Eric’s assistant, Gretchen, fell into step beside him. “You’re on your fifth lap around the office. What’s up?”
“I’m not making laps. I’m managing,” he answered, smiling absently as he watched an engineer manipulate a drawing on his computer.
“Managing, huh?” She held out a clipboard with several papers attached. “Well, I need you to manage this while you wear the soles off your shoes.”
He took the clipboard and scanned the forms. Payroll. Shit. “How deep are we in it this time?” Gretchen’s studiously blank face was answer enough, but Eric wanted to hear it before he saw the numbers. “Prepare me, Gretch.”
“Let’s just say we’re going to be pushing the limits of our line of credit this pay period.”
His stomach tightened as bile rose in his throat. Still, he nodded and let one corner of his mouth curl up in a half smile. “Once we’re officially cleared on the Chok Resort, you’ll be able to stop hovering over the line of credit like a financial mother hen over her little brood of dollar signs.”
“I don’t hover,” Gretchen huffed. Her lips twitched. “Much.”
“Right. And I’m actually a leprechaun.”
“You’re too tall.”
He glanced over and arched a brow as he crossed his arms over his chest. His suit pulled at his shoulders. “Are you disparaging my people because I’m a physical anomaly?”
Gretchen laughed out loud, drawing several glances from around the room. “Eric says he’s a leprechaun,” she announced.
“Where’s my pot of gold?” someone shouted.
A discussion ensued regarding leprechauns and what people would do with the gold if they had it. Eric signed forms, keeping one eye on the clipboard and one ear on the chatter. The underlying energy in the room hummed along his skin like a small electrical current. He fed on it. It kept him moving forward, kept him focused and encouraged. As the owner and CEO of Sovereign, he had to ensure the company’s financial security and longevity, and there was nothing he wouldn’t do to make sure that future was as secure as it could be.
Handing the signed forms to Gretchen with a word of thanks, he shoved his hands in his pockets and headed for the chief financial officer’s office.
Dan had been a financial whiz and good friend in college. Eric had recruited him fourteen months ago, spending a pretty penny to make sure Dan came on board. The guy could nearly project markets, could wring out the last cent from every investment and generally make a dollar go further than anyone else Eric knew. Beside himself.
Dan sat behind a beat-up desk, hammering away at his computer. He looked up as Eric came in and closed the door.
“Payroll. When will we be able to afford it?”
Dan swiveled back and forth, his old office chair groaning in protest as he rocked. “We’re pushing the financial envelope, Eric. The line of credit won’t support another payroll unless we supplement it with some kind of cash influx. The investors won’t come up with the cash until the deal is done, and we still don’t have a clear picture of how much Preservations’ plan is going to cost. If it’s too much, the board is going to balk. I have to have twenty grand just to make this week’s payroll, so if they postpone their decision, we’re screwed. Bottom line? We need your other source of income.” Dan spun a pencil between his fingers. “What is it that you do, anyway?”
Eric leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. “Whatever I have to.”
Or, to be more specific, whatever his alter ego, Dalton Chase, headline stripper for Beaux Hommes, had to do.
ANXIETY RODE THE hollow of Eric’s spine like a roller coaster, climbing to the top of his neck and crashing to his tailbone before climbing again. The club take had been dismal.
As he pulled up in front of the Harbormaster apartment building, he gave himself a mental shake. He still had the private party. Either get in the game and make this pay off, or come up with another strategy. The bachelorette party should be in full swing, and happy women were spenders. This was his chance to turn the night around. Reaching behind him, he grabbed his briefcase. The hostess had requested a businessman. Lucky him. It was the closest he ever came to mixing his day job with this one. In truth, it made him uncomfortable. He sold day and night. The only difference was the commodity on the table.
The valet looked over his age-scarred Honda with barely concealed disdain.
Eric’s free hand tightened into a fist. “Problem?”
“No.” Then the valet took in his tailored suit. “Sir.”
He tossed the guy his key and stalked away. One hour, Eric. Shut your shit down for one hour.
The apartment lobby was immaculate, with a combination of marble floors and patterned blue carpet. He headed straight for the elevator bank, catching a car as a couple of guys exited. The elevator began its smooth ascension. When the car stopped and the doors opened again, Eric pasted on a smile and adjusted his tie.
Time to find out if luck really is a lady.
* * *
THE KNOCK AT the door sent Cass’s heart into her throat. Oh, crap. Crap, crap, crap. It can’t be ten o’clock. But it was. And that meant the evening’s entertainment was here. There was normally something to be said for a man who valued punctuality, but at the moment? It was the last thing Cass wanted. No doubt there were going to be questions from the guests, and she hadn’t drunk enough to answer them without blushing. Hell, there might not be enough alcohol in the building to save her face from going up in flames.
Grabbing Gwen’s hand, Cass wove through the crowd to the front door.
Gwen tugged on Cass’s grip. “What’s going on?”
“Someone knocked.”
Steeling herself, Cass yanked the door open. And stopped breathing. Completely.
Tall, probably six-three or six-four, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, the man wore a well-fitted business suit of dark gray with subtle pinstriping, complete with a solid, darker vest. A purple paisley tie and matching pocket square rounded out the look. His dark brown hair was damp and, cut in an executive’s cut, needed a trim. One broad hand smoothed his jacket. “Gwen Sivern?” he asked her. His voice was as fluid as hot caramel.
Cass pointed at Gwen. “Her.” She swallowed hard. “I’m Cass. Wheeler. Cass Wheeler.”
A dark, seductive grin revealed dimples.
She’d never had an opinion on dimples. Suddenly she loved them. Craved them. Thought every man should have them.
Shifting his pale green gaze to Gwen, he held out a hand. “Dalton Chase. I’m here to discuss your prenuptial agreement.”
Gwen glanced from him to Cass, who shrugged. “I don’t have a prenuptial agreement.”
