“We’re not having sex,” Taylor blurted out before she could process the real-life implications of saying something so ridiculous.
Bennett cocked his head, staring at her with an indiscernible expression. Then he burst out laughing with that deep masculine voice before turning toward the back of the plane where Candy had opened the rear door to disembark. Shaking his head the entire way, he disappeared out of sight.
Taylor covered her mouth, mortified. I can’t believe I just said that. I’m an idiot.
“Ms. Reed?” Candy called out. “Mr. Wade wants to know if you’re coming or if he should, and I quote, ‘waste more of his valuable time on a woman who’s not going to give him any?’ ”
Taylor’s eyes went wide before she dropped her face into her hands. Oh, the shame. She stood, grabbed her laptop tote, and made her way toward the smirking stewardess.
Taylor flashed a sheepish smile when she passed. “It was a joke.”
“Uh-huh.” Candy nodded, stifling a laugh.
Taylor made her walk of shame down the portable staircase to the awaiting town car. She slid into the back where Bennett already sat, his head thrown back and his sunglasses on.
She glanced at him, feeling relieved that he’d apparently dropped it already. But as she closed the door she heard a small chuckle radiating from his direction.
She glanced over and saw those tiny little dimples puckering.
“Stop. It’s not funny.” She swatted him on the leg.
“Like hell it’s not.” He removed his sunglasses and stared with those mesmerizing blue eyes.
Taylor looked away. This was so damned humiliating.
“Oh, come now, Ms. Reed.” Bennett slipped his hand on her thigh. Whether or not he’d meant to comfort her didn’t matter. His touch made her feel painfully aware of how long it had been since any man had gotten that close to her womanly parts. “How do you expect me to respond? I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever had a woman shut me down like…that.”
“Like what?” she scowled.
“When I hadn’t even done anything—hell, the thought never even crossed my mind.”
“Oh.” Taylor looked away, adding “sexually shunned” to her list of embarrassments. “Well, for the record, I didn’t think you had done anything. I was merely trying to make it clear that our relationship is strictly professional. It just came out the wrong way.”
And seriously, given her track record of clients always hitting on her, who could blame her?
He chuckled again and scratched his rough, stubble-covered jaw. “You might want to rethink your little habit, then. That is, if you want to avoid giving men the wrong impression.”
She didn’t have to ask which “habit” he referred to. She already knew. The bulge-ogling.
Taylor turned her attention back to the safety of the window. The car had already hit the main road. She hadn’t even noticed they’d left the small airport.
“Not that I find it offensive, Ms. Reed. After all, I am Bennett Wade—I have my fair share of admirers.”
Wha-what a pompous—she turned her head back to sneer at him, but he’d already put his glasses back on and had his head tilted back, that large Adam’s apple sticking out on his strong neck. For a very brief moment, she wanted to pet it. She found a man’s apple very sexy.
“For the record, however, you’re not my type,” he added.
Taylor huffed and shook her head. What a jerk. “Yeah. I’ve seen your type. I’m not impressed.” Actresses with fake boobs, models with fake smiles, his secretary—okay, Robin was nice, maybe Candy and the pilots, too. But the list went on and on.
He shrugged. “Last time I checked, my cock wasn’t looking for your approval.”
Taylor’s mouth fell open. What a pig.
She slipped out her laptop and opened the file. Time to start dishing out a little sweet revenge to Mr. “my cock doesn’t need your approval.”
—
Ten or so minutes after departing the airport, a phone call—some news that riled Bennett—had put him wide awake. After a few moments, Taylor realized he was speaking to Robin about something related to Mary Rutherford.
“What do you mean, she said ‘no’?” he growled into the phone, and then listened. “Yes, but was it a firm no or a soft no and what was her reason for not wanting to meet? I’m flying all the way to Paris just to talk about this deal—the Bali project is nothing without her.”
What was the Bali project? Probably some deal to take his harem lifestyle to the next level—probably wants to make it into a themed resort. Bennett Booty Land. And he needed Lady Mary to keep all his women supplied with expensive perfume.
Taylor listened carefully, thinking this was the perfect time to give him a little “helpful” advice, such as: “Tell her she’s not thinking things through” or “Tell her I know what I’m talking about.”
The idea of being a fly on the wall when Mary received such a condescending message thrilled her. On the other hand, the more strategic move would be to build Bennett’s confidence in me, making it easier to slide the bogus training right in a little later.
Taylor tapped Bennett on the shoulder and then held up her index finger.
He gave her an annoyed look. “One moment, Robin.” He pulled the phone from his ear. “Yes, Ms. Reed?”
“Have you ever dined with Mary?” she asked.
“No. Why?”
Perfect. “Tell Mary you’re not just coming for a meeting—that you want to have dinner afterwards, too, and Chip is invited—you’re eager to see him.”
“Why would I do that?” he asked.
Because while Mary was ruthless and shrewd when it came to doing business, she was also very old school and believed it was “bad manners” to only talk business. To her it demonstrated a lack of refinement. This is why she also preferred to meet candidates over dinner. She had once said to Taylor, “You can tell a lot about a person by the way they use a fork.” So she probably wouldn’t be able to resist assessing Bennett’s table manners. As for Chip, despite his man-whoring ways, he was her pride and joy, which is why she allowed the incompetent fool to help her run her company. However, he barely spent any time with her. Chip’s favorite thing to do was complain about how Mary was always guilt-tripping him. And finally, Taylor suspected that Chip had a big love-hate man-crush on Bennett. He used to drop Bennett’s name all the time. It was clearly some weird, competitive hang-up.
Anyway, if Bennett was inviting, Chip would want to go. And if Chip went, Mary would want to go, and dinner fit right in with her way of doing things.
Taylor glanced at Bennett. “Just do it. I promise it will work,” she lied, because she only hoped it would work.
He looked skeptical, but told Robin to relay the message to Mary’s assistant and ended the call. “All right, Ms. Reed. Let’s see if you’re correct.”
Taylor smiled smugly, trying to hide her doubt. “You’ll see.” I hope, I hope, I hope. “In the meantime, since you’re now wide awake, why don’t we do a little work? I thought we could start out with this questionnaire. From that, I can tailor your training modules.”
“As you like, Ms. Reed,” he said coolly, his eyes still hidden underneath his shades.
“Okay. Before we begin, I’m going to warn you that some of the questions might seem a little strange, but I assure you they’re targeted to ferret out particular characteristics—strengths and weaknesses.”
“Proceed,” he said, seemingly uninterested.
“Great. First question. You are a farmer and need to supplement your income. You can either raise animals for meat or for their byproducts—milk, eggs, cheese, and such. Raising animals for food is more profitable, but then you have to slaughter them and hire the appropriately experienced staff whose skills are specialized. Raising animals for by-products is less profitable, but you have access to a larger labor pool, and it doesn’t involve killing. Which do you choose?”
It didn’t matter how Bennett answered; lat
er in the evaluation phase, she’d turn it around to highlight how he should follow her new and “very effective” people management techniques that would have Mary Rutherford seriously questioning the idea of partnering with someone who annoyed the hell out of her.
He lowered his head. “I would choose neither and focus on diversifying my crops. There’s less risk and raising livestock requires much higher overhead—feed, veterinary care, and sterile processing conditions.”
“But that wasn’t a choice,” Taylor argued. “It’s A or B, not C—make up your own answer.”
He bobbed his head, thinking it over for a moment. “Can I outsource the meat processing? The risks and insurance costs to my farm would be lower if I didn’t have to do it in-house.”
Taylor shook her head. This guy…“Fine. You can outsource the meat processing.”
“I’ll go with that answer then—higher profit. But I’d only buy cows and chickens so I could convert the animals to egg and milk production at a later date if those markets shifted and became more profitable.”
Taylor shook her head and marked his answer in her computer. “Okay, Mr. CEO. Next question: You’re on a sinking ship with fifty people on board. There are only two life rafts, each with enough space to hold twenty. Everyone has agreed to put you in charge of figuring out who is saved. Your choices are: A. lottery. Or B. Women, children, and elderly first.”
“Why are there only two rafts?” he asked, sounding exaggeratedly irritated.
Jeez. It was just hypothetical. It was good that he took this seriously, but still.
“I don’t know, there just are,” Taylor said.
“Because the first thing I’d do is kill the son of a bitch in charge of life rafts. Did the world learn nothing from the Titanic?”
“The Titanic?”
“Yes, the Titanic. You might have seen a movie about it. Sinking ship, tragic love story, a classic.”
He likes the movie Titanic? This guy?
“I’ve seen the movie,” she said crossly. “I just don’t know what it has to do with the questionnaire. You’re supposed to answer A or B.”
“But neither works,” he argued. “At the very least, I would try a little harder to save more people. For example, what’s the water temperature? If it is above sixty, I would probably select those with less body fat, plus the children, to go into the rafts. People with more body fat can last longer in cooler water. Anything below sixty would probably kill most people in a few hours regardless so there’s no point going that route.”
Taylor sighed with exasperation, pinching the bridge of her nose and thankful they weren’t doing this for real. She could see that Bennett had a difficult time simply accepting options that were handed to him.
Probably why he’s so successful—the man doesn’t believe in settling.
“What?” Bennett shrugged. “Your questions are flawed—not my fault.”
“The point is to choose. I purposefully make the answers polarizing so I can—”
“So you can put me into a little box of stereotypes? Because that won’t work, Ms. Reed. I don’t fit into any molds. That I can promise you.”
She didn’t doubt that for a moment.
“No,” she argued. “It’s about your style, your tendencies, your instincts. And I’m not trying to put you in a little box, I’m simply trying to establish where you are so we can determine where you need to go. Think of this as our map.”
He turned his entire body in her direction. “Why don’t you try asking me some real questions, Taylor? Ask me who I hire or why. Ask me what I expect of my people, and how I reward them. Or why don’t you ask them what they think about me?” He seemed agitated, but she didn’t understand why.
“Did I say something wrong, Mr. Wade?” A little tick of guilt flicked at her stomach. Strange that upsetting him made her feel so bad when it should be the opposite.
His frown melted away with a deep breath. “No. My apologies. I have a headache, and it was a very rough night. Maybe we should resume once I’ve had some real sleep.”
“Sure. Whenever you like.”
“Looks like we’re here, anyway,” he said.
Taylor leaned forward to get a better view. They were in downtown St. Helena, the heart of wine country. She had been here a few times, wine tasting with Sarah and Holly. “Why are we here?”
“I need to pick something up. I’ll only be a moment.” He slipped from the car and disappeared through a flower-covered archway and down a little path that ran between a clothing boutique and small olive oil shop. A sign on the side of the building read “Happy Pants Café, Right This Way.” An arrow pointed in the direction Bennett had gone.
That’s weird. She remembered seeing a Happy Pants something-rather sign at a café in Seattle, right when Bennett had first called. It was the type of thing you’d forget.
She pulled out her phone and Googled the café. Oddly, they didn’t seem to have a website or any contact information, but there were pages and pages of blog posts about it, and one article in the San Francisco Tribune.
Taylor opened it up and started reading. According to the reporter, a Harper Branton, the café started out as a simple bakery run by a widow from Mexico, Ms. Luci Leon-Parker. Over the years, the café gained notoriety for having a sort of love charm in their sugar cookies. “One bite. Seven days. And true love will be yours.”
Taylor laughed, wondering what the hell Bennett wanted with some silly Cupid cookie.
She went on to read the rest of the story, which explained that the recipe was a family secret and that all of the cookies were baked right here in this St. Helena shop, but that they’d recently expanded distribution to ten cities in very limited quantities. People wait in line for as long as seven hours to get their mouths on one of these treats that are just as delicious for the soul as they are for the taste buds, said the article.
Bennett opened the door and hopped in, looking more pissed off than he had all morning.
“Back to the airport, sir?” the driver, a thin man in his forties, asked.
“No, actually, take me to this address.” Bennett handed the man a slip of paper.
“Very good, sir.”
The car pulled out into the street and headed east, away from town.
Taylor hated to ask, but the temptation was too much. Had Bennett gone in search of a “love” cookie and come back empty-handed? Wouldn’t any person in their right mind absolutely need to know that?
“Everything all right?” she asked.
“Yeah, the shop is closed, but I got the owner’s address from one of the staff.”
“They gave you the owner’s home address? How’d you manage that?”
“I asked.”
“Are you sure it’s okay just to show up at someone’s house unannounced like this?”
“I’m Bennett Wade. Not some random stranger.”
Taylor huffed. “Your name isn’t a free pass to invade people’s privacy or go knocking on their doors to do business just because you want something and can’t wait for the store to open.” How rude!
“But isn’t it?” he said in that deep, smug tone she hated.
Taylor shook her head. “Okeydokey.” This was the perfect moment to start his educational detour, but he seemed to be sabotaging himself just fine. Any business owner in their right mind would chew Bennett out for showing up unannounced like this.
The car traveled down a long straight country road that cut between miles of grape vines. The late morning sun gave off a deliciously crisp light, just perfect for sitting outside and reading a good book or pruning vines, which was probably what her brother Rob was doing at this very moment.
“Do you like wine, Ms. Reed?”
“In my family, we don’t have a choice. My brother works up the road; he’s a viticulturist.”
“I thought you said he was a surgeon?”
“That’s Jack, the youngest of my three older brothers. Rob is the middle of the three; he’s the wine fan
atic.”
“And the oldest? What does he do?” Bennett asked.
“Marcus is a semi-pro racecar driver. He wants to go pro, full-time like my father.”
“Your father drives for NASCAR?” Bennett actually sounded excited.
What was the big deal? Just a bunch of sweaty dudes driving around in a circle in really expensive cars. “He’s retired now.”
“What’s his name?”
“Nick.”
“Your father,” he said with disbelief, “is Nick Reed? The Nick Reed?”
Taylor refrained from rolling her eyes. She loathed telling people who her father was because then came the twenty questions—does he ever let you drive his car? Can I get a free ticket to the Indy? And then…
“Your mother was Patty Reed, the actress,” Bennett said.
And there’s why I hate talking about my family. Her mother had died giving birth to her. She didn’t feel guilt about it anymore, but she had for a long, long time. The part that she’d never been able to overcome, however, was how people talked about her mother as if they knew her. She didn’t even know her mother so how could they? It was weird, but it made her mad. Then there was the other irksome fact that everyone in her family was a superstar: NASCAR celebrity, actress, surgeon, NASCAR star in the making, and award-winning viticulturist. She was just…Taylor. Ordinary, if not leaning slightly toward the “underachiever” category, a fact she had been acutely aware of growing up. Her brothers and father loved her in their own way, but they didn’t hold back when it came to telling her she wasn’t trying hard enough or being tough enough. Sometimes, around them, it had seemed that being a caring female was a crime. She’d never forget their faces when she’d announced she wanted to pursue Human Resources as her career.
“Yes,” Taylor finally replied. “My mother was Patty Reed, but she died when I was born. I never really met her.”
Bennett gave her a look that was compassionate, but couldn’t be described as pity, which she appreciated. She hated it when people pitied her. Despite the challenge of being the only female in a house full of very manly men, she hadn’t grown up without love. Sure, she wished her mother had been there, especially during her adolescent years, but Sarah and Holly helped fill some of the female void in her life growing up.
Tailored for Trouble Page 9