when she found herself standing outside Jacob Thorne’s office door. Her palms began to sweat. She should have saved herself the stress of a face-to-face meeting.
But that was the coward’s way out and she’d never been that. She wasn’t starting now. Not for someone like him.
She turned the handle and stepped inside, expecting…well, not really knowing what to expect when she entered his inner sanctum. He did, however, manage to surprise her.
The office was large but not ostentatious. The furniture was top-of-the-line but functional, all stylish black lacquer and shining chrome. There wasn’t a dead animal in sight—either on the floor made into a rug or on the wall in the guise of a hat rack or displayed as a trophy. She grudgingly gave him points for that. And for the stunning collection of photographs adorning the walls.
Each dramatically framed photo was of a different oil fire site. And each photo captured all the fury, the danger and the unyielding hunger of the flames shooting into the air like geysers and of the courageous men who risked their lives putting them out.
“Impressive, aren’t they?”
She jerked her attention from the photographs to the man lounging idly behind a desk that was far from empty yet neat and uncluttered. He was watching her with a look that made her think of a lion lounging lazily in the sun, overseeing the lioness doing all the work. Clearly, though, he was a hands-on boss if the stacks of paperwork were any indication. Okay. So he got another point for being involved.
“Very,” she agreed belatedly with a nod back to the photos, because what was really impressive was the way he looked behind that desk and she didn’t want him to see how he had affected her. Since her cheeks were hot, she figured they were also pink. It was a curse of her fair complexion.
In the meantime she’d never seen him in business mode. She’d seen him at death’s door, as pale as the hospital sheets beneath him. She’d seen him all sexy swagger and irritating indolence, as he’d been the other night at the auction. This man-in-charge persona was disconcerting—and unexpectedly appealing.
His shirt was white. The top button was undone and his cuffs were rolled up on his strong forearms. His brown suit jacket and a truly stunning silk tie hung on the coatrack behind him. Style. He had it. In spades.
“That one was taken in Kuwait,” he said when she averted her attention to a print that, once she was able to study it without being hyperaware of him, gave her chills just thinking about the fierceness of the blaze.
“I’ll go to the ball with you,” she said without turning back to him.
Okay. It was out. She hadn’t intended to just blurt it out that way but now that she was here, now that she was suddenly aware of him as an entity other than the proverbial Thorne-in-her-side, she wanted to get this over with and get away from him as quickly as possible. And away from this unbelievable resurgence of attraction that not only blindsided her but also shook her composure. The sooner they cut this deal, the sooner she could go on about her business.
When she was met with nothing but silence, she drew a bracing breath and turned toward him.
He was frowning. Not a gloating or even an angry frown, but more as though he was in deep thought or contemplating something heavy.
“I said I’d go to the ball with you,” she repeated, and he finally rocked forward in his chair and came to attention behind his desk.
“So you did.”
And still he scowled.
Perplexed, she eyed him with wary suspicion. “Wasn’t that the condition?”
“Of me turning over the box?”
Her exasperation at the way he was drawing this out came in the form of an impatient breath. “I believe it was.”
“Ah. Well, you just said the magic word. Was. That was my condition. Two days ago. But now, we’re dealing with today.”
She narrowed her eyes. “There was a time limit?”
“It seems so, yeah.”
Sure. Now he was smiling.
Because this was still a joke to him. He had never intended for her to go to the dance with him. Just as she’d thought. He’d merely been playing with her, and when she’d called him on it, he’d figured a way to weasel out of the invitation. It shouldn’t have hurt so much.
“Why is this stuff so important to you anyway?” he asked, standing. He walked around the desk and settled a hip on its corner.
“Historic value,” she said truthfully.
He crossed his arms over his chest and scowled. “Musty saddlebags? Old guns? A lady’s purse? What else? Oh, yeah. A faded map.”
Her heart jumped over itself. “You looked?”
“You may have heard. It’s my box. I’m pretty sure that means I’m entitled to look.”
This was going nowhere. And she’d had enough of his fun and games. She’d figure out another way to get the box of Jess Golden’s things to the Historical Society. Maybe she could get some of the city matriarch types to put a little heat on him or something.
“Sorry to have taken your time,” she said and headed for the door.
“Wait. Wait. You haven’t heard the new condition.”
She stopped, her hand on the door handle, and let out a deep breath. Knowing she was going to regret this, she turned and met his smug smile. “New condition?”
He pushed off the desk. “Tell you what. Let’s talk about it over lunch.”
“Lunch?”
He reached around her to open the door. “You know. The light meal between breakfast and dinner?”
“But—”
“I’ll be back in an hour or so, Janice,” he said, herding Christine out of his office and into the reception area with a hand at the small of her back. “Anybody calls, tell ’em I’ll get back to them—unless it’s Ray. If Ray calls, tell him to phone my cell.”
Christine was far too aware of his hand touching her there, ever so lightly at the small of her back. “I’m not going to lunch with you.”
“Oh, lighten up, Chrissie, would you? It’s noon. I’m hungry. I figure you’re hungry, too. It’s that simple. It’s not like it’s a date or anything.”
She told herself his last statement didn’t sting. And it wouldn’t have—at least not so badly—if Janice, stylish and chic in her tailored white blouse and short red skirt, hadn’t glanced up and cast Christine a sympathetic look when they passed the desk.
He’d just made it clear to anyone within earshot that Jacob Thorne didn’t consider Christine Travers datable.
Which was perfectly fine. She lifted her chin. She didn’t want to date him anyway. And she didn’t want to go to lunch with him. What she wanted was to get as far away
