No More Mr. Nice - By Renee Roszel Page 0,10

you, Mrs. Glen,” he said, his dark eyes glinting scornfully in the fading light. “But for once—and probably for the only time in our dubious association—we are in perfect agreement.”

3

Jess saw Lucas Brand sitting with two of his cronies in the plush restaurant, and her stomach lurched. She’d had two days to think about their last confrontation, and she vowed she wouldn’t make the same mistakes again. Oh, she’d managed to get him to go along with the Mr. Niceguy plans, and he’d promised there would be no caterer, but he was still falling far short of the ideal.

So, here she was again—forced to prod him into shaping up. This time, she’d be smarter about it. This time, Mr. Roxbury would be her model. No matter how upset Lucas made her, she would pause and ask herself, What would Norman do? Her boss had such a graceful way of dealing with people, of handling them—why, it was Mr. Roxbury who’d gotten Lucas to agree to be Mr. Niceguy in the first place. Why hadn’t she thought of using him as her model before? Kill the man with kindness. Be positive with a capital P. That was the ticket.

When the maître d’ asked if Mr. Brand was expecting her, she smiled sweetly and lied, “Yes. Thank you.”

Winding through the lunchtime crowd at one of Oklahoma City’s poshest eateries, she prepped herself by thinking only happy thoughts. Positive visualizations of Lucas Brand reacting goodnaturedly to her gently worded requests. She also visualized calming things, like roses with dew on their petals, butterflies fluttering in a wildflower-strewn field, kittens curled up before a cozy fire. She inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. “Butterflies, kittens, dew, roses…”

A nagging voice in her brain insisted on sneering, “No way, Jess. You aren’t Mr. Roxbury. He’ll get you flustered and angry and you’re going to end up dumping ice water over his head.”

She squelched the negative image, mumbling, “Butterflies, kittens, dew, roses, butterflies-kittens-dew-roses-butterflies-kittens-dew-roses.” It became a thin-lipped, desperate mantra that marked her ever-slowing tread as she maneuvered toward his table.

When she was a few feet away, she realized the top executives of Virtual Vision Technology were in intense, though whispered, debate. Lucas was the only one not actually speaking. He wasn’t quite lounging, for she doubted if the man ever relaxed. Sprawled elegantly, one elbow on the chair’s arm, he was tapping a contemplative finger on his upper lip. His expression was critical, as though he wasn’t happy with the bent of the discussion. As she neared, she heard a short, stubby fellow insist, “It can’t be done, Lucas. Not in the time Takahashi’s insisting on.”

A redheaded man in his mid-thirties persisted, “It might be possible, if that receptor point problem—”

“Problem is putting it mildly!” the stubby man burst in over the redhead’s remark. “Face it. We need too many receptor points. The infrared receiver can’t distinguish between so many signals. Every time I quirk my little finger, the computer gives me a rude gesture.”

“That’d be my first instinct,” the redhead retorted. “You’re such a fatalistic ass!”

“And you’re a pigheaded fool! I told you both a month ago we couldn’t go cordless, and—” The stubby man, his angry features ruddy all the way up to the top of his bald head, halted in midsentence, as he noticed Jess beside their table.

Then the redhead and Lucas glanced her way.

“Hello,” the bald man said, struggling to stand. “May we help you?”

The redhead belatedly pushed up, too, his freckled features alight with male curiosity. Lucas merely sat there, looking dubious. “Mrs. Glen,” he intoned, with mild surprise. “This is a coincidence.”

She offered him a well-meant smile. “Your secretary told me where you were.”

“I’ll have to thank her for that,” he muttered cynically.

She recognized his sarcasm, but struggled to ignore it. “May I have a word with you, Mr. Brand?” she asked, her tone as bright as she could manage.

He nodded, apparently suggesting that she speak her piece and go.

She felt a tremor of anxiety, wishing his disinterest didn’t bother her so much. She mustn’t allow him to upset her. After all, he was busy, and upset himself, considering what she’d just heard. Evidently things hadn’t gotten much better with his big, important project since they’d last spoken. She reinforced her smile, prompting sweetly, “I’d prefer we were alone.”

He gave her a speculative perusal, then with a curt nod, he indicated that his employees stay put. “You two try to keep from killing each other. I’ll be right back.”

“This may take more