Wrangling the Redhead - By Sherryl Woods Page 0,34

power. His grandfather’s a politician and a Native American activist. I’m an employee here, not Grady’s pal.”

She stared at him in shock. “You’ve got to be kidding. Grady respects you. He likes you. What would ever give you the idea that he doesn’t consider you his equal in every way?”

“That’s just the way it is,” he said, his mouth set in a tight line. “We get along fine as long as I don’t cross that invisible line between us.”

“If Grady was like that, do you think he’d approve of me being here with you tonight?”

He hesitated, then shrugged, dismissing the question. “It’s not up to him. He probably knows he can’t control you.”

“Talk about being prejudiced,” she accused. “That’s the worst case of reverse snobbery I’ve ever heard.”

He shrugged off the accusation. “Well, that’s who I am. Take me or leave me.”

“What if I were to tell you that I’m rich?”

He laughed as if it were the most ludicrous idea he’d ever heard. “For starters, I wouldn’t believe it.”

“Why not?” she probed, curious about exactly how he’d reached the conclusion that she didn’t belong to a class of people he despised.

“Because you’re living off the kindness of the Blackhawks, for one thing. And you work as hard as anybody else, no matter how filthy or demanding the job.”

“Thank you,” she said, even though he was only half-right. She did work hard. What was he going to do, though, when he found out the rest was wrong, that she was as rich as Grady and then some? She should tell him, right here and now. Get the truth out in the open and force him to deal with it. Or not.

It was the latter that made her hesitate. Wade was the best man to come into her life in a long time. She didn’t want to risk losing him over something as trivial to her as the amount of money in her bank account. In time, when and if their relationship was on solid ground, she would tell him everything—about her career, her money, her marriages.

“You went quiet all of a sudden,” he said as he set a plate in front of her. “Something you want to say?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. I could debate you all night on the absurdity of your bias, but I can see I’d be wasting my breath.”

He nodded. “You certainly would.” He held up a bottle of white wine and a beer. “What’s your pleasure?”

“Beer,” she said at once, then realized she’d done it in some mistaken attempt to prove that she wasn’t some sort of elitist who only sipped wine with her meals. She refused to be somebody she wasn’t just to avoid a conflict with his prejudice. “No, actually, I’d prefer the wine.”

“No problem,” he said easily, opening the bottle and pouring a glass for her. He popped the top on the beer for himself and drank it from the bottle.

Maybe he hadn’t intended it that way, but Lauren saw it as a defiant gesture, an attempt to prove just how down-to-earth—how different from the rich and powerful—he was. Maybe it was even an unconscious attempt to put some distance between them. She stared at him over the rim of her glass.

“It’s not going to work, you know.”

His startled gaze met hers. “What?” he asked.

“The attempt to remind me what a badass kind of guy you are.”

His lips twitched. “Is that what I’m doing? How?”

“The tough talk. Swigging your beer down straight from the bottle. Grady does the same thing. So do most of the men around here, rich or poor. I’m used to it. As you’ve already learned, character and money don’t necessarily go hand in hand. You can be poor and still be an honorable, decent guy. Or you can be rich as Midas and be a creep, like your father.”

She studied him intently. “Or is it really your contention that only the poor, struggling working man can be decent? And that all the rich must be jerks?”

“When you put it that way, it does sound like a gross generalization,” he admitted grudgingly. “Still, I’ve learned the hard way to watch my step around anyone with the big bucks. It’s better to steer clear than to be taken advantage of. If you don’t give them the opportunity, they can’t use you.”

Now it was Lauren’s turn to sigh. “You’re not going to give an inch on this, are you?”

“Nope.”

“Then I’ll save it for another day when you’re feeling more reasonable.”

“Hell will freeze