She’d already smudged her mascara once and had had to start over. She didn’t have time to mess up again, or—despite her falsely confident assurance to Rourke the day before—she would be late for their appointment that morning. “I know he’s an old friend of your brand-new husband, but the man’s a player. I don’t know what he wants.”
“Ted keeps saying Rourke is rock-solid.”
Lisa made a face at her reflection. The man was rock-solid—she’d found that out for herself when they’d danced together at the Founder’s Ball. But that, of course, wasn’t what Ted meant. “Just because Rourke was Boy Scout material once, doesn’t mean he still is.”
“What does Paul say?”
Lisa decided her mascara was finally acceptable and closed the tube with one hand while reaching for her lipstick with the other. “The same thing. That of course I can convince Devlin to jump on board.” She smoothed the subtle pink onto her lips. “Unfortunately, Paul doesn’t seem to grasp the fact that such blind faith only makes the pressure worse.”
“It’s not blind faith,” Sara Beth assured her. “It’s confidence. Come on, Lisa. Don’t start doubting yourself now. You can do this.”
“When did you trade in your nurse’s uniform for a cheerleader’s?”
“Hmm.” Laughter filled Sara Beth’s voice. “I wonder how Ted would feel about me in a short little skirt, waving pompoms around.”
Lisa groaned. “Newlyweds,” she returned. “Listen, I’ve gotta run. My flight gets in around three so I’ll probably see you at the institute before you get off. Shift, I mean.”
“Nice.”
“What are friends for?” She disconnected the phone, but she was finally smiling.
Thank goodness for Sara Beth. Her friend never failed to cheer her up.
She smoothed her hand once more over her pulled-back hair and pushed the phone into the pocket of her briefcase. She hadn’t come to New York the day before prepared for an overnight, which had necessitated a quick trip out to find something suitable to wear for today’s meeting because she refused to meet with Rourke again looking like day-old bread.
Since she’d already spent a small fortune on her Armani ensemble for the debacle of the day before, her personal budget was definitely taking a hit. But the black skirt she wore with the same black jersey tee from yesterday looked crisp and suitably “don’t mess with me” teamed with the new taupe blazer. She looked good and wasn’t going to pretend that it didn’t help bolster her confidence where the man was concerned.
She pushed her bare feet into her high-heeled black pumps, snatched up the briefcase and hurried out the door.
The morning air was brisk and breezy, tugging both at her chignon and her skirt as she waited for the cab that the doorman hailed for her.
The traffic was heavy—no surprise—and she wished that she hadn’t taken time to phone her mother that morning. It would have been one less item taking up time, and it wasn’t as if Emily Stanton Armstrong had had anything helpful or productive to say, anyway.
The only thing that Lisa had in common with her mother was a devotion to the man they had in common—Gerald. The great “Dr. G.” She’d given up, years ago, trying to understand what made her mother tick, much less trying to gain her approval. Emily already had the perfect daughter in Olivia, anyway. Olivia was the wife of a senator, for heaven’s sake. Jamison Mallory was the youngest member of the U.S. Senate and the eldest son of Boston’s most powerful family. He might as well be royalty. And he was probably headed for the White House. Olivia and Jamison had even recently adopted two children who’d lost their own parents, completing their picture of the perfect family. Rarely did a week pass when Lisa’s sister and brother-in-law weren’t featured in either the society section or the national news.
Not that Lisa was jealous of her older sister. Olivia looked better—happier—now than she had in years. Lisa just never felt as if they were quite on the same page. The things they wanted in life had always been so different.
She sighed a little, brushing her hands nervously over her skirt. She had to pull the institute out of the fire.
The cab finally pulled up in front of the towering building that housed Devlin Ventures. A glance at her chunky bangle watch told her she had nearly ten minutes to spare.
Perfect.
She quickly paid and tipped the driver and left the cab, weaving between the pedestrians on the sidewalk to enter the building. Gleaming marble, soaring windows, shops and an atrium filled with live trees greeted her. It was impressive, and if she’d had more time, she probably would have wandered around the first floor, just to explore. But since she didn’t, she aimed for the information desk that ran the length of one wall.
In minutes, she possessed a visitor’s pass that got her through the security door that wasn’t even visible from where she’d entered, and had bulleted dizzyingly to the top floor of the building in an elevator that went strictly to that floor, and that floor alone.
Devlin Ventures wasn’t merely an occupant of the building.
It was the owner.
She barely had time to smooth her hand over her hair and run her tongue discreetly over her teeth to remove any misplaced lipstick before the elevator doors opened and she stepped out onto a floor that was as calm and soothing as the first floor had been busy and vibrant.
For some reason, she hadn’t envisioned Rourke Devlin as a man to surround himself with such a Zen-like environment.
A curving desk in pale wood that matched the floor faced the elevator and she stopped in front of it. “Good morning,” she told the girl sitting there. “I’m Lisa Armstrong. I have an appointment with Mr. Devlin.”
The model-thin girl consulted something behind her desk, and seemed to find what she was looking for. “I’ll show you to his office.” She rose and swayed her way along a wide corridor. At the end, she turned, hip jutted, and lifted a languid hand. “Cynthia is Mr. Devlin’s assistant,” she said. “She’ll see to you now.”
Lisa found herself facing a woman who was as unattractive as the receptionist was attractive, right down to the heavy black-framed glasses that did little to disguise a hawkish nose. “Good morning.”
Rourke’s assistant gave her a short glance. “Mr. Devlin is unavoidably detained. I’m afraid he can’t see you as scheduled.”
Lisa felt her chest tighten. Dismay. Annoyance. Disappointment. They all clogged her system, jockeying for first place. “I’m happy to wait,” she assured her.
Cynthia gave her an unemotional stare that told her absolutely nothing. “If you wish.” Her gaze drifted to the collection of low, brown leather chairs situated near the windows.
Taking the cue, Lisa headed toward them. The view would have been spectacular if she had been in the mood to appreciate it.
Would Rourke stoop to blowing her off like this, without so much as meeting her face-to-face?
It didn’t seem to fit, but what did she know?
The
