The Texan's Twins. Pamela Britton
“My sister wouldn’t have hired you if you weren’t qualified.”
“Your sister strikes me as highly intelligent.”
Unlike you.
She didn’t say the words, but he could have sworn he heard them. It didn’t offend him. Not in the least. He liked that she didn’t give a fig that he was Jet Baron, Brock Baron’s son, heir apparent to Baron Energies—if his dad had anything to say about it. His last name meant he had his choice of women. And if his last name didn’t work, he could usually charm the pants off the opposite sex with a simple smile. Not J. C. Marks.
“What does the J stand for, anyway?”
None of your business, her eyes said.
“Just-ina leave me alone?” he quipped.
She stared at him.
“I don’t Juan-ita anything to do with you?” he added.
She crossed her arms. She held the tablet in front of her as though it was some kind of shield.
“You’re a Jac-queline-ass?”
The arms unfolded.
“Me,” he clarified. “I’m the Jac-queline-ass.”
“It stands for Jasmine. Jasmine Caroline Marks, and if we’re through here, I have an appointment.”
He could tell he wasn’t getting anywhere—and he kind of liked it. Challenges were what made the world go around, he thought, although he’d never let it get any further than a flirtation. The last thing he needed was his dad breathing down his neck over a sexual harassment lawsuit.
“Sure. Okay. I think we can call it a day.”
“Great.” She gave him a smile nearly as frosty as a summer soda. “I’ll have a cost analysis ready for you in the morning.”
“Why don’t we meet for breakfast? There’s this terrific little coffee shop right down the street from the office.”
“I’ll see you at the office.”
“But the pastries there are terrific. You don’t have to eat if you don’t want to, though. I’ll listen while I chew.”
“How does eight-thirty sound?”
“I don’t think well on an empty stomach.” He really didn’t. He was one of those “eats a truckload of food” kind of guys, or so his family claimed.
She headed back to her vehicle. “Then eat before our meeting.”
“I’d rather eat with you.”
“Not in this lifetime.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” she called, opening the door to her vehicle. He watched her slip inside, grab her cell phone from somewhere, check the display, then tuck it back away.
“See you tomorrow,” she said, reaching for her door to slam it closed.
“Looking forward to it.”
She started her truck.
“Damn,” Jet muttered. Maybe going back to a desk job wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Handsome, arrogant, spoiled son of a gun.
Jet Baron.
Jasmine pointed her truck toward a barely there strip of road, telling herself to forget the man in her rearview mirror.
Why don’t we meet for breakfast?
Okay, so she could admit he was beyond gorgeous. And okay, so she hadn’t been prepared for the walking mass of masculine virility that was Jet Baron. Seriously. No wonder he’d been voted bachelor of the year two years running by Dallas magazine. The man was serious heartthrob material. So what?
You’re going to have to work with that walking mass of male virility.
The back end of her truck kicked out. She gasped, then took her foot off the gas. The flat, sun-baked Texas pasture stretched out around her like something from the Old West, nothing but open space for miles, but if she wasn’t careful, she might wrap her truck around one of the rare trees that dotted the landscape.
Why did he have to be so good-looking?
And why had everything inside her frozen the moment she’d realized who was behind the wheel? She’d seen pictures of him before. Of course she’d seen them. Who in the business hadn’t heard of Jet Baron? And he’d thought she was a stripper. A stripper.
It had taken nearly a year to find a job in the male-dominated industry. A year. And in the end it’d been a woman who had hired her. She wasn’t going to blow it because, miraculously, there appeared to be one latent hormone floating around her sex-starved body.
Sex starved?
Yes, she admitted to herself, turning onto the main road, a long stretch of blacktop so straight it ended in an arrowhead. It had been years. Unfortunately, Jet Baron stirred urges within her—urges she hadn’t felt since becoming a mother to two adorable, wonderful twins. She was a single working mother who didn’t have time to eat at a stupid coffee shop, much less get involved with a man.
She was still unsettled the next morning as she walked through the glass entry of Baron Energies. They were on the upper floors of a downtown high-rise. The receptionist, whose name she couldn’t remember, smiled as she walked by.
“Good morning,” Jasmine said hurriedly.
She’d overslept, not surprising since one of the twins had an earache and the other had decided 1:00 a.m. was the perfect time to start jumping up and down on her bed. Lord, she felt like the walking dead. Somehow she’d gotten Brooke’s breakfast smeared on her dress. The oatmeal had left a white stain on the black fabric of her dress that she hoped was covered by her suit jacket, and she had a sinking suspicion that a Cheerio—part of Gwen’s breakfast—had fallen down her bra. The moment she passed the reception area she paused, trying to angle her head to see down the swooped neckline.
“Ah, here she is.”
The blood drained from Jasmine’s face when she looked up. Lizzie Baron. She stood next to the conference room, her dark hair pulled back from her face, a soft blue dress hugging the gentle swell of her pregnant belly. Damn. Just what she needed. The boss.
But she wasn’t alone.
Next to her stood a man on crutches and she’d seen enough company literature to know who it was. Double damn.
Brock Baron.
“Dad, this is the new engineer I was telling you about.” Elizabeth motioned with her hands, a warm smile on her face, which Jasmine appreciated given that she’d been caught coming in late. “Graduated summa cum laude from Berkeley. Interned at the USGS headquarters. We’re real fortunate to have her.”
The man who’d founded Baron Energies and built it into a multimillion-dollar corporation might be on crutches, but he was still imposing. Tall and slim, his gray hair was slicked back from his head. He had blue eyes and a gaze that scanned her from head to toe, and not in a good way. She could tell there was something about her appearance that he didn’t like. Had he spotted the oatmeal stain?
“This is J. C. Marks?”
And she knew.
Just as Jet Baron had been shocked by her gender yesterday, so, too, was Mr. Baron.
“This is her.” She heard the edge of false bravado in Elizabeth’s voice.
“Hello, Mr. Baron.” She put on her best and biggest smile and moved forward. “I’m so glad