style="font-size:15px;"> He belatedly processed her request and hit Five, but when he didn’t select a button for himself, Sheryl lost her struggle with the suppressed smile. “Um, don’t you want to hit a button for your floor?” she reminded him gently. Wow, maybe she really had rattled him.
“I’m headed to five myself.” The corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk. “So I don’t need another button.”
Right. Idiot. Why hadn’t she realized the obvious? Because her brain was still somewhat short-circuited from the brush of his fingers against hers? And here she’d thought he’d been flummoxed.
“But thanks for looking out for me,” he added, still with that sexy half grin.
“Hey, it’s what I do,” she said, thinking of times she’d helped her siblings and the too-frequent occasions she’d felt compelled to “mother” Brad, which had led to their breakup. A woman couldn’t feel passion for someone who aroused mostly her maternal instincts.
Her current companion didn’t look as if he needed mothering, though. Quite the contrary. He looked like the type cautious mothers warned their daughters about.
“This is what you do?” he asked. “Look out for people in elevators?”
She smiled at his gently teasing tone. “I’m underappreciated, but, yes, I’m Sheryl, patron saint of elevators and caffeine addicts. And since you gave me such good advice down in the lobby and kept me from getting stuck in a faulty elevator, I’ll put in a good word for you with The Guy Upstairs.”
He chuckled. “I should introduce myself formally, then, so you get the name right when you make the recommendation.” He stuck out his left hand. No wedding ring. “Nathan Zachary Hall, which I know sounds horribly like a dormitory.”
Sheryl’s smile froze. The elevator stopped and the doors parted, but it took great effort to force her feet forward, onto a busy fifth floor alongside…Nathan?
“You’re Nathan Hall?” Even the dimmest bulb would be able to deduce he was, since he’d just said so, but he bore no resemblance to any of her beady-eyed, furry green imaginings.
“That’s me.” His once teasing tone was now puzzled.
He—a guy with a sense of humor who could wear jeans like that—was her nemesis?
As Meka would say, yikes.
2
NATHAN FELT A LITTLE SILLY standing there in front of so many desks and cubicles where his co-workers could witness this odd exchange. But the cacophony of buzzing phones, chirping computers and occasional cursing of the frustrated reporter assured him that people had better things to do than watch him. Besides, even if they’d all been staring, Nathan found he couldn’t do much more than stand and wait for the brunette with the striking green eyes to say something.
Hoping to prompt a response, he picked up where the conversation had inexplicably derailed. “I’m Nathan Hall,” he reiterated, in case there was any lingering confusion on that point. “And you are?”
“Sheryl.” She addressed the floor more than him. But her seeming shyness was incongruous with the woman who had been joking with him just moments ago.
A smile touched his lips. “Right, Sheryl, the patron saint of elevators.”
She looked up then, and if eyes were the window to the soul, then Sheryl had pulled the drapes tightly down over her exotic, slightly tilted cat’s eyes. He’d had some experience reading people, but he couldn’t get a handle on her current thoughts or mood. Nervous? Maybe even a little guilty about something? But resolved, too, a woman who knew what she had to do even if she didn’t particularly want to do it.
“Sheryl Dayton,” she elaborated. “I, um, Brad Hammond sent me.”
Nathan’s stomach turned over. Good Lord. Twice in his career, when he’d been working on investigative pieces, he’d been offered hush money from different corporations without soul or scruples, and a lower-level Mafia member had once made the much less tempting offer of breaking Nathan’s legs if he pursued a story. Surely Hammond hadn’t sent Nathan a woman?
She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling under her sweater in a way he wished he hadn’t noticed. “I’m in charge of Hammond’s public relations depart—”
“You’re HGS’s PR man?” She couldn’t be further from a man, but for once Nathan didn’t care about semantics.
Well, he’d certainly been a pompous idiot to think even for a second that she might be a…what? Hooker? As though anything about the straight, sophisticated cut of her hair, her china-delicate skin, or the classy clothes that clung just softly enough to her slim curves to be sexy, suggested an illicit lifestyle. Apparently, his years of reporting about the worst in people were taking their toll on his judgment.
The only reason he could possibly have had for instantly linking Sheryl with sex was the attraction he felt to her. His immediate and appreciative masculine response to her physical appearance had only been heightened by their teasing in the elevator, the single potent touch they’d shared, and the way her interested gaze had brushed over his skin. He firmly ignored that attraction now to follow what she was saying.
“…to discuss those columns you’ve been writing.” Her expression, if not actually frosty, was cool, her tone all business.
He matched her demeanor, folding his arms across his chest. “I have no intention of retracting a single word I’ve written so far, and if any new information surfaces, you can be sure there will be more columns. I’m sorry you wasted a trip across town.”
“Maybe if we could just go in your office and talk—”
“If you wanted to talk, you should have made an appointment,” he interrupted, pointing out the polite, professional course of action. “I’m a busy man, and I’m afraid I have a schedule to keep.”
He wasn’t born yesterday, and he had no intentions of letting her ambush him, as so clearly had been her plan. Manipulative. She’d arrived, scheming to surprise him, catching him off guard, but he’d turned the tables on her before she’d even stepped off the elevator. Nice irony, even if it had been unintentional.
Besides, though he did technically have his own office, the tiny room was actually smaller than some cubicles he’d seen. He wasn’t prepared to be alone in that tight space with Sheryl and the light, teasing tang of her perfume.
Determined to sound in control of the situation, he invited casually, “Feel free to call the receptionist, though, and see if there’s a way to squeeze you in next week. Maybe we’ll talk then. Have a nice day, Ms. Dayton.”
Her eyes sparked green flame, but she’d yet to form a reply when he spun on his heel and walked off, cheerfully whistling a Christmas carol.
“SO WE’LL TRY AGAIN,” Brad said from behind the metallic-looking monstrosity that was his desk. Meka had almost had a stroke when he’d insisted on it, and Sheryl personally thought that it looked like a reject from the Star Trek prop room. But Brad seemed to feel the sci-fi aura of the piece was in keeping with running a company known for technological successes in the new millennium.
“Try
