people—led me to adapting the SnAppShot app to every device, every platform available. It was ten years of hard work. Don’t believe what the press says. There are no overnight successes in this business. See a need and fill it.”
When he was replying, Trish noted, he had a different style. Maybe it was because he was really only talking to one person? But his words flowed more easily and he spoke with more conviction. The power in his words filled the auditorium. She could listen to that voice all night—he was mesmerizing.
This was a problem. Trish rubbed her hands on her jeans, trying to steady her nerves. Okay, so he spoke quite well off the cuff—which he demonstrated when a few people asked antagonistic questions.
Instead of acting trapped, Longmire’s face would break into a sly smile—one completely different from the cautious movement of lips he’d used during his prepared remarks. Then he would dissect the question at an astonishing rate and completely undercut the argument, all without getting off the stool.
Ah, yes. This was his other reputation, the businessman who, much like his technological forefathers, would occasionally sue people for fun and profit. Nate Longmire had amassed the reputation of a man who never gave up and never surrendered in the courtroom. He’d completely bankrupted his former college friend, the one he’d started SnAppShot with.
Trish caught herself fidgeting with her earrings. Okay, yes—there was always the chance that her little stunt wouldn’t go over well. But she was determined to give it a shot. The only people who lost were the ones who never tried.
Finally, there was only one person in line on her side and Longmire was listening intently to a question from the other aisle. Trish looked back and didn’t see anyone else coming forward. This was it. She edged her check out from behind her seat and then stood in line, less than two feet away from the check. She could grab it and hoist it up in seconds. This would work. It had to.
The person in front of her asked some frivolous question about how Longmire felt about his status as a sex symbol. Even as Trish rolled her eyes, Longmire shot beet red. The question had unsettled him. Perfect.
“We have time for one more question,” Jennifer announced after the nervous laughter had settled. “Yes? Step forward and say your name, please.”
Trish bent over and grabbed her check. It was comically huge—a four-feet long by two-feet tall piece of cardboard. “Mr. Longmire,” she said, holding the check in front of her like a shield. “My name is Trish Hunter and I’m the founder of One Child, One World, a charity that gets school supplies in the hands of underprivileged children on American Indian reservations.”
Longmire leaned forward, his dark eyes fastened on hers. The world seemed to—well, it didn’t fall away, not like it did in stories. But the hum of the audience and the bright lights seemed to fade into the background as Longmire focused all of his attention on her and said, “An admirable cause. Go on, Ms. Hunter. What is your question?”
Trish swallowed nervously. “I recently had the privilege of being named one of Glamour’s Top Ten College Women in honor of the work I’m doing.” She paused to heft her check over her head. “The recognition came with a ten-thousand dollar reward, which I have pledged to One Child, One World in its entirety. You’ve spoken eloquently about how technology can change lives. Will you match this award and donate ten thousand dollars to help children get school supplies?”
The silence that crashed over the auditorium was deafening. All Trish could hear was the pounding of blood in her ears. She’d done it. She’d done exactly what she’d set out to do—cause a scene and hopefully trap one of the richest men in the world into parting with just a little of his hard-earned money.
“Thank you, Ms. Hunter,” the emcee said sharply. “But Mr. Longmire has a process by which people can apply for—”
“Wait,” Longmire cut her off. “It’s true, the Longmire Foundation does have an application process. However,” he said, his gaze never leaving Trish’s face. Heat flushed her body. “One must admire a direct approach. Ms. Hunter, perhaps we can discuss your charity’s needs after this event is over?”
Trish almost didn’t hear the Oohs that came from the rest of the crowd over the rush of blood in her ears. That wasn’t a no. It wasn’t a yes, either—it was a very good side step around giving a hard answer one way or the other. But it wasn’t a no and that was all that mattered. She could still press her case and maybe, just maybe, get enough funding to buy every single kid on her reservation a backpack full of school supplies before school started in five months.
Plus, she’d get to see if Nate was as good-looking up close as he was at a distance. Not that it mattered. Of course it didn’t. “I would be honored,” she said into the microphone and even she didn’t miss the way her voice shook, just a little.
“Bring your check,” he said with a grin that came real close to being wicked. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen one that large before.”
Laughter rolled through the auditorium as Longmire grinned at her. Behind his glasses, one eyebrow lifted in challenge and then he pointedly looked offstage. The message was clear. Would she meet him backstage?
The emcee was thanking Longmire for his time and everyone was applauding and the rest of the evening was clearly over. Trish managed to snag her small purse—a Coach knockoff—and fight against the rising tide of college kids who had not been invited backstage for a private meeting with the Boy Billionaire. With her small purse and her large check, Trish managed to get up the steps at the side of the stage and duck behind the curtains.
The emcee stood there, glaring at her. “That was some stunt you pulled,” she said in a vicious whisper.
“Thanks!” Trish responded brightly. No doubt, Jennifer had had grand plans for her own post-interview “meeting” with Longmire and Trish had usurped that quite nicely.
“Ah, Ms. Hunter. Hello.” Suddenly, Nate Longmire was standing before her. Trish was a good five-nine—taller in her boots—but she still had to lean her head up to meet his gaze. “Excellent,” he went on, looking down at her as if he was thrilled to see her. “You have the large check. Jennifer, would you take our picture?”
His phone chimed. He looked at it, scowled briefly, and then called up his SnAppShot app. He handed his phone to the emcee, who forced a polite smile. “Hand it up here,” Longmire said, taking half of the check in his hand. Then he put his arm around Trish’s shoulders and whispered, “Smile.”
Trish wasn’t sure she pulled off that smile. His arm around her was warm and heavy and she swore to God that she felt his touch in places he wasn’t touching.
She would not be attracted to him. She couldn’t afford to be attracted to him. All she could do was forge ahead with her plan. Phase One—trap the Boy Billionaire—was complete. Now she had to move onto Phase Two—getting a donation out of him.
Forging ahead had absolutely nothing to do with the way his physical touch was sending shimmering waves of awareness through her body. Nothing.
Jennifer took two shots and then handed back the phone. Longmire’s arm left her and Trish couldn’t help it—she shivered at the loss of his warmth.
“Mr. Longmire,” Jennifer began in a silky tone. “If you recall, I’d invited you out for a dinner after the program. We should get going.”
There was
