Midnight Resolutions. Kathleen O'Reilly
out a way to market a sentimental lexicologist, she would be so employed, but reluctantly he pushed her file aside and focused on the nonlexicologist extraordinaires.
By the end of the afternoon, Ian had found two more positions. One for a budding young medical assistant, Deirdre Synder, and one for Mortimer Haswell, a fifty-eight year old mortgage broker who wasn’t happy about a secretarial job and came down to the office to whine in person.
After a few seconds of polite listening, Ian paused for dramatic effect and then held up his stone. He looked Mort in his basset-esque eyes and asked, “Do you know where this came from?”
Mort shook his shaggy gray head.
“This stone is from my first job. Recycling. Now, if you’ve ever worked recycling in this state, you know it’s not a pretty job. It’s not elegant. It’s not one of those run-out-and-brag-to-all-your-friends job. But I did it. Dirty, crappy and I smelled like bad fish until I went to sleep with that smell on my pillow. I stuck my hands in things better left unidentified, and my friend, in garbage, ignorance is the only thing keeping you sane. After my first month, when I was one refuse load away from quitting, I found this stone, winking up at me like a talisman. For seven years I shoveled trash, saving up for college. And let me tell you, on the bright, shiny day I graduated from Harvard, this little stone was tucked under my mortarboard. It was my lucky charm. You gotta see the big picture, Mort. It’s not where you start, it’s where you end up.”
Mort’s unibrow furrowed deeper into his forehead. “I don’t know, Ian. I can’t type.”
Ian was used to the objections and nodded sympathetically. “Yes, you can, Mort. You can do anything you want. Go in there. Make yourself indispensable. You’ll be fine, wait and see. Within a year—tops—you’ll be back in finance where you belong.”
It took a little more convincing, but eventually Mort left—almost satisfied. Ian picked up his polished rock and put it in the drawer. Wasn’t going to need any props tonight. Tonight was all about the shimmer and shine.
When five o’clock rolled around, he watched as the civil servants left before pulling out his suit and studying it with a critical eye. The lapels didn’t have quite the spiffy stiffness that Wall Street required. Some wayward lint had wormed its way under the cuffs, and even an untutored nose could detect the faint aroma of mothballs. Okay, lots of work to be done here.
For the next thirty minutes, Ian toiled away at mothball-scent-removal. Using a combination of high-dollar cologne, an emergency container of Febreze and a twist of lemon, he finally transformed mothballs into something resembling the elusive, yet highly potent, scent of success.
When the cuffs were straight, the collar was angled exactly right and the shoes were shined, Ian admired the finished product in the men’s room mirror. This was the Ian Cumberland of yesteryear, maybe a little skinnier. His chin rose, his smile got slightly harder and his eyes sparkled with that familiar devil-may-care glint. Yeah, that was it. Absolutely perfect.
Watch out, world.
Ian Cumberland was back.
THE RESTAURANT WAS IN the financial district, on the thirty-second floor of the Liberty Towers. The view was spectacular—the lights from the tankers on the Hudson, the skyscrapers across the way, the Statue of Liberty in the New York Harbor—but it was nothing compared to her.
She was standing by the window, waiting, and his breath caught, held.
He’d never seen a woman whose face was so exquisitely formed. Would it always be like that? Did the curators at the Louvre ever stop gawking at the Mona Lisa?
Up to now, Ian had always made fun of the pretentious types who had season tickets to the symphony, idling their time in pursuit of cultural beauty. He never quite “got” that. Growing up in Scranton warped a man’s artistic perspective. But this woman’s perfection stopped his heart.
She turned, smiled, and he wiped the goofy gobsmackery off his face before she saw. Tonight he was the investment banker, a confident man who was never caught being gobsmacked at all.
“Ian Cumberland, at your service for the rest of your life.” He meant it as a joke, but his voice sounded serious. Serious and gobsmacked. He tried to get the devil-may-care look back. Failed.
“Rose,” she answered. “Rose Hildebrande.” Her smile was shy, blushing, and he thought Rose was the exact perfect name.
He took her elbow, twirled her, admiring the flair of her little black dress, the way it crossed over the straining perfection of her breasts, the way it set off the long line of her legs. Sexy, simple. Hot as hell.
“You know, all the guys in there are going to want to kill me.”
Her cheeks flushed, her lashes lowered. “Sorry,” she told him, a bit of hesitation in her voice.
And now he’d scared her. Dude, get on your game.
“No, I’m the one with the apologies. You look lovely,” he told her, leading her inside, seeing the eyes follow them, follow her. Yeah, eat it up, New York. Tonight, forever, she’s mine.
The evening had been meticulously planned, perfectly arranged, each step designed to turn her glorious head. Ian figured that tonight he had one shot to seal the deal. One shot for him to recover his prelayoff charm; it could be done.
The maître d’ greeted him by name, leading him to the designated table, the prime spot at the apex of the windows, where all of New York awaited her pleasure. She looked at the table, stared up at the vent and then—so delicately that only a man attuned to her every smallest movement would notice—shivered.
“Is there a problem?” he asked, praying to God there was no problem; he’d given the maître d’ an extra C-note for that table, and he knew the man wouldn’t give it back.
“No,” she answered, but there was a tiny quiver in her voice.
“If you want to sit somewhere else, honestly, it’s no big. You get cold?”
Her soft blue eyes filled with anxiety. “I’m sorry to be such a pain. My internal thermostat is crazy. I’m hot, then cold. Do you mind?”
“Of course not,” he said, and then gave the ever-efficient maître d’ a commanding nod. “What else do you have?”
“A small table in the back, sir,” he responded, a stodgy whiff of England in his accent. “By the kitchen. Unless you’d like to wait at the bar.”
“I don’t mind the kitchen,” she told him, then pitched her voice low. “It will probably be warmer anyway.”
“Tonight, whatever you want,” answered Ian gallantly.
After they were seated, she balanced her chin on her palm, eyes wide and liquid. She had ridiculously long lashes, shuttering against the golden sheen of her cheeks. “I’m the world’s biggest idiot.”
“Nonsense,” he answered, because he would fight her for that title. Probably win.
“So, Ian. Do you come here often? It’s gorgeous. I love all the flowers.” She sniffed the heavy perfume of the nearby vase of lilies, her glorious breasts filling, creamy skin beckoning to him.
Ian leaned close, ignoring the flowers, his hungry gaze following the line of silken skin, his fingers itching to touch. She noticed, and her mouth twitched with humor. Charmed, Ian shrugged, just as any good investment banker would. “Busted. Sorry. I’m not usually such a carnal-vore. Actually, really, I usually am, and it’s been a long…” Shut up, Ian. Quickly he changed the subject. “My building’s around the corner,” he explained, forcibly removing his eyes from her chest. “We take a lot of clients here.”
“Clients? What sort of clients?” she asked innocently, leading him into the very subject he really should avoid. But why should he be so determined to avoid it? If he was truly a courageous man, he would be honest. Let her evaluate