Rick stood there like a spurned suitor, knowing he should muster whatever small dignity he retained by walking quickly to the nearest exit.
As usual, however, Rick rarely did what he should do, but followed his instinct instead. He took the opportunity of studying this unexpected woman, the firm curve of her jaw, the determined crease of her chin.
He’d seen fear in her eyes when she’d looked at him, a fear that both saddened and intrigued him. He acknowledged that Catrina Jordan represented a challenge, not only to his masculine ego but to his sense of humanity. Something had wounded her, something she still feared, something that she apparently recognized in him. Even though this seriously bothered him, Rick chose not to explore it too closely.
He wanted to know about this lovely young woman, wanted to know everything about her, what she enjoyed, what she disliked, what made her laugh, what brought out the joy in those luscious brown eyes.
A glance around her desk gave him a few tantalizing hints. There were no personal items, no family photographs. Her ring finger was bare, a fact he’d noticed when he’d first seen her threatening the collating machine.
He spotted a small but healthy philodendron plant at the edge of her desk, alongside an extra-large disposable cup emblazoned by the logo of a coffee boutique not far from the office. She liked plants and gourmet coffee.
On the floor behind her chair was a gym bag with a pair of running shoes tied to the handle. She was a probably a jogger, and he presumed she headed to the nearby park during lunch hour since she’d brought her fitness togs into the office.
He was still scrutinizing her personal effects when she suddenly spun around, skewered him with a stare. “Will there be anything else, Mr. Blaine?”
“Uh…nice plant.”
“Thank you.”
Feeling chastised and thoroughly dismissed, he backed away and returned to the spot where Frank Glasgow had been watching with obvious disapproval.
“It’s not my place to question,” Frank said, “but I thought you had rather firm rules against, well, mixing business with pleasure, so to speak.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Heaving a sigh, Rick absently ran his knuckles over his scalp, a habit that made it even more difficult to control a shock of nut-brown hair that drove his barber crazy. Frank was right, of course. Rules were rules, and no business could be effective if its employees were constantly sizing each other up for romantic entanglement.
But there was something about Catrina Jordan, something that stuck like a sharp tack somewhere inside Rick’s chest and wouldn’t let go. “Rules are like mirrors. You never mean to break them, but sometimes it just happens.”
Frank shook his head. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“So do I,” Rick replied quietly. “So do I.”
Chapter Two
“One large house blend, please, to go.”
Pushed and prodded by the crowd around the counter, Catrina struggled to extract the cash to pay for her purchase, only to have her wallet elbowed from her grasp by a burly patron. Frustrated, she bent to retrieve it, but it was wedged under the heel of a large, booted foot. She puffed her cheeks, blew out a breath.
It was definitely going to be one of those days.
“Excuse me, sir. Sir?” She hesitated, then tugged the hem of the blue jeans extended over the offending boot. A man with a brushy beard sniffed the air like a puzzled grizzly before frowning down at her. She swallowed, tried for a smile. “You’re standing on my wallet.”
He blinked, glowered, stepped to one side.
Murmuring her thanks, Catrina scooped up her wallet, gasping in horror as the coin purse yawned open to disperse a handful of jingling change.
Coins rolled across the crowded floor, lodging between a forest of shifting legs and shuffling feet, where only a desperately broke masochist would venture in an attempt to retrieve them.
Catrina dropped to her knees and frantically scooped up as many as she could find.
By the time she slapped a handful of coins on the counter along with her last dollar bill, flyaway strands of hair stuck to her moist cheek, there was a hole the size of Wyoming in the knee of her panty hose, and she was pretty sure that her deodorant had failed.
It was barely 7:30 a.m.
She shouldered her purse, snatched her covered cup of coffee, then muscled her way through the surging crowd desperately hoping that everything that could go wrong already had. Then she collided with a well-formed chest wrapped in a casual knit shirt sporting the suspiciously familiar scent of soap and cedar.
“Well, fancy meeting you here.” Rick Blaine widened his eyes as if stunned by the coincidence. “Ms. Horton? Catherine, right?”
She managed a tight smile, spoke through her teeth. “Jordan, Catrina Jordan.”
“Of course. I remember now.” He flashed a grin, pushed the glass door open and held it for her.
She grunted her thanks and brushed by him, striding quickly up the sidewalk toward the office. She wasn’t surprised when he fell into step beside her.
“I see we both have excellent taste in coffee.” He angled a speculative glance at the capped cup in her hand. “Latte, skim?”
“House blend, black.”
“Ah, that explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“Your rather high-strung and spirited disposition.”
She swivelled to stare at him, stumbling on an uneven patch of concrete. “I beg your pardon?”
He was sipping his coffee through a small hole in the cap, and allowed himself to complete the process before favoring her with a glance. “No insult intended, of course. Anyone who starts the day with enough caffeine to jump-start a semi is bound to be a bit jittery, that’s all.”
“I am not jittery.”
“You haven’t drunk your coffee yet.”
“Coffee or no coffee, I am not a jittery person.” The nerve of this man, a virtual stranger presuming to cast comments upon her personality. “It’s ridiculous for you to make such a categorical statement about a person you don’t even know.”
“You’re quite right, it is. The only way for me to make reparations for my boorish presumption is to rectify that situation. How about dinner tonight?”
Only then did she note the sly gleam in his eye and realize that she’d leaped right into the trap. “No, thank you.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“No.
