No More Mr. Nice - By Renee Roszel Page 0,11
than a few minutes,” she advised. “And let me say, I do so appreciate your generous offer to help.”
As he rose from his chair, he gave her an unconvinced glance, but said nothing.
“Maybe you should tell them you’ll meet them back at the office,” she suggested, hoping repetition would reinforce the fact that he would not be returning soon.
His expression vaguely amused, he said, “They’re not in the first grade, though they sometimes act like it. If they finish and I’m not back, they’ll figure out what to do. Fletch and Sol are fairly bright for computer geniuses.”
“Why, of course, you’re right. You’ll have to forgive me. I’m used to working with children and teenagers—”
“Mrs. Glen, I don’t need to hear your résumé.” Surprising her, he took her arm and guided her away. “Why don’t we find a table and get on with it,” he suggested, nodding to a waiter.
“Fine—fine,” she murmured, oddly breathless. A nervous giggle escaped her throat, and she grimaced, hoping the restaurant noise was too loud for him to have heard. His grip was gentle, but firm, as he conducted her along. She clutched her briefcase with white-knuckled fingers, wanting the contact to end. The man’s touch disturbed her.
Once they were seated, he sat back and crossed his arms, his posture one of weary dignity. He looked like a tired lion, reposing there. She swallowed, wishing he weren’t quite so magnetic a man. Her wits seemed to do a little scattering around him. And her stupid giggle! Where had that come from?
“What is it?” he asked, finally.
Remember how Mr. Roxbury handles people, she told herself. When she faced him again, she was smiling. She noticed that he’d sat forward, loosely tenting his fingers on the tablecloth. That gave her an idea.
She’d read in her self-help book that if you lightly touched a person when talking to them, a psychological bond was formed, and the person being touched tended to be more agreeable. Why not? she decided. She was at a point where she was desperate to get this man to agree with her about any thing—besides the fact that he was the world’s worst choice for Mr. Niceguy.
Now that she thought about it, Mr. Roxbury patted people all the time. Must be something to it. Though she wasn’t a “toucher” herself, and her family had never been much for hugging or holding hands, she sucked in a breath for courage, reached across the table, and determinedly patted his hands. “It’s so nice to see you again, Mr. Brand,” she enthused, feeling inept and out of her element. As believably as she could, she added, “I know it will be a pleasure working with you.”
His glance shifted to her hand, then to her face. There was an odd mingling of mirth and irritation in his expression. She kept patting, feeling awkward, trying to work out her plan. She didn’t want to accuse him of shirking his duty. Maybe if she acted like she assumed he’d just forgotten about—
“Why Lucas,” a female voice declared from Jess’s left. An attractive blonde of about Jess’s age was sidling up to the table. She leaned down and pressed a kiss on his cheek. Lucas smiled coolly at the woman. She caressed his cheek fondly. “How are you? It’s been, what—three months?”
Lucas started to rise, but the woman put a hand on his shoulder. “Please don’t bother, I’m just passing by.”
“It’s nice to see you,” Lucas said, with that same polished smile, but neither of the women was fooled into thinking he meant it. The blonde laughed and shook her head in a light rebuke.
“The name’s Mary Anne. Mary Anne Brown, of the ‘I’ll-call-you-Mary-Anne’ Browns.” Glancing at Jess, the woman gave her a sympathetic nod. “You must be Lucas’s, ‘Miss November.’ Enjoy it while it lasts.” She ran her fingers through the hair at Lucas’s nape, as though she couldn’t help but touch him one last time. More to herself than to Jess, she murmured, “He has a demanding mistress.”
After that veiled remark, she abruptly left. Jess felt embarrassed for the woman and couldn’t think of anything to say. She stared absently at her water goblet.
“Mrs. Glen,” Lucas said, cutting into her musings, “I never learned Morse code, so rather than tap out your message on my hands, why don’t you just tell me why you’re here.”
Her gaze snapped to her fidgeting fingers, still curled over his. Mortified, she snatched them away and took a shaky sip of water in order to