She recognized them as working for the public relations firm two floors above Golden. Robyn admired the women who worked there, wished she could pull off the chocolatey wrap dress with the leather sandals and beaded necklace, or the plum tweed blazer with matching ruffled-hem skirt. Occasionally she’d try outfits like those on, but they never made her look like the women in the elevator.
By the time the doors dinged open, she’d decided she’d earned whipped cream on her blended caramel iced mocha. There was only so much introspection a girl could handle in the presence of perfect specimens like the PR mavens and Curtis without caffeine and sugar in high doses.
The deli that handled the catering was happy to make her mocha a triple, and even threw in a sampling of all their cookies for good measure. Robyn didn’t have the heart to tell them Curtis didn’t eat cookies. He seemed to have a ban on all things that did not make his body function more efficiently, poor soul.
The walk back to the office was much too short. Since moving to San Francisco, Robyn had begun losing track of time while walking, ending up at her destination before she realized it. She lost herself in the mismatched Victorian and art deco buildings, relishing the beauty in their differences.
Every weekend she could manage, she signed up for a walking tour through one of the neighborhoods—Chinatown, Telegraph Hill, Cow Hollow. Each neighborhood was as big as the town she grew up in, yet they still held their individuality and quirky history while gleaning the benefits of being part of something bigger.
The walk through the financial district came to an abrupt halt outside her office building. A news van was stationed directly outside the front door, blocking the entrance. As she maneuvered her way inside she caught snippets of conversation between the reporter from the news van and the security guard instructing him to move the van or it would be towed.
“Ten to Watch…”
“…magazine…”
“…only one this year…”
“…never happened before…”
“…national coverage…”
The entire building was abuzz with whatever was going on, and all she could think of as she rode the elevator up was finishing her mocha before she made it to her desk so she could pitch it at reception. When she’d left, she’d locked the outer door of Curtis’s office to ensure he wasn’t interrupted during his meeting. She didn’t want him to think she’d been dawdling while running errands.
“That’s his secretary,” she heard through half-open elevator doors.
“Executive assistant.” Wasn’t there some national movement to abolish that term? She stepped to the reception desk, narrowing her eyes at the dozen or so people standing there. She’d never seen so many people crammed in here. No one came to Golden City without an appointment.
“Where is he?” asked the peanut gallery. It would have been fine if it were in unison. But they all said some variation of it at once.
“I’m sorry, what is this about?” Robyn asked Pam, the receptionist.
“You haven’t heard the news, have you?” Pam looked as giddy as a schoolgirl.
“News?”
“About Mr. Frye?”
She arched a brow, not wanting to play ask me another.
“The Times named him their ‘Ten to Watch’ list.”
Robyn nodded. “They did that last year.”
“Yes, but this year he’s all ten.”
Robyn pressed her mouth into a line to keep from looking surprised and giving the reporters something to work with. They wanted to unsettle his normally poised and polished self by ambushing him with the news. The media hunted him ruthlessly for one reason or another, hoping to find a chink in his perfection. There had to be a way to give him time to prepare. She cleared her throat.
“You did tell them he has meetings scheduled in Los Angeles this week, didn’t you?” Curtis had been there when she arrived, at least an hour before Pam. Maybe she didn’t know he’d changed his plans.
“They don’t believe me.”
Robyn took a deep breath. She had to throw them off his trail. Since working for Curtis she’d witnessed firsthand the way the media hounded him. The way publicists called to arrange dinner dates so he could be photographed with starlets after he was named one of the fifty sexiest men and, after he’d made the most eligible bachelor list, it hadn’t only been the media after him. Once his picture was in the paper, people thought his privacy was up for grabs. For a person as private as Curtis, Robyn couldn’t even imagine the toll that took.
She’d stressed him out enough with her lying debacle, causing him to move meetings that would have kept him safe from this, or at least given him some warning before the onslaught. It might not be her fault the vultures were circling, but she’d be darned if she’d shine a light on their prey.
Turning to the crowd, she plastered on a smile. “Is there something we can help you with?”
“Is Mr. Frye here?” a bottle blonde asked.
“Do you think I’d be shopping on my lunch hour if he were?” She held up the brown-handled bag, thankful the caterer used plain paper bags.
“Where is he now?”
“He had meetings scheduled in Los Angeles through midweek.” So far so good.
“Is he aware of The Times’s honor?”
“You’ll have to ask his publicist.”
The click of the lock on the office door at the end of the hall vibrated down her spine, yet she was the only one who seemed to notice. “If you’ll excuse me.”
She didn’t wait for an answer, just made a not-so-graceful beeline for her office door, pushing her way inside the second it opened, knocking Curtis to the ground before she slammed it shut and locked it once more.
…
“Well, look at that,” Alan Morgan said from the doorway of Curtis’s office. “She knocked you clean off your feet.”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Frye.” Blood rushed through her veins, adrenaline still pulsing through her. “It’s just—”
Curtis held up a finger, silencing her immediately. He propped himself up on his elbow and glanced at Alan. “Can you give us a moment?”
The casino mogul pursed his lips. “But my blood sugar—”
“Take the bag with you.” Curtis looked back at Robyn, her eyes wide. She best not start crying again. “Lunch is in there, right?” She nodded, and Alan grabbed the bag, retreating back to the inner office and thankfully shutting the door behind him.
Robyn knelt next to him on the floor, biting her full bottom lip. “You can’t leave right now.”
Curtis sat up, stretching his long legs in front of him and shaking his head at the incredulity of the situation. He’d been bowled over by his assistant who probably weighed about half of what he did, and now she wanted to hold him hostage in his own office. Not that he planned on leaving, since she’d brought in what he was going out after, but still. This day was showing him Robyn Tindall in a whole new light, and he hated to think how much he liked it.
“I’m not going anywhere. But you can’t knock people down, Robyn. Someone could sue me.” He smiled, but she didn’t catch the joke, just nodded furiously. Odd, since she usually had a great sense of humor. That, and her willingness to try, had been the first things he’d liked about her.
As the weeks turned into months he’d valued her more, not just for the way she efficiently managed his days, but because no one ever had a negative thing to say about her. Office politics never swung someone’s way that wholeheartedly. She was a study in contradiction—efficient yet slightly silly, quick-witted and sharp-tongued, yet eager to please.
She stared at the floor, her lips pursed, eyes closed, her heavy wire-rimmed glasses pressing on her nose. How he’d hated wearing glasses, the way they’d controlled his life. Having them knocked off and not being able to see his hand in front of his face as a kid, not being able to leave in the morning before he’d gotten his contacts in as an adult. Robyn should see the doctor who did his eye surgery three years ago. It was
the most freeing experience. He opened his mouth to offer, but a knock at the door caught their attention.
“Stand behind the door,” she ordered with the authority of a drill sergeant during basic training.
“Excuse me?” Curtis asked as he rose. He did not take too lightly to being ordered around by anyone. And still, he walked to the far side of the doorway.
“I’ll explain as soon as they’re gone.” She pulled open the door slightly.
“There’s a problem. Robyn,” a vaguely familiar voice whispered. “His car is in the garage.”
“It’s mine,” Robyn replied smoothly. “He’s leasing me a car as part of the position now that I’m hired on. He wants something flashier.”
“Flashier than a Jaguar?”
“I just say ‘yes sir.’” The smile came through in Robyn’s voice.
“Okay, I’ll let them know.”
Robyn closed the door and leaned back against it, her hand on her stomach. “Why couldn’t you have driven the SUV today?” She shook her head. “I need your keys.”
“You want my car?” Curtis pulled them from his pocket and handed them to her. He didn’t need a repeat performance of this morning’s emotional explosion. Besides, he could take them back once he had some answers. “Start talking.”
Her hand formed a fist around his key ring. “You were named The Times’s ‘Ten to Watch’ today. Reporters have infested the building like hornets at a barbecue. I think I’ve thrown them off, but we’ll have to wait and see.”
Curtis couldn’t help but laugh. “You make a horrible bodyguard. Protecting me from paparazzi while knocking me to the ground in my own office.” Finally, she grinned, her features softening in relief. “I’m going to go convince Morgan he needs in on the New Orleans rebuilding projects. This will all blow over by the end of the day. It did last year.”
He closed his office door without hearing Robyn explain that last year he wasn’t all ten.
Robyn Tindall listened to country music. Loud country music. When Curtis had emerged from his meeting this evening he found a note, a bag, and a car key from Robyn.
He’d thought she was handling the media like some covert operative, instructing him to put on the sweatshirt and hat he found in the bag and drive her car home. But in the parking garage he realized she wasn’t exaggerating, much.
Three paparazzi photographers were hanging out on the executive floor where his car would have been. Bile bit the back of his throat as his steps quickened to the safety of Robyn’s Honda. He was a hunted man, and he didn’t understand why there was a target on his back.
Trying to think about what was happening, maneuvering through traffic, and working Robyn’s stereo took up the entire drive home. It wasn’t until he was in his driveway that he realized he had no way to get into his garage—the garage door opener was in the Jag.
As if by magic, the door went up, and he saw Robyn standing inside next to the Jaguar. With a deep exhale, he shut off the car and climbed out. He stepped to her, frustrated and needing answers.
“Start talking.”
Robyn wrinkled her nose, a forced smile on her lips. “No wonder you don’t wear hats. You have an enormous head. It’s not something anyone would notice until you put on a baseball cap, but in the future I’ll find a different kind.”
“Robyn.” He growled through gritted teeth.
“I don’t want the Jaguar. I can’t handle a stick shift with all the hills. I didn’t think anyone in San Francisco had a manual transmission. Besides, it’s not exactly the kind of car you get for your assistant to run errands.”
“Are you amusing yourself? Because I’m not laughing. I had to drive home in disguise, had paparazzi waiting in the parking garage, and I don’t know why. I’m sure you know exactly what is going on. So tell me. Now.”
“Touchy. I told you. The Times named you their ‘Ten to Watch.’”
“They did that last year, and it was my publicist’s problem, not mine.”
“Oh, she’s bamboozled, not to worry. She also thinks you’re in L.A. I’ve had lots of messages to have you call her as soon as you get back, because she has interviews scheduled. Television and print. Wait until you see your Friday agenda.” She let out a long, low whistle.
As glad as he was Robyn was back to her bubbly self, he needed to know what was going on. “Robyn.”
“You are The Times ‘Ten to Watch.’”
“But what is all the fuss about?”
“You are all ten.” She counted on her fingers. “Your New York housing initiative, New Orleans rebuilding project, Las Vegas casino, the Chicago high-rise, the Portland transit project, the mentoring program at Willamette University you spearheaded that is producing top-notch MBA students, and some others that were less flattering.”
He winced. “Less flattering?”
She cleared her throat. “Your networking abilities with the daughters of hoteliers and Greek shipping magnates were listed.”
Damn. He couldn’t be in negotiations with anyone who had an attractive daughter without the press assuming he was negotiating a bedmate instead of a business deal. Why was everything he did tainted by some playboy rumor?
“Do you want me to clear tomorrow so you have some time to prepare for this, or batten down the hatches because you’ll be coming in?”
“Business as usual. Publicity doesn’t get in the way of a deal.” Curtis nodded his head and checked his watch. Past ten. Much too late to invite Robyn in.
“See you in the morning then.” Robyn held out his keys, exchanging them for hers. She nodded at the garage door. “You should go inside, in case someone is out there.”
He didn’t like that idea one bit, letting her go out there alone, when the mercenary paparazzi could be about, so he could cower behind a door.
“I want to make sure you get into your car safely.”
“But what if they get a picture?”
He pulled off the hat and ran his hand over his hair. “Then I’ll look like I was at work all day.”
The scent of roses wafting through the house meant everyone must have heard about the magazine before he did. Making his way to the living room, he saw the reason for the perfume.
Roses were everywhere, looking extremely out of place in the wood-and-leather sitting room. The inlaid walnut cocktail and end tables were made to stand plain, not be covered in flower arrangements. The dark brown of the leather sofas made the bright whites and greens pop to life.
The Frye family always sent roses for any occasion. He knew he was lucky to have such a supportive family behind him, but roses always reminded him that they looked out of place here, and not at any of the other Frye children’s homes. But then, this was more of a house than a home.
The phone rang, and his back stiffened. Would it be the press hounding him as the clock ticked toward midnight? Couldn’t they ever leave a person alone?
He reached for the extension but heard his housekeeper, Mrs. Rutledge’s, voice answer from somewhere in the house. Before he could appreciate the reprieve, she appeared in the hallway, the phone tucked between her ear and shoulder as she hefted an oversize arrangement of lilies.
He took the vase and set it on the only available space, on top of the tin-paneled armoire housing the television.
When he turned back to Mrs. Rutledge she had the phone in her hand and a concerned look on her soft face.
“Congratulations.” Her smile was weak. She knew him so well. “Would you like me to have the flowers taken to the Veterans Hospital or the Alzheimer’s Center?”
“Whose turn is it?”
“I split them when you won that Sexiest Man thing.”
“Should we split them again, then? There seem to be enough.”
Mrs. Rutledge nodded. “You are such a generous man, Jason. Your mother would be proud of that.”
Curtis smiled. Mrs. Rutledge had lived next door to his parents before it all went bad, was his last remaining connection to a mother he hardly knew and
barely remembered. “And what would she think about this ‘Ten to Watch’ business?”
“Oh, I think she’d be as overwhelmed by it as you are.” A genuine grin made him want to ask her to sit down, talk with him about anything besides the latest projects he had running or his publicity nightmare of a life.
She held out the phone. “Kendra is on hold. She claims to know you are not in Los Angeles. Robyn thought it would be best if I let everyone think you had gone on the trip, but Kendra…” She rolled her eyes. “I hope she’s a wonderful publicist, because her personal skills are lacking.”
“Thanks for trying to hold her off.” Curtis took the phone, watching Mrs. Rutledge walk away with his chances of having a normal conversation. Not that he had many.
Curtis Frye did not have time to waste on idle chatter. Jason Curtis was the one who was lonely, and he needed to get over it.
He clicked on the phone, deciding it was better to deal with Kendra sooner rather than later. After all, dealing with the media circus was what he paid her for.
“I don’t have time for interviews.” Best to let her know up front he wasn’t letting her work this for more than he had to.
“Robyn can take care of that. We need to strike while the iron is hot. Do you think you have a book in you? All you need is the idea, a premise, and we could get a ghostwriter—”
“No book. No interviews. Reporters are disrupting my business. You know nothing gets in the way of my work. Make them go away.”
She followed up her shrill laugh with a snort. “You’re hot. Enjoy it, Curtis. Milk it. It’s not going anywhere as long as you are single, successful, and savvy. Oh, I should write that down.” He heard the rustle of paper, the scratch of a pen. “Unless you plan on tanking your career or marrying some boring twit and ducking out of the singles scene, you are front and center for the duration.”
“I’m not in the singles scene.” He hadn’t had a relationship since Lindsay, the decorator he’d hired to furnish the house, realized he hadn’t always been a Frye.
“Please. You’re handsome and available, you only need to be seen in the same restaurant as a celebrity and you’re engaged. It makes my job easy.”
The Billionaire's Runaway Fiancé (Invested in Love) Page 3