The Bachelor Bid. Kate Denton
for bothering him either. At that moment all she felt was aggravation at this galling display of ego.
“I can see it now,” he quipped. “A group of us guys prancing around like performers in a male strip joint My turn comes. I strut my stuff until a voice cries out, ‘Five bucks for the guy in the purple briefs.’ ”
“Purple briefs—you?” Cara taunted, raising one eyebrow. For a second, her brain reeled off a picture of Wyatt in purple underwear—dollar bills stuffed in the waistband as he danced before a bunch of screaming, applauding women.
Her thoughts were cut off by Wyatt’s terse, “No comment. Neither you, your boss, nor anyone else connected with that auction will find out, because I intend to hold on to every atom of my dignity.”
“You disappoint me,” Cara said.
“Why? Because I’m not willing to be part of your beefcake parade?”
“No, because you haven’t done your homework. It’s not a strip show. The participants wear tuxes, not skimpy garb. And you needn’t worry about your monetary value being bounced back and forth for all to hear. It’s a silent auction.”
“I’m not a bit worried, and it doesn’t matter what kind of show you’re promoting, because I don’t intend to be there.” He rubbed the back of his neck wearily. “Listen, lady, I’ve been hit on about this for the last three years and my answer has always been the same. Why don’t you people give it up?”
Cara sidestepped the question with a question of her own. “Don’t you want to be known as the most eligible bachelor in Austin?” She was losing steam here, but wouldn’t give up without a fight.
“A few people have already tried to label me with that tag. All it means is that I’m over twenty-one, single, and have money in the bank. Big deal.”
“Only a few?” Cara sniped, then caught herself. What was she doing? It wouldn’t do her cause any good to irritate this man further. Not when he already saw her as a major nuisance. Her only hope was to get back on course—mature, businesslike. Even though anxiety had her ready to climb the walls.
Surprisingly he smiled, as if he found her retort amusing. But his resolution was firm. “Like I said, I’m happy to make a contribution—of money, not my body.” He tore off the check he’d written and dangled it toward Cara.
“I don’t want another check, darn it. I want you!”
Wyatt lay the check down. He gave her a long appraising stare potent enough to raise the hairs on Cara’s neck. “That sounds promising,” he drawled.
“You know I didn’t mean it that way, that I...I was referring to the auction.” Cara seldom blushed, but she felt her face flushing to a scarlet hue. She fantasized about diving under McCauley’s big oak desk, or better still, sprinting out of here at full throttle.
The saving buzz of the intercom provided her a moment’s respite from flushes and fantasies. “Sure, I’ll take it,” Wyatt said. “Just ask him to hold on a second.” He pressed off the intercom button and turned his attention to Cara. “This has been... pleasant, Ms. Breedon, but I’ve got an important call coming through.” He stood up and pushed the check toward her. “By the way, thanks for the tie.” He fingered it casually. “Also the food and the flowers.” He paused. “And if you change your mind about wanting me...for anything other than the auction...”
Cara snatched the check. At least she’d come away from this encounter with something for the kids. But she couldn’t allow Wyatt’s remark to go unanswered. “Just to set the record straight, Mr. McCauley, I’m not the one who wants you. It’s my boss, Brooke Abbott. She’s convinced the auction is doomed without you. I may disagree...” Cara’s expression suggested that in her mind his involvement was about as important to the children’s future welfare as chicken pox. “But Ms. Abbott’s chairing the auction this year and she sees you as the pièce de résistance, a cinch to generate sky-high bids.”
“Then relay this to your boss,” Wyatt said, “and you can quote me. It doesn’t matter if the bids are projected to reach a million dollars—I’m not going to do this.” He stood up. “And that’s my final word on the subject.”
When he took her arm and ushered her toward his door, tingles ran through Cara’s body. The closeness, the feel of his warm fingers against her skin, made her long for something she couldn’t name. As the door closed behind her, she felt unaccountably empty, disillusioned—defeated. “Hemlock cocktail, anyone?” she muttered.
“Pardon?” Frances asked, observing Cara carefully.
“Nothing...sorry.” Cara quickly exited through the frosted-glass doors and headed toward the elevator, wishing she could drive directly home and jump into bed with the covers over her head, rather than go back to the office and Brooke’s displeasure.
She’d just pushed the down button when Frances Peters walked up behind her. “Don’t give up hope,” the woman whispered. “Maybe he’ll have second thoughts.” Without another word, Frances swept down the hall and disappeared into the ladies’ room.
Fat chance, Cara answered silently. I know a lost cause when I see one.
Twilight had long gone before the day’s business dealings came to a close. Lifting his eyes from the computer screen, Wyatt saw it was dark outside, his scenic view replaced by the spangled glow of city lights. He rose from his leather desk chair, stretched, rolled down his shirtsleeves and grabbed his jacket. Time to go home. Briefcase in hand, he opened his office door.
Frances was still at her computer. Wyatt glanced at his watch disapprovingly. “Gad, woman, it’s eight o’clock. Why in blazes are you still here?”
“Most bosses complain that their assistants leave too early. Mine grouses because I work too late.”
“Well, you’re stopping right now. I don’t want you in the building all alone,” Wyatt told her. “Get your purse and I’ll walk you to your car.”
Frances smiled agreeably, closed the document file, and shut down the computer. As she circled her desk, she bent to smell one of the yellow roses Cara Breedon had brought earlier. They were now arranged in a Waterford vase. “Pretty, aren’t they? Sure you don’t want to take them home, enjoy them over the weekend?”
“You take them, if you like. For all I care they can go in the trash.”
“Such a shame.” Frances picked up the vase and cradled it in her left arm. “It’s not like you to take out your bad moods on some lovely—”
“Don’t push it, Frances,” Wyatt growled as they started toward the elevator.
“All I was going to say was ‘flowers.’ ” She smiled again, obviously unruffled by his admonition and the glare he shot her way.
Frances had worked for Wyatt for almost a decade and a half, beginning when McCauley Industries was just getting off the ground, its owner an undergrad hawking computer software to fellow classmates at the University of Texas.
In the ensuing years, the operation had expanded beyond the college crowd and into a national conglomerate. During those same years, Frances had become more than an assistant to Wyatt. To him she was a confidante, a friend, a mother figure. Which meant that she felt perfectly free to meddle in his personal life and to offer unsolicited advice.
Fortunately for Wyatt, the elevator came quickly and was occupied by another late worker, so any further discussion of Cara Breedon’s visit was dropped.
He might have been rescued from Frances’s meddling, but now, as Wyatt drove toward his home in the Tarrytown area of Austin, he couldn’t keep his thoughts from returning to Cara.
The fact was, he’d begun to delight in her campaign of persuasion, to wonder what she’d come up with next. Today’s face-to-face encounter had been unexpected, but he’d savored the good-natured sparring. She was sweet,