The C.e.o.'S Unplanned Proposal. Karen Whittenburg Toller
if it’s sort of unexpected, like a broken water heater, then this probably isn’t the best time for me to visit and we ought to just reschedule, but if it’s really unexpected, like someone in the family has appendicitis, then I should just get out of the car now and let you make the trip by yourself.”
“No.” His voice for all its vagueness, sounded pretty authoritative. “That isn’t necessary.”
But Katie wasn’t giving up on escape that easily. “But if someone’s ill—”
“Christmas decorations,” he said succinctly.
“What?”
“Christmas decorations,” he repeated, displaying not a single other sign he realized she was sitting beside him in the car.
“Christmas…in May?”
He picked up a phone—conveniently positioned in the door console—and punched in a number. One number, rapid dial. Naturally. “Lara,” he said sharply into the phone. “The stock’s moving. Any word from Wallace?”
He listened so intently Katie could all but feel the energy of his thoughts. He was as smoothly controlled as the car in which they were riding and exuded the same sort of luxuriant power. Harnessed. Refined. But there was frustration beneath the surface, and it was a quite incredibly perfect surface, too. His dark hair was cut with the precision of a master stylist, not too short, not too long, not a hair out of place. Perfect from every angle. His clothes, too—a dark gray suit, white shirt, exemplary tie, right down to the Windsor knot—reflected a pristine attention to detail. His profile—almost the only angle she had been shown since she got in the car—revealed the same strong, even features as a face-on view. In other words, perfect. She’d thought he was attractive in the restaurant, of course, but here in his natural habitat, he was quite extraordinarily handsome. Even better to look at than the Rolls…and that was saying something. Katie leaned back against the supple leather seat and watched him in profile, deciphering from his intense expression and his silence that he was capable of listening when he wanted to do so. Or when he was interested. What would it be like, she wondered, to have a man like Adam Braddock focus that same intensity on her? What would it take to engage his interest?
Of course, when he realized she was a waitress at The Torrid Tomato and not the events planner he’d hired, sight unseen, for an exorbitant amount of money, she just might find out. She figured he’d be angry with her, even though the fault was largely his. No doubt he had yes-women at his beck and call, in the office and out of it, too, and she didn’t imagine he ever took kindly to hearing explanations. It was too much to ask of perfection, she supposed, to expect him to entertain the idea that had he only listened to her for two minutes in the first place, she wouldn’t be in his car right now.
Okay, so it was her own choice to be in the car. She couldn’t exactly blame him for that. But still he ought to be gentlemanly enough to share some of the responsibility.
“Good work, Lara. Remember, as far as Wallace knows, I’m unavailable the rest of the week. Let’s see if he doesn’t break a sweat by this time tomorrow.” He hung up without another word. No good-byes necessary with Lara, apparently. Or perhaps he was already so engrossed in the activity on his little computer screen he didn’t know he hadn’t given a polite “over-and-out” to the conversation. That made more sense, she decided, as he didn’t seem to remember he wasn’t alone, either.
Katie fidgeted a little more, wondering what it would take to persuade him to look up from that computer. Conversation, clearly, wouldn’t. And she didn’t give a simple, straightforward request much of a shot, either. Even if he were polite enough to pretend an interest in any discussion she proposed, she’d receive barely half of his attention. At best. Studying his intense and concentrated expression, Katie doubted he’d notice if she stripped naked and tossed her clothes out the window. Maybe if she started with her shoes and aimed them at his window…or at him? But the way her luck was running so far, she’d probably just hit him in the head with her Birkenstock sandal and knock him unconscious. Which wouldn’t be much of an improvement.
Plus, there was probably some law against being barefoot—much less naked—in a Rolls-Royce…whether the owner noticed or not. She tapped her feet on the lush carpet of the floorboard, wished she’d worn her Old Maine Trotters instead of the sturdy sandals, even though she had just treated herself to a pedicure at the beauty salon. She wiggled her toes and wondered if she would be admitted to the pretentious-sounding Braddock Hall in her denim jumper and red T-shirt or if some haughty butler would quietly suggest she slip on a jacket and tie or send her around to the back door. Shifting her backpack purse to the seat beside her, she wished her phone would ring, so she could demonstrate to Adam Braddock that she was no more focused on him than he was on her. He might even enjoy eavesdropping on her conversation. It was possible he was simply shy and lacking in social—as well as listening—skills. She cut a sidelong glance to him and sighed, again. What was she thinking? The man practically had skills oozing out of every pore. And she had no doubt he could turn on considerable charm when it occurred to him to do so. Why would she think for two seconds that she could best him in a dueling phones scenario? He’d have her on the mat before the second ringy-ding-ding.
She subdued yet another sigh and turned to gaze out the window, but the Rolls, for all its seamless negotiation, had yet to pull away from the city landscape and there was nothing much to see. Unless she counted the way the smoky tint on the glass shaded the outside world, turning the sky and everything under it muted and pale, while enclosing her in a serene bubble of privacy and soft, soothing color. Even the music drifting like a slight breeze around her was meant to be unobtrusive and formless, a background for Braddock business conducted while traveling from one office to another. There was even a glass partition between the back seat and Benson, which precluded learning anything about him, except that the back of his silver head wasn’t that fascinating. Her gaze sidled over to see what she could see on the computer screen and as that proved to be not much, her body followed, sliding gradually into a forty-five degree angle where she could just begin to make out the data on the computer. Numbers. Lots of…
“Are you interested in the stock market, Ms. Canton?”
She tried to be as graceful as possible while sliding back to an upright position. “Isn’t everyone these days? And you can call me Katie.”
His eyebrows went up slightly and a glimmer of amusement lit his whiskey-brown eyes for a second. “I thought we were going to keep our association strictly business,” he said.
“Oh, we are.” She gave him one of her best mystery smiles—all lips, no teeth. Not that he noticed. “But since we’re sharing a ride and presumably some conversation along the way, it’ll be easier if we dispense with the mister and ms. stuff.”
“Hmm.” His glance flicked over her, lingering on her glistening—thanks to the new haircut and a new Aveda product—hair and with a sinking sensation, she knew any minute now he’d be tossing her out on her waitress butt. But with only a faint and fleeting frown, his gaze cut back to the laptop. “Have you made any plans for my grandfather’s birthday, Katie?”
If he’d had any recognition of her at all, it was gone with the latest shift in the Dow Jones. She was beginning to think the challenge was not in getting out of this situation with grace, but in getting him to notice she was in it in the first place. “I thought maybe I’d get him a tie. What about you?”
The slight lift of his mouth showed that he wasn’t completely without a sense of humor. “I’m thinking along more practical lines. A small manufacturing company.”
“That’s going to take a lot of wrapping paper.”
“Good thing I own stock in Hallmark.” Again he tapped keys on the keyboard. “I meant, of course, what plans you may have made for the party.”
“I’m only going to see the house,” she said candidly. “I haven’t given the party a single thought.”
His frown might have been for her. Then again, maybe not. “That’s commendable,” he said.
“It