found a rest room in the lobby and went in to check her appearance.
She’d worn what she considered her power suit—a navy blue formfitting jacket with a high split-collar that helped disguise the length of her neck, and straight-leg slacks to match. She knew that some schools of thought held that a woman should wear a skirt but she didn’t subscribe to it. Partly because she felt more comfortable—and more confident—in pants, and partly because on her eighteenth birthday she’d taken a dare from a friend and been tattooed on the inside of her right ankle. It was a tasteful rose tattoo, barely an inch from bud to stem and not readily noticeable, but depending on how conservative the interviewer was, it could be detrimental.
She freshened her lipstick. It was a pale shade of burnished red and, along with mascara and blush, was the only makeup she wore.
She was glad to see that her blue eyes—the same shade as Max’s—were clear of the slight redness an allergy had caused the day before. But she closed them for a moment to fight the burning that was a continuing result of having cleaned out the dusty attic.
Her shoulder-length mahogany hair was ordinarily a hard-to-tame mass of spiral curls, but for interviews she always wrestled it into a topknot. If she left it loose, she had a tendency toward a come-hither sort of appearance that some men read as a sexual invitation. It wasn’t an impression she wanted to give.
She checked her watch again—2:50—and decided it was time to take the elevator to the twenty-third floor.
On the way up she felt the same anticipatory tension she always experienced when facing a job interview, but she fought it by reminding herself that this was only a temporary position and even if it could be an important step in making contacts in the legal profession, she already had a foot in the door in the form of her aunt.
But still, knowing in advance that Rand Colton was a difficult man put her on edge. She took several deep breaths, hoping that would help and stepped off the elevator when the doors opened.
Suite 2300 was to her right, at the end of the hallway. Two oversize oak doors unlike any others on the floor marked the entry and a simple, elegant gold nameplate announced Rand Colton, Attorney At Law.
Lucy took a last deep breath, reached for the ornate gold knob and entered the office to the distant sound of female sobbing and male shouting. “It was a simple enough task—cancel an appointment. Instead you let the CEO of a major company come all the way down here when I was in court. You may just be a temp but surely someone somewhere told you that when your employer tells you to call a client and cancel an appointment you should actually pick up the phone and do it.”
More sobbing surrounded a pitiful, “I forgot.”
“You forgot?”
The booming male voice was loud enough to hurt Lucy’s ears and she wasn’t even in the same room.
“You rattled off so many things in such a hurry I couldn’t write them all down fast enough and then you left and I tried—”
“Trying isn’t good enough! Do you know what that man’s time is worth?”
Apparently the temp had no answer to that because rather than feebly defending herself any longer, she came rushing out of the inner office, snatched her purse from a desk drawer and ran past Lucy out of the suite.
Definitely a bear of a boss. Assuming, of course, that the man delivering the tirade was Rand Colton.
“Incompetence and idiocy. Where do they find these people?”
This last part wasn’t a shout, it was more a remark to himself that Lucy could still hear as she stood in the reception area.
If it hadn’t been so close to three o’clock by then, she would have slipped out of the office and given the man she hadn’t yet set eyes on a moment to calm down before their meeting.
Just then the man came storming out of the inner office. Without so much as a glance in Lucy’s direction he charged the large oak reception desk to pound punishingly on the computer keyboard. He didn’t show any indication that he’d even realized she was there, but with his eyes still on the computer monitor, he said in as derogatory a tone as she’d ever heard, “And who are you?”
Patience, she counseled herself.
“I’m Lucy Lowry, Sadie Meeks’s niece. We have a three o’clock interview.”
“Is it that late already?” he barked, while still assaulting the keyboard.
“I’m afraid it is.”
“Well, I don’t have time for you right this minute. I have to smooth some ruffled feathers. Sit down and wait.”
“Excuse me?”
Lucy hadn’t intended to use such an imperious tone with him. It had just come out that way in response to the increasing outrage she was feeling. But she didn’t regret it. No one spoke to her like that and got away with it.
Apparently her tone wasn’t lost on the man because he stopped what he was doing, stood up straighter and looked directly at her for the first time through cobalt-blue eyes that might have caused a lesser person to cower.
But Lucy merely stood her ground.
His very sharp jaw pulsed as if he’d just clenched his teeth, but he adopted a more businesslike attitude. “Please take a seat while I make a phone call, Ms. Lowry, and I’ll be with you as soon as possible.”
That was more like it.
“I’d be happy to,” she informed him, turning on her heels to sit on one of the six overstuffed chairs that lined the walls beneath paintings she recognized as originals of high-quality artists.
When he found what he was looking for on the computer—apparently a phone number—he sat in the desk chair and picked up the phone.
Lucy had to admit as she was forced to overhear the conciliatory call, though, that he handled it with aplomb. He put minimal blame on the temp, accepted the responsibility for having heaped too many things on her at once, and he did it all without playing the sycophant, which someone else in a position of having needlessly inconvenienced an important client might have.
Lucy was impressed.
She also had the chance to take a good long look at him as he made dinner plans with the man on the other end of the line.
She’d realized how tall he was when he’d stormed into the waiting room—an intimidating six feet two inches of well-muscled, broad-shouldered self-possession. Along with his striking blue eyes and chiseled jawline, he had dark hair the color of espresso without cream, full eyebrows, an aquiline nose and intriguing lips—the upper one much thinner than the lower.
Her aunt had not been exaggerating when she’d said he was handsome. Handsome didn’t begin to describe the whole package of incredible good looks, exquisitely honed physique and a presence that filled the room. Packaged in a gray Armani suit, a paler gray shirt as crisp as the moment it had come off the dry cleaner’s press, and a silk tie that no doubt cost as much as Lucy’s entire outfit, he was something to behold.
But only in a purely observational, objective way, Lucy was quick to assure herself. After all, it wasn’t
