No More Mr. Nice - By Renee Roszel Page 0,12

have a minute to compose herself.

Lucas cleared his throat, and she surreptitiously looked at him over the rim of her cut-crystal goblet.

His expression showed slight vexation, and she could see by the direction in which he was looking that he’d followed the blonde’s exit.

She replaced her water glass on the table, feeling a twinge of pity for any woman who would get involved with this man. “I gather by ‘demanding mistress,’ she meant your work?”

He shifted back to look at her. “I don’t know what the hell she meant. Can we get on with it?”

Neither of them spoke as coffee was served. When the waiter had gone, he ground out, “Okay, Mrs. Glen. So far in our relationship, you’ve played a neurotic Barbara Walters clone, a vacuum-cleaner salesman turned pit bull, and today you’ve done your impression of Miss Teenage America, whose talent is screwing up Morse code. It’s been entertaining, but could we dispense with the games? Just give me your bottom line.”

Fresh anxiety sliced through her, and she coughed nervously. He was in a foul mood, and wasn’t going to take this well. Be that as it may, there was nothing left for her to do but take a deep breath and plunge in.

Reaching for her briefcase, she lifted it to the table-top. “Okay, Mr. Brand.” Snapping the fasteners open, she lifted the lid. “Bottom line.” Pulling out a batch of rumpled papers, she held them in his direction. She was tired of trying to find ways to appease this man, and was glad he’d called her on her subterfuge. She simply wasn’t cut out for deception. “As you can see, I have a problem.”

His lips curved in a sardonic half smile. “I noticed. But I understand multiple-personality psychosis can be treated.”

She frowned, then realized he’d made a small joke. Startled, she fixed her gaze on him. He had lowered his eyelids so that he could see out, but no one could see in. She resented his ability to do that. It was like trying to relate to a machine. “These are the essays I left for you to read when I was at your home the other night. If you’ll remember, I said I’d need them by the day before Thanksgiving.”

He picked them up and scanned them as the waiter served more coffee. “So?” he asked after a minute.

She stared, unbelieving. “So—today is the day before Thanksgiving. When I went by your home this morning to pick them up, assuming they’d be scored and evaluated, I found them exactly as I’d left them.”

He was thumbing through the papers. “Some look like they’ve been chewed on.”

“They may have been,” she said, trying to remain calm. “Not all of them were written in the best possible atmosphere. A few may very well have been chewed, or worse. But that doesn’t make the effort less worthy. Do you remember my telling you the ten winners would be announced at the Thanksgiving dinner? If you’ll recall, their prize was a week at the Mr. Niceguy Retreat?” She pressed, “Is it coming back at all?”

He took a sip of his coffee, then admitted with a nod, “Right. It slipped my mind.”

With blossoming hostility, Jess surveyed his unrepentant face. When she could bring herself to speak, she repeated, “It slipped your mind?” Her voice had lifted a tense octave, betraying her feelings.

There was a hardening of his features, though he retained a nonchalant half smile. “I told you I’m busy. You just witnessed how easily our project is falling into place. I have my two best men at each other’s throats, I have no software and a nonresponse glove to offer my client—and only a couple of weeks to work out the bugs. I’m human. The damned essays slipped my mind. But I’ll read them.”

“When?” she prodded, with more than a hint of annoyance.

“When I have time,” he retorted, his glance as stubborn as hers.

Mexican-standoff time. A dull throb started behind Jess’s eyes as a gnawing sense of her inadequacy shrouded her—not for the first time in her life, either. All too often her parents had made the statement, “Jess, you’ll never make anything of yourself if you can’t be a leader! If you can’t control people.” She’d tried. But ultimately she always failed. And she was failing miserably today.

Just how competent did a person have to be to persuade someone to follow through on a debt of honor? Apparently, more competent than she. Defeated, she massaged her aching temples. “Mr. Brand,” she