of no woman who embodied professionalism more than Grace. He captured her wrist and pulled her hands free of her hair. The thick brown length of it spilled around her shoulders. She watched him with wide eyes, clearly waiting to see what he’d do next.
“It’s not the hair that makes you professional.” She had no idea how upstanding she seemed. He’d never even glanced past the surface of who she was until he’d seen her secret fantasies written on the page. To be honest, a big part of the reason was that she gave the impression of being a no-nonsense, by-the-book administrator.
“Easily said by a man. You have no idea what it’s like to be in a room full of perfectly coiffed, straight-haired women and be the only one with this hair,” she said, gesturing to her head.
“Does putting it up make you more confident?” he asked. There was a sparkle in her eyes that he thought might be temper. But he knew she wouldn’t lose it with him. He was coming to know Grace better than he suspected she wanted him to. The fact of the matter was, Grace needed him to help save her school so she wouldn’t tell him off no matter how much he ticked her off.
She shrugged, and he knew that he’d stumbled onto something more than a hairstyle choice. She glanced out the window as he turned on the car. He didn’t put the car in gear, only turned on the air conditioning so they didn’t roast while they continued the conversation.
Which, it seemed, had stalled. She wasn’t going to say anything else and probably expected him to behave in a polite, gentlemanly fashion and let the subject drop. But this woman had written about him in a way that no other woman ever had. On page, she’d made him seem to be a hero. And Adam Bowen had never been anyone’s hero.
“Grace…” he said, softly, reaching over to stroke her face. Her skin was the softest he’d ever touched.
She flinched away from him. “Don’t, Adam. We can’t.”
She was right. With the intense public scrutiny of the school, the last thing he should be thinking about was Grace and himself alone. But his mind was consumed with images of the two of them.
He was careful to keep a barrier between himself and other people because he knew he’d always move on. Moving on was the way he survived, something he’d learned the hard way after the death of his parents. He remembered standing in the foyer of that big empty house that had always been filled with their presence and realizing he was all alone. Their deaths when his father’s twin-engine Cessna crashed had rocked his world.
But even then he hadn’t realized how truly alone he was.
She touched his hand, rubbing her finger over the back of his knuckles and making him realize how soft and small she was compared to him.
“It’s not like we even know each other,” she said.
“I want to change that. After all, you oversee one of my investment properties.”
“Investment property? I thought the school was your family’s legacy.”
“It’s a Bowen legacy, but I view it more from a financial angle,” he said in a way that didn’t invite more questions.
“And if I don’t pull it out of trouble, you’re going to lose money—that’s your main concern?”
He took her chin in his hand, moving her head up so that their eyes met. He waited a full minute before saying anything to her. Making sure she realized that he was not just using practiced lines to charm her.
“No, Grace. Because you are the kind of woman who makes a man realize there’s more to life than investments.”
“I am not. Why would you think that?”
“The passion you have for Tremmel-Bowen.”
“I’ve always had it, and you’ve never noticed me before today.”
She had a point, but he wasn’t going to mention the story he’d read…“Adam’s Mistress.” He wanted her to reveal it to him. “It’s the way you defended the school and the students.”
She took his wrist in both of her hands and tried to move his hand from her face. He let her push him away, his fingers caressing her skin as he dropped his hand to his lap.
When he reached for her again, to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, she shifted in the seat and gave him a hard stare.
“I’m warning you.”
“Warning me?”
“Yes. This kind of behavior and comments like you just made—that’s what I was talking about. Do you think I’ve never glanced in a mirror and seen myself? I know exactly the type of woman you usually have on your arm.”
“I don’t have a type,” he said. He really didn’t. He liked all women no matter what their shape or style. He liked that their bodies were different than his. The feminine grace they used when they moved. The way they really got to the heart of the matter. Just as Grace was doing now, though it was making him uncomfortable. Hell, he thought, he even liked that with Grace. Liked the way she didn’t pretend that this was something casual.
“Yeah, right,” she said. “I think it’s time we returned to the school.”
He wondered if she’d sound so sure if she knew the thoughts that prim, school-headmistress tone gave him. He wanted to argue with her, get her to admit he didn’t have a type. But there would be time for that later. Tonight.
The problems she’d left behind when she’d gone to lunch with Adam waited for her when she returned. Sue-Ellen had set up an appointment for the next morning. She was gathering the PTA troops and would be bringing other parents who wanted to take an active part in reshaping the school.
Grace had the beginnings of a headache, no doubt brought on by the pressure of trying to convince the board not to close the school. But she thought the intensity that Adam had shown her was also a part of it. She’d wanted him for a long time and now it seemed he was finally noticing her as a woman.
Why?
She sighed and searched around for the budget file that Jose had made notes on.
“Bruce, have you seen my budget file?” she called out the door.
“I put it on the corner of your desk before we left for the meeting,” her assistant replied.
Grace went back to her desk and picked up a pile of folders, suddenly remembering that she’d put a story she’d meant to enter in a romance writing contest in a similar folder.
Oh, my God.
Frantic, she started searching through all the folders, not finding the budget report or her story “Adam’s Mistress.”
Oh, this was so not good. She had absolutely no excuse to have printed the document out here at work, but her printer at home was almost eight years old and it was difficult to find printer ink for it. Currently, she was out.
There was a knock on the door and she glanced up. Jose stood there with a folder in his hand. A folder that was identical to…well, every other folder in her office, since they purchased
