively down at the spread of materials on her desk.
“Just about,” she answered, shuffling papers in pretense of neatening the desk top as she stood. “Are the others ready to go?”
His dark eyes held hers with nary a blink. “They’ve gone ahead in a cab. I’ve got my car downstairs. We’ll meet them at the restaurant.”
This unexpected twist sent jitters through her stomach. The fingers that placed several folders in her briefcase trembled almost imperceptibly. “Fine. There, I think I have everything.”
“Do you always bring work home to do at night?”
“I always bring something home with me,” she said with a smirk, “but it’s not necessarily night work.” Onthisparticular evening she doubted she would get anything accomplished. “Very often I spend an hourbeforework looking over my cases for the day. I’m an early riser anyway, and I’m freshest in the morning.”
She sidestepped her desk with care, mindful of her flub that afternoon. Sloane hadn’t moved from the door. “You look totally fresh right now. Are dinners with clients part of the normal schedule?”
With a tug she hoisted the shoulder strap of her purse, then lifted the briefcase, only to have it as quickly removed from her fingers when Sloane stepped forward. She released it graciously. “No. This is a surprise. Particularly”—she eyed him cautiously—“since you really aren’tmyclient. As a matter of fact, I’m not quite surewhyDan suggested I join you all. I knownothing aboutyour operation.”
Sloane flipped off the lights as they left the office, then moved beside her toward the deserted reception area. “That, my dear, can be easily remedied.” It was a perfect Clark Gable imitation, yet uniquely Sloane Harper. Nothing about the man, she mused, smacked of imitation. He was one of a kind—certainly in the profound effect he had on her senses.
Now, as they left Ivy, Gates and Logan behind and stood waiting for the elevator, she was acutely aware of those senses and the messages they conveyed. There was a strength about him as he stood tall, a rough six feet four to her five feet eight, and a dignity in his stance that fell short of arrogance. He was masterful in silence, exuding an aura of self-confidence which challenged her. The faint hint of his morning’s dose of aftershave was pleasingly light, as was the warmth which radiated from his lean lines.
“Then, tell me,” she began, groping for a diversion from these subtle, sensual messages, “tell me about CORE International.”
“From scratch?” he asked, boyishly pleased.
Justine grinned shyly. “From scratch. I am one of the totally ignorant.” The arrival of the elevator delayed the story as they stepped inside and began the long downward glide. Alone with this silver-haired man in the plush and polished elevator, Justine was infinitely grateful that an impersonal subject had been chosen.
Sloane began softly, his keen eye following the course of the lights on the elevator panel. “The company began as a small operation twenty years ago. My father was its founder, working out of Atlanta, primarily along the southeastern seaboard. When I joined the company twelve years ago, then took over command three years later, we began to expand.”
“Was your training in business?” she asked, unwittingly delving into the man as a person. The elevator stopped at the garage level, and Sloane smoothly guided her toward the spot where his car was parked.
“I have an M.B.A. from the Tuck School at Dartmouth, but most of what I do is intuitive.”
Before Justine could question him further, he paused beside a small blue Mazda, dug into a pocket for the keys, then opened the door for her.
“Hmmm,” she commented, “I can see why you didn’t offer to take the others. Not much room, is there?” The car was a two-seater, well appointed though far from luxurious.
His answering drawl was close by her ear as he leaned in to straighten a seat belt. “Not much.”
A quiver snaked its way through her before she was jolted by the slam of the car door beside her. Moments later Sloane let himself into the driver’s side, then turned to face her. The garage was dimly lit, casting a halo effect around the silver cap of his head. An angel, she mused, but far from a saint, if his effect on her was intentional.
“Itisintimate, I suppose,” he said softly, smiling.
Justine sought sanity by making light of the definite seductiveness of his tone. “I’ll say! It’s a good thing you don’t have a large family!” Once again she regretted her spontaneity the instant her shocked ears heard her words.
His dark eyes were even darker in the confines of the car, his expression unfathomable. The only thing that was clear was his thorough, ongoing survey of her features, as he one by one traced her sculpted lines, illuminated by the very same light which threw his own face into shadow.
