No More Mr. Nice - By Renee Roszel Page 0,7
I’ll stall him with some techno-bull, but we’d better find the problem pronto. Get Sol back in. I’ll be down as soon as I can.”
He clicked off, turning to face her with hooded, black eyes. “What is it, Mrs. Glen?”
No, Good evening, Jess, how’s it going? No Nice to see you, Mrs. Glen. What had she expected? Politeness? She hiked her purse strap up on her shoulder more from unease than necessity. It struck her that he looked tired and needed a shave. He was also taller than she’d realized the other day. At least six-four, he was muscular, built more like a football player than a computer nerd.
Computer nerd, indeed! From the first moment she’d met him in Mr. Roxbury’s hospital suite, Jess had sensed tremendous energy in him. Lucas Brand wasn’t a man who would accept second best at anything. Not from himself or from his associates. From the harassed look on his face, and what she’d just heard on the phone, it appeared he was riding both himself and his employees very hard these days.
“Mrs. Glen,” he prodded, his tone weary, “if you have something to say, spit it out. If you’re just here for a staring contest, let’s make it another time. I’m in the middle of something.”
Lucas’s uncaring attitude, coupled with her insecurities, filled her with anger. It took all her restraint to keep from suggesting at the top of her lungs where she’d like to see him go. This man didn’t care about her problems or about the needy kids in the Mr. Niceguy program—and worse, he didn’t care about his debt of honor to Norman Roxbury.
With effort, she collected herself and regrouped, recalling the lesson in chapter two. Be reasonable, but be assertive, she chided herself. Don’t blow this, Jess. Too bad the book hadn’t offered step-by-step instructions—catchy phrases, never-fail dialogue. Oh, well, what had she expected for four ninety-five?
She presented him with the toothpaste smile she’d been long trained to exhibit. Every time her parents had paraded her out like some prize poodle, she’d pasted on her “I’m-so-delighted” face and endured the ordeal. It surprised her that she hadn’t lost the ability, though she wished she’d lost the necessity. “Good evening, Mr. Brand,” she said, extending a hand. “I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice. You have a lovely—”
“If you’ll forgive me,” he interrupted, “I’m too tired to tap dance. Say what you have to say.”
She held fast to her smile, hoping her flinch didn’t show, and counted to ten. “Of course. I understand you’re a busy man.” Belatedly, she realized her rejected hand was still poised before him as though she had designs on his tie. Abruptly she dropped it to her side. “It’s just that I’ve been trying to reach you through proper channels about the Thanksgiving dinner, and, for some reason, we’ve never connected.”
“My secretary’s handling that. I assumed she’d get back to you.”
“She did,” Jess admitted.
“Well, then?”
Be reasonable, be reasonable, be reasonable! Though she was trying to remain civil, she felt her jaw getting tight. “Mr. Brand,” she began, “I heard from your secretary today, about the caterer she’d hired for the dinner.”
Lucas nodded. “My secretary is very capable. Is that all?”
“Almost.” She swallowed to ease a tremor in her voice. “Just one thing. I had to let the caterer go.”
His dark eyes widened slightly in surprise. “You what?”
“I—I said—”
“I heard what you said.” Lucas thumped his phone down on the wide brick railing. “What the devil did you do that for?”
She lifted her chin, praying her voice wouldn’t falter. “Do you recall the Thanksgiving dinner you attended?”
His gaze drifted out over the lake, and his expression softened at some memory. Watching him, waiting for his reply, she had to acknowledge that, even as testy and exhausted as he was, he was handsome, in an unnerving, insolent way. His dark navy suit, white shirt and silver-patterned tie were the epitome of well-heeled elegance. With his tie loosened, and his black hair mussed by the evening breeze, he almost seemed touchable. No, she mused, that had to be an illusion, for there was hard-edged willfulness in the set of his jaw.
“Of course, I remember the damned dinner,” he said gruffly.
“Do you remember what caterer Mr. Roxbury hired?”
“No,” he ground out too quickly.
“Are you sure?”
He faced her again, obviously annoyed. “What are you trying to say? I have to let those kids make the dinner?”
Though she felt a strong urge to look away from his indignant glare, she