impossible.
Jack reached for his coffee and cursed whoever had invented speakerphones and teleconferences. Spending an hour explaining to stock analysts and trade journalists how he had found a second set of books was not his idea of a good time.
“You’re sure the investigation into how this happened has already begun?” a disembodied voice asked.
“Of course. It started less than twelve hours after I found the books. It would have started sooner, but I couldn’t get an independent accounting team in here until morning.”
“You’re not using your regular accountants, are you?”
“No. No one who has ever been associated with Hanson Media Group is involved. As soon as we have a preliminary report, I’ll make it public. Until then, I don’t have any answers.”
“Do you think more people were involved than your father?”
Jack hesitated. “I don’t have any specifics on that, but my personal opinion in that my father acted alone.”
“Has his death been investigated? Are the company’s troubles the reason he died?”
The not-so-subtle implication that George Hanson had killed himself infuriated Jack. He spoke through gritted teeth. “My father died of natural causes. There was an autopsy. He didn’t kill himself.” And he would sue any bastard who reported otherwise, Jack thought. He might not have been close to the old man, but he wouldn’t let any member of his family be dragged through the press that way.
“Is the company going to make it?” someone asked.
Jack stared at the phone. In truth, he didn’t have a clue. He continued to ride the bad-news train, with a new crisis every day. From where he sat, he couldn’t imagine how this could be pulled off. In his opinion, it would take a miracle or a buyout for Hanson Media Group to survive, but he wasn’t about to tell them that.
“We’re going to come through this just fine,” he said, wondering if saying it would make it reality.
Samantha had spent much of the weekend giving herself a stern talking-to. Being afraid was one thing, but acting like an idiot was another. She had to pick a side—any side. Either she was interested in Jack romantically or she wasn’t.
She hated the mixed messages she sent every time they hung out together. She didn’t like that she had become that sort of woman. In truth, she found him sexy and funny and smart and pretty much everything any reasonable single female would want in a man. But he was also rich, powerful, determined and used to getting his way, which terrified her.
There were actually two different problems. First, that however much she told herself she wasn’t interested, that she only wanted a platonic relationship with him, her body had other plans. No matter how much her head held back, the rest of her was eager to plunge in the deep end and just go for it. The attraction was powerful and ten years after she’d first felt it, it didn’t seem to be going away.
The second problem was also a head-body issue. However much her head could intellectualize that Jack was nothing like Vance or her father, her heart didn’t believe. So she got close, he made a move, she reacted, then the fear kicked in and she bolted. It was a horrible pattern and short of never seeing him again in any capacity, she didn’t know how to break it.
Whoever said acknowledging the problem was half the battle had obviously never lived in the real world. Understanding what was wrong didn’t seem to move her any closer to solving it.
But solution or not, she owed Jack an apology and she was going to deliver it right now. Or in the next few minutes, she thought as she paced in front of his office. Mrs. Wycliff glanced at her curiously, but didn’t say anything. Finally Samantha gathered her courage and walked purposefully toward the door. She knocked once and entered, careful to close the door behind herself. She didn’t need any witnesses for her potential humiliation.
“Hi, Jack,” she began, before starting her prepared speech. “I wanted to stop by and—”
She came to a stop in the center of the room and stared at him.
He sat at the conference table, the speakerphone in front of him, notes spread out. He looked as if he’d received horrible news.
She hurried to the table. “What happened? Are you all right?”
He shrugged. “I’m fine. I had the phone call with several investors and some people from the street. It didn’t go well.”
Of course. The problems with Hanson Media Group. As if he weren’t dealing with enough from that, she was torturing him on weekends. How spiffy.
“I’m sorry,” she said, sinking into the chair across from his. “I’m guessing they had a lot of questions.”
“Oh, yeah. Plenty of suggestions, too. None of them especially helpful. But this is why they pay me the big bucks, right? So I can take the heat.”
Maybe. But Jack wasn’t interested in the money or the job. “Talk about a nightmare,” she murmured.
“One I can’t wake up from. But that’s not why you stopped by. What’s up?”
“I wanted to tell you I’m sorry about what happened on—”
“Stop,” he said. “No apologizes required.”
“But I want to explain. It’s not what you think.”
He raised his eyebrows.
She sighed. “Okay. Maybe it is what you think. I’m having some trouble making up my mind about what I want. I’m working on that. The thing is, I don’t want you to think it’s about you. It’s not. It’s about me, and well, who you are. Which isn’t the same as it being about you.”
He smiled. “None of that made sense, but it’s okay. Let’s just forget it and move on. You didn’t like what happened and I’m okay with that.”
She started to tell him that she had liked him kissing her, but stopped herself. That wasn’t the point … at least she didn’t think it was.
“You push my buttons,” she admitted instead. “You have some qualities in common with my ex-husband.”
Jack winced. “Not the good ones, right?”
“Sorry, no.”
“Just my luck.” He glanced out the window at the view of the city. Rain darkened the horizon and made the lights sparkle. “Life would be a lot less complicated without relationships.”
“Not possible. Then we’d be nothing but robots.”
“Or just very sensible people. Like Vulcans.”
She smiled. “I’m not sure we should aspire to pointed ears.”
“But their philosophy—no emotion. I understand the appeal.”
“Too much pressure?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
“Too much everything. I remember when I was
