What? Derek shot a curious glance over to his new partner. No questions? No reservations?
“Give me a week,” she said, all guns blazing.
Suddenly, the woman who seemed covered by brown linen and a reserved shield was absolutely glowing. Derek’s belly went silly with the aphrodisiac of her spirit.
Work. Concentrate on work, you dog.
“Classes,” he said, really needing to hear how this was going to help turn their investment firm around.
“Yes, classes,” said a booming voice from the office entrance. “Good idea.”
They all looked at Patrick Fortune, who was leaning against the door frame, dressed to the nines in spit-polished Italian loafers and a pin-striped suit. The older man, whose red hair was just beginning to show shimmers of white, didn’t look—or act—his seventy years. The only sign of advancing age, besides a few wrinkles, were the glasses he wore over those sparkling blue eyes.
Derek couldn’t help smiling. “About time you reported to work.”
“Can’t keep him away,” muttered Jack with a touch of fondness.
Christina had already retrieved another report from her briefcase and was bringing it to the elder man. “This is old hat for you, Patrick. I recited most of these statistics to you at the party.”
Oh, so, it was Patrick?
“Thank you, my dear,” the magnate said, accepting the material.
With a doting smile, Christina nodded. Derek couldn’t help thinking that her switch from business warrior to beaming woman was sort of cute. Well, real cute, actually.
But cute wasn’t a very good description for Christina Mendoza. Cute was for cheerleaders who never grew up. No, this woman was what you’d call willowy. Sexy. Hot.
A knockout just waiting to rip off her schoolteacher costume at the right moment.
Yeah, thought Derek. And if she needed any help taking down her hair…
Patrick was staring at him, picking up on Derek’s playboy instincts, no doubt.
Without thinking, Derek straightened his tie. “Ms. Mendoza plans to show us some definitive plans next week.”
“Next week?”
Patrick steepled his fingers together, going into deep-thinking mode. Brilliant things came out of this posture. Clever ideas for new mergers, diabolical budget adjustments, genius proposals.
“Dad,” Jack said, “this sure doesn’t look like retirement to me.”
“Retirement?” Derek laughed. “The word isn’t in the man’s vocabulary, Jack.”
“I know.” The other man shrugged. “You’d like him to be your business partner forever, but—”
“But I’m lucky enough to have you as Tweedledum to my Tweedledee now.”
Derek caught Christina’s curious gaze as she took in the tension.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jack bristle, caught with his emotional pants down, too.
“Gentlemen.” Patrick was used to these mild flare-ups between them. “You must have realized something already.”
See? Incoming brilliant idea.
“A week is a short time to expect Christina to put together a strong presentation,” Patrick said.
She lifted a finger. “No problem. I can do it.”
“Why make yourself work night and day when it could be so much easier?” Patrick sauntered away from the door, toward Derek. “It’d be wise, I believe, to give you a crack team who knows every nuance of Fortune-Rockwell philosophy. I’ve got some employees in mind to lend you support.”
When Christina started to protest, Derek interrupted. “Don’t be a Lone Ranger. Having someone who knows Fortune-Rockwell inside and out would be a great asset to you.”
Maybe he could even handpick that person so they could report back to him about what their new analyst was preparing. He was hands-on, all right, but still a delegator.
Patrick came to stand by Derek, lifting a hand up to rest it on his protégé’s shoulder. “I’m glad you agree, Derek. How about working with Christina on this? You could handle the financial side of our campaign to promote morale, and she could be the creative force.”
Damn. He should’ve seen that one coming.
But, naturally, he’d been a little distracted by long legs and shining hair.
Good God, he didn’t have time to do her job, too. How could he get out of this?
As Jack rose from the couch, he chuckled. “I look forward to seeing your presentation next week, Christina.”
Then he jerked his chin at Derek, highly entertained. “And Derek.”
Right, Derek thought as he merely nodded his head, tracking Jack as he left the room. Thanks for dumping this on me.
Jack had obviously sensed that his new partner wouldn’t have an easy time accepting Christina’s ideas. It happened all the time, with them on opposite sides. Then again, that’s why they balanced each other, made for a decent team.
It was hard to admit, but there was some idiot part of Derek that wanted to impress Jack, wanted to still make Patrick proud, as well.
Ridiculous. A thirty-five-year-old shouldn’t need to win over big brother and father figures.
Patrick’s loud voice brought Derek back to the moment.
“You two have a lot of work to be done,” he said, clapping his hands and rubbing them together. “I suppose you should get started. Christina, is there anything I can do to help you?”
“No, I’ve got everything I need in my office.”
As Christina moved to her briefcase, Patrick winked at Derek. Then, with a spring in his step, he took off.
“Thanks,” muttered Derek so only Patrick could hear.
Without looking back, his associate lifted a hand and left Christina and Derek alone, silence hanging in the office like limp streamers after the party had ended.
Classes. Recreation. Day care.
The softer side of Cutthroat Rockwell was about to be tested.
He found Christina staring at him, a wary look in her intelligent eyes as she lifted the briefcase to her side.
Something in his chest clenched, though he couldn’t say what it was.
Didn’t matter anyway.
Shrugging out of his jacket, Derek smiled at his new project team member.
“So what do you say we get down to running some numbers?” he asked, already wondering if he could trick Jack into taking his place.
Without waiting for her response, he retreated to the most comfortable place in the world.
Behind his desk.
Chapter Two
Bright and early the next morning, after having laid the groundwork for Christina’s changes yesterday, Derek greeted his assistant, Dora. She’d seemed more downbeat than usual, her extralank black hair only emphasizing the perception.
“What’s ailing you?” he asked after entering his lobby. Her frown made him want to make her smile again. “You have a cold? Were you out of orange juice this a.m.? Or maybe Tom Cruise is getting married again?”
He gestured to the toothy movie-star pictures that decorated her desk like minibillboards for proper hygienic care. Somehow, she managed to keep her workstation professional without having it resemble a shrine, so in the short time he’d been in San Antonio, he hadn’t asked her to clear the area.
Besides, the morale around the offices really did stink, and he wasn’t about to nitpick when things were at their lowest. He knew how to choose his battles.
Long ago, with the man he’d called Sir, Derek had learned how to keep his peace or sacrifice it each night over dinner. Every confrontation with Sir had been Armageddon, a father-son apocalypse.
Dora huffed out a sigh. “Everyone’s a little bummed, actually. It’s the analyst.”
“Christina Mendoza?” Good God, she was already on everyone’s nerves?
“Yeah. We’re all wondering what she has up her sleeve. More layoffs?”
Tilting her head, Dora widened her eyes, trying to wheedle information out of him since it was no secret that he was now working closely with th
e analyst.
Not as closely as his libido would like, but that was another issue.
“No more layoffs,” he said, noting that he’d need to send out a memo pronto, assuring the staff that they weren’t going to be terminated. “We’re functioning at bare bones already. Don’t worry about that, Dora.”
She exhaled. “Oh, thank goodness. I thought all those papers she dumped on your desk this morning were bad news.”
Papers, huh?
It wasn’t until he walked into his office that he realized what Dora had meant by papers.
As in a mound of them.
Catalogs about sewing classes, personal investment courses, literature circles.
“Dora,” he said into his intercom, “could you please ask the human dump truck to come into my office?”
As he waited for Christina, he removed the junk from his desktop and settled in for a long day.
Not that he had anywhere to go other than Fortune-Rockwell. In New York, he would’ve been in a limo at six o’clock, off to an event by seven, then in some gorgeous woman’s bed by ten. However, lately, he’d been too busy for a social life, but he’d get right to work on that.
Just as soon as he put these offices back where they belonged.
Ten minutes later, Christina appeared, holding another bound report and dressed in a nondescript sand-colored ensemble, her hair pulled back by a turquoise clip. It was the only stylish thing about her wardrobe.
Even so, he could catch a stunning glimpse of hidden beauty.
“Sit down, Christina,” he said, his gut fisting in a repeat of fruitless lust.
It was something he’d just have to get used to until he had time for wining and dining again.
“Thank you.” She moved to occupy the chair in front of his desk, but found that it was buried under the Mount Everest of her catalogs.
She glanced up at him. “A subtle hint?”
“I like you. You catch on quickly.”
“Yes, I do. In any case, Mr. Rockwell, I wanted you to see some of the classes that are available. I highlighted the ones that might appeal the most.”
“I don’t have time for leisurely afternoons spent thumbing through catalogs.”
She waited a beat, gauging him, then shook her head. “I could tell you weren’t into this from the getgo. You aren’t entirely convinced that my ideas are the best way to bring about change. You’re a numbers guy, and that’s how you’re used to operating. It’s how you cultivated your wealth.”
“Again, you’ve done your homework.”
“The annual reports told me a lot.” A flush had suffused her cheeks, bringing out the colors of her desert-at-sunrise eyes. “But, with this branch of Fortune-Rockwell, you’re dealing with people problems. And they directly affect your beloved numbers.”
Yeah, yeah. He knew. And, as Patrick had told him time and again, Derek was just too stubborn to admit it.
Still…basket-weaving classes?
She’d stepped forward, offering the covered report she’d been holding. “Here. I’ve summarized the possibilities. Today, I’d like to put together a survey so I can see what the employees would like to learn. Foreign languages, relaxing crafts, life skills?”
He tapped the report against his desk. “Did you sleep at all last night?”
“I…” She swallowed, paused. “I wanted to be up to speed.”
It was almost as if she didn’t want to lead him anywhere near her bedroom, her mattress, her off-hours even in conversation.
Damn, why was it that the one woman who had no interest in him tickled his fancy?
The attraction didn’t make sense at all, not when she was the opposite of his usual type. Normally, Derek enjoyed the company of what Patrick called Women Lite.
“Just like watered-down beer,” the old man had always said. “Less filling, with half the intelligence.”
Derek usually blew off his partner’s observations, knowing how uncomfortably true they were. But, still, he didn’t want relationships any other way.
No commitment, no worry. That was his philosophy.
Derek stood, went to the opposite chair, removed the catalogs and ushered her into the seat with an opened palm. As she sat down, a sweet, erotic scent wafted past him.
Exotic leaves, crushed to a mist of herbal smoke.
He imagined tasting the tang of it on her skin, allowing it to be absorbed into him.
But Derek didn’t do romance that way. He kept women from getting under his skin. At all costs.
“Mr. Rockwell?”
He glanced at Christina, finding her watching him with the same probing questions she’d no doubt been mulling over yesterday, after he’d exchanged words with Jack.
Don’t ask me if everything’s okay, he thought. You already have the right idea by keeping it all business.
A cheery voice piped over his thoughts.
“Are we starting yet?”
Derek turned to find a petite blonde garbed in a tiny red skirt with a white sleeveless blouse. Her curly hair gave her the air of a Shirley Temple doll, dimples and all.
Christina laid eyes on her, too, and the microskirt set her eyebrows to winging.
“Hi,” the girl chirped, extending a hand to him. “I’m Twyla, one of your team members.”
“You are?” asked Christina.
Derek made short work of shaking the young woman’s hand. Already, his Lite tracking system had alerted the male radar.
Concentrating hard on Christina’s comparatively grandmother-like clothing, he hoped the blah colors would be enough to get him back on track.
And…yes. Success. But maybe it wasn’t the clothing that had done the trick.
Maybe it was Christina herself, with those all-knowing eyes, the genteel lines of her posture.
Her class.
Suddenly, staying on this project sounded pretty good to him.
As Twyla attacked Christina’s hand in greeting, Derek cleared his head and motioned to the couch. “How long have you been working for Fortune-Rockwell?”
“Oh, a few years, right out of college. Jack Fortune assigned me to your project this morning.”
“That was decent of him.” Derek’s fist clenched, just itching to do some throttling. So Jack had sent his own spy, had he? “I’ve asked two other employees to join our team, too, so we’ll wait for them before we start.”
“Oops.” Twyla had dropped her pen on the floor as she made her way to the couch.
Bending over to pick it up, she flashed a load of cleavage in Derek’s direction, then lifted her head to see if he was looking.
God, he was a guy—one who’d been stuck in the office for too damned long. Of course he was looking.
But Derek didn’t date his employees. It was a good way to get into big trouble.
When he glanced back at Christina, he realized how uninterested he was in this particular brand of Lite anyway.
He only wished she wasn’t looking at him as if he were a scum-guzzling slug of humanity.
As nightfall darkened Christina’s office, she heard Twyla yawn from a love seat that had decorated every office she’d had since graduating from business school.
All her furnishings were old and sentimental, as a matter of fact: Mexican artwork featuring different moods of the sun, ironwork sculptures, baskets filled with sage. She’d spent so much time in her offices that she’d decorated them to be homes away from home.
“I’ll be here for a while yet,” she said. “Why don’t you call it a day, Twyla?”
Instantly, the girl was on her feet. “Are you sure? Because I can stay.”
“No, really. You’ve been very helpful.” And, surprisingly, Christina meant it. She’d had her doubts at first, with that dental floss miniskirt and all, but Twyla was a devoted worker. “Really. Go.”
“Okay. Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”
And in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, she was gone, leaving Christina with an endless To-Do list.
But she
didn’t mind so much. Work was her life.
It saved her from thinking about the silence of the condo she’d recently purchased here in town. The echoing drip of a faucet that someday needed fixing. The sound of the radio playing salsa music to keep her company.
As long as she watched her step here at Fortune-Rockwell, she’d have work to keep her content. In all honesty, she couldn’t afford another repeat of what had happened years ago at Macrizon: the heartbreak of having a boss turn on her. The shock of finding out that her fellow employees were no better.
Christina’s fingers slackened over her keyboard.
Bosses.
She was trying so hard to stay in line where Derek Rockwell was concerned. Sure, she’d caught him giving her the once-over a time or two, but that was normal behavior for men in power. Back at Macrizon, her superior, William Dugan, had given her plenty of attention.
And look what that had gotten her.
A tail-between-the-legs trip to California, where she’d deserted her family—her true, constant friends.
Well, that wasn’t going to happen this time. Not with Rockwell.
Even if she wanted to jump his bones every time she was alone with him.
“How do you function without any shut-eye?”
She glanced up to find him filling her doorway.
With his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal muscled forearms, and with his tie and collar loosened, he still seemed perfectly put together. Structured and in control.
But oddly enough, as he rested his hands on the door’s steel frame, he reminded Christina of a man calmly trying to keep the building from falling down around him.
The image connected him to her, made him seem a little more human and a little less dangerous.
Rolling her head, she worked a few cricks out of her neck. Then she stretched, trying to disguise how much he effected her.
“I’m one of those lucky people, I suppose,” she said. “I can live on three hours of sleep.”
“I don’t know.” He let go of the frame and wandered farther into her office. “Beds are one of the joys of life.”
An attempted response stuck in her throat.
“Sorry.” He laughed, ran a hand over his short, neat hair. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
Fortune's Heirs: Reunion Page 19