She simply couldn’t go back home. And she simply couldn’t afford to miss this meeting. Her translation business, Wordsmith, was too new to be able to risk passing up this client—manager of one of the largest hedge funds in New York, looking to invest in Siberian gas futures and the Russian bond market, and needing translations of the technical data sheets and market analyses.
Sweat trickled down her back. She made a fist out of her trembling hand and beat it gently on the console, wanting to simply close her eyes in despair.
This wasnothappening.
“I can open your door for you.” She jolted again at the words spoken in that incredibly low, deep voice. Heavens, she’d forgotten about Lowlife in her misery. His dark eyes were watching her carefully. “But it’ll cost you.”
This was not a good economic moment for her, but right now she’d be willing to pay anything to get into her office. Picking up her credit card holder from the clear surface of the console, she turned to him. He watched her with no expression on his face at all. She had no reason to think he was a decent sort of guy, but she could hope he wouldn’t use her obvious desperation to make a killing.
Please, she prayed to the goddess of desperate women.
“Okay, name your price,” she said, picking out the credit card with the most in it, womanfully refraining from wincing when she thought of her balance. God, please let him not ask the earth, because her checking account would go straight into the red. She steadied her hand.Don’t let him see you tremble.
She looked up at him, wielding the card like a weapon. “How much?”
“Have dinner with me.”
She’d actually started handing it to him, then froze. “I—I beg your pardon?” “Have dinner with me,” he repeated. Okay, so it hadn’t been an auditory hallucination.
Her mouth opened and absolutely nothing came out.
Have dinner with him?She didn’t know him, knew nothing about him except for the fact that he looked…rough. Instinctively, she stepped back.
He was watching her carefully, and nodded sharply, as if she’d said something he agreed with. “You don’t know me and you’re right to be cautious. So let’s start with the basics.” He held out a huge, callused, suntanned and none-too-clean hand. “Sam Reston, at your service.”
Sam Reston? SamReston?
Nicole couldn’t help it. Her eyes flicked to the big shiny brass plaque, right next to the door across the hall, bearing the name of what she understood to be the most successful company in the building. RESTON SECURITY. He followed her gaze and waited until she looked back at him.
Maybe he was the company’s owner’s black-sheep cousin. Or brother. Or something.
It had to be asked. “Are you, um, a relative of Mr. Reston?”
He shook his head slowly, dark eyes never leaving hers. “Company belongs to me.”
Oh. Wow. How embarrassing.
He was standing there, hand still out. Nicole’s parents had drummed manners into her. She’d shaken hands with tyrants and dictators and suspected terrorists in embassies all over the world. It was literally impossible for her not to put her hand in his.
She did it gingerly, and his hand just swallowed hers up. The skin of his palm was very warm, callused and tough. For a moment she was frightened that he might be one of those men who had to prove his manliness by the strength of his handshake. This man’s hand could crush hers without difficulty and she made her living at the keyboard.
To her everlasting relief, he merely squeezed gently for three seconds then released her hand.
“N-Nice to meet you,” she stammered, because really, what else could she say? “Um—” And she so desperately needed to get into her office.Now.“My name is Nicole Pearce.”
“Yes, I know, Ms. Pearce.” He bent his head formally. His eyes were very dark and—she now realized—very intelligent. “So—as to my price, let’s see if I can convince you I’m not a security risk.”
He pulled out the very latest iPhone. Nicole had coveted it madly, both for its function and style, but had decided against it as being simply way out of her current financial league. He pressed two buttons—whoever he was calling was on speed dial—and waited. She could hear the phone ringing, then a deep male voice answering, “This better be good.”
“I’ve got a lady here I want to ask out for dinner but she doesn’t know me and she’s not too sure of my good character, Hector, so I called you for an endorsement. Show your face and talk to the lady. Her name’s Nicole. Nicole Pearce.” He waited a beat. “And say good things.”
Nicole accepted the cell phone gingerly. The video display showed the darkly handsome face of San Diego’s brand-new mayor, Hector Villarreal, dressed in a bright orange golf shirt, holding a golf club over his shoulder, out on the links, eyes crinkling against the bright sunlight. “Hello, Ms. Pearce.” The deep voice sounded cheerful.
She cleared her voice and tried not to sound wary. “Mr. Mayor.”
“So.” He was smiling, eyebrows high. “You want to go out to dinner with Sam Reston? Yousureyou want to?” There was humor in the faintly-accented voice.
“Well, actually, uh?—”
