Andrea nervous. “No prob.”
Closing her eyes and counting to ten didn’t lessen the feeling of foreboding Lisa’s smiles always conjured. “I’m not going to waste precious time with twenty questions.” She leveled her gaze on her assistant. “If you’re withholding vital information, I suggest you get your résumé in order because you’re fired.”
“NBD.”
2
Andrea tossed her keys to the valet and strode through the revolving door of MacClairen’s, girding herself for the inevitable feelings of inadequacy that always washed over her when entering the posh hotel. Logically, she knew it was a throwback to her less-than-fiscally-healthy beginning. A knee-jerk reaction.
Less than five minutes later, she breathed a sigh of relief as she stepped out of the private elevator onto the lavishly polished marble entry of the penthouse suite.
She could do this. A deep breath gave her oxygen-deprived lungs a moment to relax. Rolling her shoulders helped. It was a common occurrence; a lot of people held their breath on elevators.
Girding her business persona, she briskly tapped the polished brass knocker, pushing aside the niggling misgiving about Connor O’Brian’s lack of preapproval. Surely it was an oversight. It would arrive any time.
The door swung wide, derailing her worrisome train of thought.
The young man standing in the open doorway cocked his head as he perused her from head to stiletto and back again, his sun-streaked blond hair falling boyishly over his forehead.
He was gorgeous—she’d give him that—and he probably knew it. No doubt girls flocked around him like homing pigeons.
She preferred her men more…mature. Casual sophistication that came with age was very…reassuring. Comforting. You knew where you stood with older men. They knew how to play the game, censure their facial expressions.
Unlike the young wannabe stud before her, who was all but drooling as his heated green gaze licked her from head to toe, pausing at all the tingling spots.
Which was utterly ridiculous. She was too old to tingle.
She straightened and glared her fiercest don’t-fuck-with-me look.
He had the audacity to grin, his teeth white and straight in his guileless face. His long finger pushed up a pair of rimless glasses she hadn’t noticed until that moment.
“Hello,” she said with what she hoped was just the right blend of professionalism and authority. “I’m here to meet with Connor O’Brian. Would that, by chance, be your father?” Please, Lord, don’t let it be his grandfather. Old, she could take. Old, she could coerce into buying. Doddering made her feel, well, too guilty.
Surfer Dude leaned one T-shirt-clad shoulder against the doorjamb, crossing his arms over his impressive chest. “Actually, my father is Connor O’Brian, but—”
“Excellent.” Andrea swept past him and set her briefcase on the tiled foyer floor beside a cherry hall table, determined to regain her self-control. She was, after all, a professional. “Please tell him Andrea Redd, from Redd Hot Properties, is here for our appointment.”
“But”—he shrugged and closed the door, then leaned against it, his gaze never leaving hers—” my father is in Miami.”
Shit. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.” In heels, she looked directly into his eyes, which was one of the reasons she preferred stilettos: They gave her power. “Connor O’Brian just arrived on the island. He called my office to set up this appointment. Was there some kind of emergency or…?”
A slow shake of his head had her struggling to concentrate on his words instead of admiring his assets.
“My name is Connor O’Brian, too. I’m the one who made the appointment.” He opened the door, inclining his head toward the hall. “I’m ready to go check out beach houses. How about you?” The grin he flashed was unrepentant.
No doubt about it, she needed damage control. Play nice, her mind screamed while her mouth blurted out, “Let’s go, Junior.”
“I thought you were going to show me beachfront property,” Connor complained when Andrea Redd pulled her Mercedes 600SL to the curb after an uncomfortably silent ten-minute drive.
“This house has beach access.” She opened her door and stepped out.
“It looks like it needs painting.” He shut his door and glared at the forlorn-looking structure.
“It has that weathered look,” she countered, striding toward the front door.
He shook his head to clear it of the lascivious thoughts the sway of her red-clad hips instilled and caught up to her as she inserted her card key into the lockbox on the “weathered” double entry doors. “I may not be from around here, but that,” he said, pointing to the water in the distance, “doesn’t look like the Gulf of Mexico.”
She sighed and turned to pin him with her cool, crystal-blue gaze. “It’s a lake, but it has all the amenities of Gulf property. It’s really quite a deal.”
“What makes you think I’m looking for a deal?” Did the snooty brunette actually think he couldn’t afford Gulf property?
“Nothing, Junior, although I have not seen the promised preapproval letter. I just thought it was a good deal and possibly might work for you.” A fine brow arched. “Perhaps if you gave me an idea of your price range, I could better narrow it down.”
Connor sighed and ran a hand through his hair, wishing he’d gotten another haircut before leaving Houston. He glanced down at his more-than-casual attire and again cursed Bill for not only convincing him to take the trip but also for replacing his normal wardrobe. No wonder Andrea Redd didn’t take him seriously. As soon as they were finished, he’d go buy some decent clothes. Wait. His wardrobe shouldn’t make a difference. Maybe Miss High and Mighty needed to learn clothes do not make the man. Besides, she worked for him, regardless of what he wore.
“Stop calling me Junior,” he finally said, “please.”
“I thought you said you and your father had the same name.”
“We do. But no one ever calls me Junior. Ever.” He edged closer to her, unable to stop the urge to inhale the flowery scent of her perfume. Okay, maybe he also got a perverse sense of pleasure in knowing his nearness disturbed her. He could see it in the way her clear blue eyes widened a fraction and the fact she took a tiny step back.
What had gotten into him? After Whitley’s defection, he’d sworn off powerful, high-maintenance women. Hell, in fact, he’d sworn off all women. At least for a while.
But there was something…different about Andrea Redd.
And he intended to find out what.
Beneath his baggy cargo shorts, his cock stirred in an effort to tell him exactly what it thought about Ms. Redd.
He watched in fascination as her tongue darted out to lick her glossy lips, surprised to realize he wanted to feel that tongue, those lips, on his body.
It
