chuckled. “It’s usually accompanied by a cuff upside the head.”
In the silence that followed, Sinclair resisted an urge to take his hand. “That’s sad,” she told him.
“That’s Gramps. He’s a hard-ass from way back.” Then Hunter did a double take of her staring. “Don’t look at me like that.”
She swallowed. “I’m sorry.”
“It makes me want to kiss you,” he muttered.
“Don’t you—”
“I’m not going to kiss you.” He glanced back to Chantal. “That would definitely make the company newsletter.” He focused on Sinclair again. “But you can’t stop me from wanting to.”
And she couldn’t stop herself from wanting to kiss him back. And it didn’t seem to matter what she did to try and get rid of the urge, it just grew worse.
“What can we do about this?” She was honestly looking for help. If the feelings didn’t disappear, they were going to trip up sooner or later.
Hunter rose to his feet.
“For now, I’m walking out the door. Chantal is already wondering what we’re talking about.”
Sinclair shook herself and rose with him. “Check.” If they weren’t together, they couldn’t give in to anything.
“But later, I need to talk to you.”
She opened her mouth to protest. Later didn’t sound like a smart move to her at all.
“About the spa,” he clarified. “Business. I promise. What are you doing tonight?”
“Painting my apartment.”
“Really?” He drew back. “That’s what you do on Saturday night?”
Yeah, that was what she did on Saturday night. She rattled on, trying not to seem pathetic. “I just bought the place. A great little loft in Soho. But the colors are dark and the floor needs stripping, and the mortgage is so high I can’t afford to pay someone to do it for me.”
“You want a raise?”
“I want a guy with sandpaper and a paint roller.”
“You got it.”
“Hunter—”
“Give me your address. We can talk while we paint.”
Her and Hunter alone in her apartment? “I don’t think—”
“I’ll be wearing a smock and a paper cap. Trust me, you’ll be able to keep your hands off.”
“Nothing wrong with your ego.”
He grunted. “I know you can’t resist me under normal circumstances.”
“Ha!” The gauntlet thrown down, she’d resist him or die trying.
Now that she thought about it, maybe painting together wasn’t such a bad idea. Hunter’s family had bought the company. He was a permanent part of Lush Beauty Products, and the sooner they got over this inconvenient hump, the better. In fact, it was probably easier if they smoothed out the rough spots away from Chantal’s and other people’s prying eyes.
“Seventy-seven Mercy Street,” she told him with a nod. “Suite 702.”
“I’ll be there.”
On his way to Sinclair’s house, Hunter stopped in at the office. He was pretty sure Ethan Sloan would still be around. By all accounts, Ethan was a workaholic and a genius. He’d been with Lush Beauty Products for fifteen years, practically since the doors opened with a staff of twenty and a single store.
He had developed perfumes, hair products, skin products and makeup. The man had a knack for anticipating trends, moving from floral to fruit to organic. In his late thirties now, he’d wisely set his sights on fine quality, recognizing a growing segment of the population with a high disposable income and a penchant for self-indulgence.
Hunter was also willing to bet Ethan had a knack for management and the underlying politics of the company. And Hunter had some questions about that.
He found Ethan in his office, on the phone, but the man quickly motioned to Hunter to sit down.
“By Thursday?” Ethan was saying as Hunter took a seat and slipped open the button on his suit jacket.
Ethan was neatly trimmed. Hunter had noticed that he generally wore his shirtsleeves rolled up, although he’d wear a jacket on the executive floor. Smart man.
“Great,” said Ethan, nodding. “Sign ’em up. Talk to you then.”
He hung up the phone. “New supplier for lavender,” he explained to Hunter. “Out of British Columbia.”
“We’re running short?”
“Critically. And it’s our key ingredient.” He rubbed his hands together. “But it’s solved now. What can I do for you?”
Hunter settled back in his chair. “Not to put you on the spot. And way off the record.”
Ethan smiled. He brought his palms down on the desktop, standing to walk around its end and close the office door. “Gotta say.” He returned, taking the second guest chair instead of sitting behind his desk. “I love conversations that start out like this.”
Hunter smiled in return. “Tell me if I’m out of line.”
“We’re off the record,” said Ethan. “You can get out of line.”
“What do you think of Chantal Charbonnet?”
Ethan sat back. “Sly, but not brilliant. Gorgeous, of course. Roger seems to have noticed her.”
“She was at the Bergdorf’s promotion this afternoon.”
“Yeah?” asked Ethan. “That’s a stretch for her job description.”
“It got me wondering,” confided Hunter. “Why was she there?”
“Eye candy?”
“Women were the target demographic.” Hunter had been thinking about this all the way over.
“Maybe she asked Roger really, really nicely?”
Hunter had considered that, too. But he didn’t have evidence to support favoritism. He was coming at this from another angle. “Could she have been a role model for the consumers?”
Ethan considered the idea. “There’s no denying she knows how to wear our products.”
“Lays it on a bit thick, wouldn’t you say?”
Ethan grinned. “My kind of consumer.
