needs to be worn, you know…soft, loose, tangled around your face. As it is, your hair fairly cries out for a man to take the pins from it, so he can see how long it is. Does it fall past your shoulders?” He quirked one eyebrow inquisitively, a mocking half smile still twisting his lips, letting her know he was enjoying her obvious discomfiture. “You aren’t going to tell me, are you. What a pity. Because my guess is that it does—and I’d like to know if I’m right. And these glasses.” He indicated the large, square tortoiseshell frames perched on her slender, classic nose. “I think you use them to hide behind more than you do to see. I’ll bet you don’t actually even need them at all.”
Caroline felt the blush that had yet to leave her cheeks deepen betrayingly, its heat seeming to spread throughout her entire body. Damn the man! Why must he be so infuriatingly audacious and perceptive? Because what Nick suspected was true: her hair did fall below her shoulders, and the prescription in her lenses was so light as to be negligible. She customarily wore both the French twist and the glasses solely because she felt they gave her a more businesslike appearance, a no-nonsense image she had determinedly cultivated to conceal her vulnerable, romantic inner self from the rest of the world—from men in particular.
“Dr. Valkov,” Caroline said frostily, forcing herself to marshal her wits and composure, “not only am I not even remotely interested in what you think, but neither of us has time to stand here exchanging idle chitchat—that is, unless you care to be the recipient of one of my grandmother’s notorious dressing-downs. I, however, do not. Therefore, I would appreciate it if you would release me, so that I, at least, can make our nine o’clock meeting on time. There are currently less than five minutes to spare.”
“The meeting.” Nick started slightly at the reminder. “Would you believe that bumping into you drove it completely from my mind, Ms. Fortune?” He let her go then, kneeling to help her retrieve and sort out all the papers that had scattered from the two portfolios.
Once she and he finally had everything straightened out, they entered the conference room together, where Caroline was dismayed to observe that she and Nick were the very last ones to arrive. Her grandmother sat at the head of the huge, Honduras-mahogany conference table. She was flanked by Caroline’s father, Jacob Fortune, who was Kate’s eldest son and the president of Fortune Cosmetics, and Sterling Foster, who was Kate’s attorney and closest friend. Sprawled in a chair to one side and looking as though he were nursing a pounding hangover was Caroline’s playboy cousin Kyle, his suit jacket already discarded and his collar and tie loosened, despite the early hour.
Although seventy, Kate Winfield Fortune was anything but old and decrepit. She had a striking, barely wrinkled face born of both excellent bone structure and the best cosmetics and skin care money could buy. As usual, her rich, wine red hair, lightly streaked with gray, was upswept in a classic Gibson girl that accentuated the high cheekbones and flawless, creamy skin Caroline herself had inherited.
Despite that Kate was slim and small in stature, her feisty, dynamic personality ensured that she dominated her surroundings. Her sparkling, shrewd blue eyes were evidence to the fact that her vivacity and energy were those of a woman half her age and that her mind was still as sharp as the proverbial tack. Nobody put anything past Kate Winfield Fortune.
She was the CEO of the entire Fortune holdings, which included not only Fortune Cosmetics, an enterprise she herself had founded years ago, but also a worldwide construction and development corporation, and interests in oil and ranching. More than anyone else in the extended Fortune family, Caroline adored her grandmother. She wanted to be just like her.
But in her heart, Caroline knew that, unfortunately, she lacked her grandmother’s natural warmth, wittiness and high spirits, her zest for life and her quest for adventure. If Caroline had ever possessed those attributes, they had been crushed out of her some years back by her disastrous engagement.
She had been so young and so in love with Paul Andersen, a colleague at Fortune Cosmetics. It had nearly destroyed her when, by a cruel trick of fate, she had inadvertently learned it wasn’t her Paul had truly loved, but her share of the Fortune riches.
Since that time, deeply wounded and embittered, Caroline had resolutely steered clear of men, concentrating instead on her career, emulating her grandmother’s business acumen, ambition and flair for fashion. Through intelligence, savvy, hard work, dedication and sheer determination, Caroline had risen through the ranks to become Fortune Cosmetics’ vice president of marketing.
And she knew she was good at her job, that she had earned her position. Because her grandmother didn’t believe in handing anybody—not even family—anything on a silver platter.
“Good morning, everyone.” Caroline quickly drew off her expensive leather gloves and elegant camel wool coat, laying them aside, trying to still the wild thudding of her heart, the agitated quivering of her body, as Nick’s dark glance raked her again appraisingly. “I hope you haven’t been waiting too long. The snow caused an accident on the freeway this morning, tying up traffic forever, or I would have been here sooner.”
“Not to mention the fact that Ms. Fortune and I had a small collision of our own out in the hall.” Nick’s mouth turned down wryly at the corners as he surveyed Caroline, and he shook his head at her imperceptibly, so she knew he disapproved not only of her hair and glasses, but also of her classically tailored Chanel suit and cream-colored silk blouse.
She had the horrible, unsettling impression that he was mentally stripping her naked, that he knew exactly what she looked like naked; to conceal the flush she felt creeping up once more to stain her cheeks crimson, she swiftly bent over her portfolio, which she had spread open on the conference table. She was abruptly beset by such an awful urge to box Nick’s ears, to slap the smirk clean off his handsome face, that she could scarcely contain herself.
What on earth was the matter with her this morning? She was usually cool, composed and competent. It was most unlike her to be so flustered and irritated—especially by a man. The terrible traffic snarl must have rattled her more than she had suspected. She had better get hold of herself in a hurry, she told herself, or her marketing presentation was definitely going to suffer—particularly as Kyle now appeared to have fallen asleep in his chair.
At the sight of him, Caroline silently cursed the kindly impulse that had caused her some months ago to promote him to the position of her assistant. Despite that he was one of her favorite cousins, he was just like every other man she had ever known—utterly worthless and no good, she now thought hotly.
“Well, despite all the mishaps, we’re still on schedule. So, since we’re all assembled, shall we get started?” Kate asked briskly. “Kyle. Kyle! Do you care to wake up and join us this morning?” Frowning, she stared at her errant grandson censoriously as he was nudged to awareness by a surreptitious punch in the ribs, delivered by Sterling Foster. “Somehow, Kyle, I just don’t think you’re cut out for Fortune Cosmetics,” Kate observed dryly, once he had started awake. “It’s my belief that you need to be someplace where you’re forced to get up at the crack of dawn, breathe great lungfuls of fresh air and work so hard all day that you’re too tired for any nightlife at all—much less the wild one that seems to be affecting you for the worse these days.”
“Good heavens, Grandmother. I can’t think of anything less appealing than sunrises and crisp air.” Yawning and rising, Kyle strolled leisurely over to the credenza along one wall, where he poured himself a cup of black coffee from the automatic coffeemaker that sat next to a Baccarat crystal pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice and a sterling-silver tray sporting an assortment of fruits and breads. “Besides, I worked late last night.”
At her grandson’s words, Kate snorted her disbelief but, mercifully, chose not to pursue the subject. Instead, she directed peremptorily, “Nick, you begin, why don’t
