No More Mr. Nice - By Renee Roszel Page 0,6
herself; it was a trait her mother and father had tried vainly to encourage in her. At twenty, she married a man who had turned out to be as self-centered and aggressive as her parents. She’d never successfully stood up to any of them—had a horror of dealing with that type—and had become a social-services worker expressly to avoid their sort.
Several years ago, after meeting Norman Roxbury, she’d become fascinated with his Mr. Niceguy program and had asked to be a part of it. When he’d made her his assistant, she’d never realized that one day she’d have to work with the very man who…
She gritted her teeth. Enough negative thinking. She had a job to do, and she would have to “manage” the unmanageable Mr. Brand, if Mr. Roxbury’s wishes were to be carried out. Though their personal contact had been minimal so far, she’d found Lucas to be the most perverse man she’d ever had the misfortune to come in contact with. He could never be reached by phone, and never returned messages. Finally, in desperation, she’d had to resort to dropping in on him, unannounced. She looked forward to it the way she would look forward to life-threatening surgery—necessary but terrifying.
“Mr. Brand is on the terrace, Mrs. Glen,” said the butler, startling her.
“The…terrace,” she repeated, hoping she wasn’t expected to guess where that might be.
The butler, intimidating in a tuxedo, nodded rigidly, and with a small wave indicated the way. “Please follow me.”
She trailed along, feeling as though she were being led to the principal’s office for some infraction. No, no, Jess, she chided herself. You’re a capable, competent adult. You can handle this. Remember, the book says to “be reasonable, but be assertive.” After all, you’re in the right, here. He made a promise.
They entered a huge living area with a two-story window-wall that overlooked the lake. That whole side of the room glowed red-golden with the sunset, making Jess take in a sharp, appreciative breath. The decor appeared muted in color—charcoal gray leather, smoked glass—with accents providing splashes of gold and bloodred.
The ceiling was high, the walls were stark white. Bold, abstract paintings were strategically hung about the space, complementing the decor in a way that seemed handsome and masculine, yet devoid of human warmth—very like her impression of the man who owned them.
Jess wondered if her father’s condo in Florida looked like this. Probably. Before he’d retired, Clancy had been very much like Lucas Brand—a cold-blooded businessman. With the five million dollars he’d received when Lucas purchased his company, her dear old dad had probably gone all-out with the decorating. After all, he had a new young wife to please.
Her stomach twisted at the reminder, but she had to concentrate on the business at hand as the butler opened a glass-paned door. “Mr. Brand is on the terrace,” he repeated, as though he assumed she was too dim-witted to remember he’d already told her.
She nodded, trying to smile. “Thank you,” she mumbled, as she picked her way down the broad fan-shaped steps.
Lucas Brand wasn’t hard to spot. He stood by the wall at the end of the brick patio, holding a cell phone to his ear—a tall, black silhouette, solid and substantial against the shimmering splendor of the lake.
Her glance darted skittishly around. A high roof protected comfortable-looking wicker furniture that was scattered about the terrace in conversation areas. Despite the abundance of seating, Mr. Brand remained standing. Jess had the feeling he wasn’t a man to sit when he could stand, stand when he could pace, or rest when he could be active—namely, making money.
Now that she was about to confront him, she was so nervous her legs could barely support her. She had no idea what to do, but she decided he’d keep her waiting as long as she let him, so she trudged out to the edge of the patio where he would have to notice her. Her heart thudded against her ribs as she reminded herself she was right to be assertive. Cowering in a corner would never do. Especially with a man like Lucas Brand. If he sensed her fear, he’d attack, chew her up and spit her out.
“You’re not serious, Fletch,” Lucas demanded. “It’s still locking up? Can you get the diagnostics—You already tried? Hell.” He seemed to notice movement, and turned, his features in a severe scowl. “Takahashi’s going to call for an update in—” he jerked his wrist up to scan his watch “—about an hour.