by Donya Lynne
I felt like I spent my afternoon getting further behind rather than getting any real work done. So much for hitting the ground running.
The maître d′ looks up from his podium. “May I help you?”
“I’m here to meet someone. I’m not sure of the name on the reservation, though.” I’d forgotten to get that from Dad. “James or—”
“Clayton?” He didn’t even have to refer to his reservation list.
Either Mr. James was sucking up, or the maître d′ was just that good. It was probably a little of both.
“Yes, Clayton. I’m a few minutes early, though.”
The maître d′ smiles politely as he steps out from behind his podium, expecting me to follow him. “Your party is already waiting for you, Ms. Clayton.”
I should have known that the man who wants to buy my company would arrive early. Still doesn’t change things. I’m not selling.
I follow the maître d′ from the vestibule through the dimly lit restaurant. Soft yellow candlelight and warm brown tones greet me as we wind our way into the dining area.
It’s hard to believe I was just here yesterday, having brunch with Jess, discussing my wild Saturday night with Greyson. If only I were having dinner with him instead of this Mr. James character. But no, I have to wait until Friday for that. In the meantime, I get to boot random, acquisition-happy CEOs away from my company.
I mentally kick myself again for not getting a chance to do research on Rugged and Mr. James. What kind of CEO goes into a meeting without at least looking up the essentials on the person she’s meeting with? Such as a first name and his educational background?
And why had Dad thrust this dinner on me at the last second? Surely he could have taken the meeting and relayed to me anything he felt I needed to know or at the very least rescheduled the meeting for later in the week so I could have had time to prepare.
Not that it would have mattered, because whether I meet with Mr. James tonight or next April, I’m not selling Freedom. But at least a few extra days would have given me a chance to learn more about what I was walking into and even the playing field.
My phone vibrates in my hand, and I glance down to see a text from Christian. He had his first surfing lesson today, and he’s sent me a bunch of pictures. I begin scrolling through them, smiling at how excited he looks on his surfboard, his wet hair hanging in his eyes as he flashes the hang-ten sign at the camera.
Well, at least he’s having a good time. I can’t say the same for myself.
_________
Greyson
Brent wanted to come with me tonight. He felt it would have been wiser to have my attorney present rather than go it alone in case Robert asks questions of a legal nature. I told him it was too soon for that.
This is only a preliminary meeting, and Robert will be coming alone. I don’t want him greeted by a two-man wall of opposition.
I arrived at the restaurant fifteen minutes early and requested a private table so Robert and I could talk without distractions.
Hopefully this meeting goes well. I don’t plan on hitting him head-on with the idea of selling me his company, but rather want to come at this first conversation more indirectly, using tonight to plant a seed of opportunity that Robert will eventually see as a viable course to take for the ultimate success of his company.
Maybe I should have invited his daughter, too. Kate is the one poised to take over once Robert retires, if, as Brent suggested, he’s about to do so. Perhaps having them both present would have been a better approach.
Too late now. But the next time Robert and I meet, I’ll make sure Kate is involved. It’s important for her to be part of the discussion.
The maître d′ appears at the far end of the dining room, and I sit a little straighter when his gaze turns toward my table. It’s a few minutes before eight. Robert is as punctual as I expected him to be.
But the person following the maître d′ isn’t Robert Clayton. It’s a woman. She’s wearing black, straight-leg slacks and a sheer black-and-red print blouse over a black camisole. Her hair is swept up and clipped in back, and she’s checking her phone.
There’s something familiar about her, and my skin instantly prickles. I know her.
I slowly rise, my mind racing. Why isn’t Robert here? Who is this beautiful woman being led to my table instead? And why is she so familiar?
Then she looks up.
Our eyes meet.
Everything around me freezes as my lungs lock up, and I nearly fall back into my seat.
It’s Katherine.
Yellow-cocktail-dress, swallow-me-down-her-throat, fuck-me-in-the-Walgreens-bathroom Katherine.
Chapter 12
Katherine
The moment my eyes meet Greyson’s, I suddenly forget how to walk. The toe of my shoe catches on the tightly woven carpet, and I tip forward, arms flailing.
Greyson leaps from behind the table and catches me, his strong arms clamping around my torso. The next moment, I’m pressed against his body, and his wide, grey-blue eyes are searching my face as if he can’t believe I’m there.
I know the feeling. I can’t believe he’s here, either.
The maître d′ places his hand on my back, jarring me back into the moment. “Are you okay, Ms. Clayton?”
I nod and manage to push myself out of Greyson’s arms as I straighten my blouse and check to make sure my hair hasn’t fallen out of its clip. “Yes, I’m fine, thank you.”
It’s a lie. I’m not fine at all. I’m stunned. I’m speechless. I’m caught in some kind of bad joke with a hundred questions flying through my thoughts all at once. Why is he here? Does my dad know what Mr. James and I did two nights ago? Did he intentionally feed me to the wolves? Am I being punished for “whoring myself” all over Denver? For even entertaining the thought, no matter how briefly, that Greyson might be someone I could have a relationship with past the summer?
“You’re Mr. James?” I glance up and down his body, trying to repackage him in this new light. Greyson is Mr. James? Greyson runs Rugged and is the one who wants to buy Freedom Cycle?
“Is everything all right here?” the maître d′ asks, the skin pinching around his eyes as he studies us.
“Yes, yes.” Greyson comes out of his own stupor and nods briskly. “We’re fine.”
The maître d′ looks from Greyson to me then gestures invitingly toward the table. It’s a U-shaped corner booth, large enough to comfortably seat four. “Would you like to take a seat, madam?”
I’m not sure. On one hand, this is Greyson, the man who fucked me senseless Saturday night, and I most definitely want to take a seat. On his lap.
On the other hand, this is Mr. James, the man who wants to buy Freedom, and all I want to do is jut out my chin, tell him Freedom isn’t for sale, and walk away.
But I promised my dad I wouldn’t cancel, so where does that leave me? Nodding and numbly motioning toward the table, that’s where.
The maître d′ pulls out the round table so I can slip into the booth, and then gently eases the table back into place after I take a seat on the fine, ebony leather. The cushion is smooth and plush, but not too plush. I don’t sink into it the way I would if I were sitting on a couch, but it’s comfortable.
With a shallow bow, the maître d′ tells us our server will be with us shortly then retreats to his post at the front of the restaurant.
Greyson quietly slides into the booth across from me, and I stare in bewilderment at him.
“You’re Mr. James?” I ask again.
He frowns and presses his lips together. “Yes. Greyson James.” The crease in his brow deepens as confusion clouds his eyes. “Are you . . . you’re . . . Kate? Kate Kelley?”
_________
Greyson
Katherine squares her shoulders and sets her chin. “I go by Clayton now. I recently changed back to my maiden name.”
“It’s still listed on your website as Kelley.” I’m lucky to be able to speak. This turn of eve
nts has definitely thrown me off my game, and my brain is scrambling to catch up.
“Check again, Mr. James.” She meets my gaze then quickly glances away. “I think you’ll find it’s been updated.”
Weeks ago, right after I returned from New Zealand, when Mike first approached me with the idea of acquiring Freedom Cycle, I visited their website and read up on the history of how Robert started the company and planned to turn it over to his daughter, Kate, someday.
I visited the staff page and perused the bios and head shots of everyone listed, including Kate. But the woman sitting in front of me looks nothing like her head shot. The picture on the website has to be at least five years old. Her hair was a lot shorter, darker, and stick-straight, and she’d had cropped bangs that hung past her eyebrows, covering her forehead and most of her eyelids.
She looks a lot younger and fresher now, her hair long, loose, and wavy, showcasing her face instead of covering it, and it’s an appealing shade of reddish brown. Nothing like the gothic black it had been in her picture.
But Katherine is definitely Kate, Robert Clayton’s daughter. I’m not sure what she’s doing here instead of her father, but I’m going to have to roll with it.
She sighs irritably. “You really need to do a better job doing your homework on the companies you want to buy, Mr. James.”
Her subtle animosity throws me off guard, as does her awareness of my intentions.
“I did do my research, Ms. Clayton, which should be evidenced by my knowing that, until recently, you went by the name Kelley. How was I supposed to know you were changing it back to your maiden name?” Part of me is glad she did. It proves just how single she is. Women don’t typically change their names back after a divorce unless they want to cut all ties with their ex-husbands. In her case, Phil Kelley.
See, I did do my homework on Kate. I know she used to be married to Phil, one of Freedom’s top salespeople.
She picks up her cloth napkin and flicks it open before smoothing it over her lap. “Had you done better research, you would have known who I was Saturday night.” She tosses me a sharp glare.
I’m not sure why she’s so angry, but if she wants to play that way, I’ll play along. Besides, I kind of like her feisty demeanor. It’s a turn-on.
Leaning toward her, I flash my sexiest smirk. “I think I got to know you pretty well Saturday night . . . Katherine.”
Her gaze drops to my mouth as she sucks in an abrupt breath, and then she quickly looks away, flustered.
Sitting back, I take the chilled bottle of Voss I ordered prior to her arrival and fill her water glass. “You look nothing like your head shot on Freedom’s website, Katherine.” I place the bottle back on the table. “Or I would have recognized you.” At least now I know why I thought she looked familiar Saturday night. “Did you go through a gothic phase a few years ago? What was up with that?”
Her face flushes as her shoulders fall, and I instantly regret my thoughtless remark. I get the distinct feeling she would have preferred I not see her head shot.
“I hate that picture,” she says.
“I was only kidding.” I offer a smile, trying to make up for my insensitive remark. “It wasn’t that bad. A little severe maybe, but not bad.”
She inhales sharply and lifts her shoulders as if slapping on her armor once more. “Well, it was updated over the weekend now that I’ve been promoted.”
I’m still trying to shift gears. Trying to understand what just happened and how the woman I’m so hot for—even now my blood is simmering just from her presence—has turned into the daughter of the man whose company I want to buy.
“Promoted?” Did this mean that her father had already stepped down?
“Yes, didn’t you hear? My father retired Friday.” She lifts her chin and squares her shoulders, recovering from her embarrassment. “I was officially named Freedom’s new CEO this morning.”
I hadn’t heard. Why hadn’t Brent called to inform me? Does he even know? How is this happening right now? I don’t like going into meetings without all the facts.
“Don’t feel bad about not knowing,” she adds haughtily. “Our employees didn’t even know. We did a good job keeping it a secret.”
That they did.
Clearing my throat, I smooth my hand over my tie and take a sip of water, trying to catch up to the events that have sent this meeting’s train off its tracks at supersonic speed.
“Congratulations.” I set my water glass down. “I—”
“You can forget about buying my company and tearing it apart,” she says pointedly.
This meeting is breaking down faster than a sand castle at high tide, and, like a ribbon of fog, I can’t seem to wrap my hands around it and pull it back under control. And why the hell is she so pissed at me? I didn’t intentionally lie to her about who I was Saturday night, and I certainly don’t want to dismantle Freedom, unlike Star Rider, who would love nothing more than to put everyone at Freedom out of a job.
“If you would just listen to what I have to say, Katherine—”
“Why? What would be the point? I’m not selling my father’s company, Greyson, no matter how good in bed you are.” Color flushes her cheeks again, and I know she didn’t mean to say that last part out loud.
“Actually, you haven’t seen how good I am in a bed.”
Her face shades an even deeper shade of red as she shifts awkwardly in her seat and fiddles with her napkin. “Well . . . whatever then.”
My body responds at the memory of what we did only two nights ago. At how scorching hot we were together, both in the back of my SUV and inside that Walgreens bathroom. But this isn’t the time or place for me to be thinking about that, even though my dick thinks it’s the perfect time. Blood is already rushing into it.
“Katherine—”
“Good evening.” Our server interrupts me, and I push back involuntarily, my eyes shooting to his. “Have you had a chance to review the wine list, sir?”
I shake out the electric haze Katherine’s presence has created inside my head and skim the cream-colored card the maître d′ set on the table when he seated me. “Yes, uh . . .” I glance at Katherine. “Does the Stonestreet Chardonnay sound good to you?”
Her eyebrow arcs curiously, as if she can’t believe I’m still going to order when she’s so flatly shut me down. I get the feeling she thought I wouldn’t want to continue the meeting once she put her foot down so hard about selling. She doesn’t know me very well if she thinks I’ll give up that easily. She might have caught me off guard, and I might need to retrace a few steps to get back on track, but once I set my mind to something, I’ll stay at it and do whatever it takes until I’ve exhausted every means necessary to obtain it.
She issues a subtle nod at my choice of wine.
I tell the server to bring the bottle. I have a feeling Katherine and I are going to need it to get through this dinner.
When he departs, I say to her, “The Stonestreet Chardonnay is a neutral wine. It will pair nicely with whatever you decide to order.”
She sighs and sets her black satin pocketbook on the table. “You still want to go through with this dinner? Even after I’ve told you I’m not, under any circumstances, entertaining the idea of selling the company to you or anyone else?”
The train is slowly correcting itself and coming back under my control. I’ve put her on her heels ever so slightly, which gives me an opening—although a small one—to press my advantage. “Of course, why not?”
“I just thought—”
“Katherine, I think you’ve misunderstood my intentions here this evening.”
“What? You don’t want to buy my father’s company?” Even as she says it, a slight smile plays over her lips. As if she can’t quite help herself from finding this situation the tiniest bit amusing.
Like me, she seems to be pulling herself back under control, too. Back to the woman I met Saturday night. But unlike Saturday night, she’s infinitely more interesting now. Not
only is she a savvy businesswoman, but she’s the CEO of the company I’ve set my sights on, which makes these negotiations a lot more fun, and her a lot sexier.
“There are many ways to buy a company,” I say, holding her gaze.
She doesn’t waiver. “Really? Which way allows the seller to retain ownership? Because that’s the only way you’re going to get your hands on my dad’s company.”
I grin. Something about Katherine the CEO, who takes no prisoners and lets no man walk all over her during business negotiations, makes my blood boil even hotter than it did Saturday night when she was negotiating me into fucking her in a bathroom. My dick is actually getting harder with each barb we trade.
What can I say? Intelligent, confident women excite me.
The server arrives with our bottle of Chardonnay, sets two polished glasses in front of us, and fills them halfway before placing the bottle in the ice bucket he set beside the table. He looks from Katherine to me expectantly. “May I suggest either the stone crabs or the brown butter tagliatelle for an appetizer this evening?” His gaze travels back to Katherine.
Her eyes meet mine. “What would you suggest?”
It almost sounds like a challenge, but a playful one.
I tear my gaze from hers and glance up at our server. “The tagliatelle, please.” Right now I’d eat saltines if it meant staying in Katherine’s presence.
“Very good, sir. And for your entrees?”
Katherine hasn’t even looked at the menu and quickly scans it. Gochet Arlain isn’t the type of restaurant to have fifty dishes on their regular menu. They offer only a handful of exquisitely designed dishes for each course as if they want to focus on making those few items the absolute best. Whatever their reason for limiting their menu, their formula works. Gochet Arlain has been one of Denver’s finest restaurants since it opened eight years ago.