hope you won’t be too hard on her,” she simpered, taking this moment to put another few steps between his body and hers.
“And why shouldn’t I be? Are you even qualified to do this? Or did she just bring you in to needle me?”
He said it in far too casual a tone. Damn. His equilibrium was almost restored. She couldn’t have that.
And what’s more, she couldn’t let him impinge on her ability to do this job.
Then she realized that his lips—which had, to this point, only been compressed into a thin line of anger or dropped open in shock—were curving into a far-too-cocky grin. He’d scored a hit on her, and he knew it.
She quickly schooled her face into the appropriate demureness, using the excuse of taking more pictures to do so.
“I am, in fact, highly qualified to appraise the contents of this office. I have a bachelor’s degree in art history and a master’s of fine art. I was the manager at Galerie Solaria for several years. I have extensive connections with the local arts scene.”
She stated her qualifications in a light, matter-of-fact tone designed to put him at ease. Which, given the little donut stunt she’d pulled, would probably actually make him more nervous—if he had his wits about him. “And if anyone would know the true value of these objects,” she added, straightening to give him her very best smile, “it’d be a Beaumont—don’t you think? After all, this was ours for so long.”
He didn’t fall for the smile. Instead, he eyed her suspiciously, just as she’d suspected he would. She would have to reconsider her opinion of him. Now that the shock of her appearance was wearing off, he seemed more and more up to the task of playing this game.
Even though it shouldn’t, the thought thrilled her. Ethan Logan would be a formidable opponent. This might even be fun. She could play the game with Ethan—a game she would win, without a doubt—and in the process, she could protect her family legacy and help out Delores and all the rest of the employees.
“How about you?” she asked in an offhand manner.
“What about me?” he asked.
“Are you qualified to run a company? This company?” She couldn’t help it. The words came out a little sharper than she had wanted them to. But she followed up the questions with a fluttering of her eyelashes and another demure smile.
Not that they worked. “I am, in fact,” he said in a mocking tone as he parroted her words, “highly qualified to run this company. I am a co-owner of my firm, Corporate Restructuring Services. I have restructured thirteen previous companies, raising stock prices and increasing productivity and efficiency. I have a bachelor’s degree in economics and a master’s of business administration, and I will turn this company around.”
He said the last part with all the conviction of a man who truly believed himself to be on the right side of history.
“I’m quite sure you will.” Of course she agreed with him. He was expecting her to argue. “Why, once the employees all get over that nasty flu that’s been going around...” She lifted a shoulder, as if to say it was only a matter of time. “You’ll have things completely under control within days.” Then, just to pour a little lemon juice in the wound, she leaned forward. His gaze held—he didn’t even glance at her cleavage. Damn. Time to up the ante.
She let her eyes drift over those massive shoulders and the broad chest. He was quite unlike the thin, pale men who populated the art world circles she moved within. She could still feel his lips on the back of her hand.
Oh, yes, she could play this game. For a short while, she could feel like Frances Beaumont again—powerful, beautiful, holding sway over everyone in her orbit. She could use Ethan Logan to get back what she’d lost in the past six months and—if she was very lucky—she might even be able to inflict some damage on AllBev through the Brewery. Corporate espionage and all that.
So she added in a confidential voice, “I have faith in your abilities.”
“Do you?”
She looked him up and down again and smiled. A real smile this time, not one couched to elicit a specific response. “Oh, yes,” she said, turning away from him. “I do.”
He needed her.
That crystal clear revelation was quickly followed by a second—and far more depressing one—Frances Beaumont would destroy him if he gave her half the chance.
As he watched Frances move around his office, taking pictures of the furniture and antiques and making completely harmless small talk about potential buyers, he knew he would have to risk the latter to get the former.
The way all those workers had been eating out of her hand—well, out of her donut box? The way not a single damn one of them had gotten back to work when he’d ordered them to—but they’d all jumped when Frances Beaumont had smiled at them?
It hurt to admit—even to himself—that the workers here would not listen to him.
But they would listen to her.
She was one of them—a Beaumont. They obviously adored her—even Delores, the old battle-ax, had bowed and scraped to this stunningly beautiful woman.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” she said in that delicate voice that he was completely convinced was a front. She kicked out of her shoes and lined one of the conference chairs up beneath a window. She held out her hand for him. “I’d like to get a better shot of the friezes over the windows.”
“Of course,” he said in his most diplomatic voice.
This woman—this stunning woman who’s fingertips were light and warm against his hand as he helped her balance onto the chair, leaving her ass directly at eye level—had already ripped him to shreds several times over.
She was gorgeous. She was clearly intelligent. And she was obviously out to undermine him. That’s what the donuts had been about. Announcing to the world in general and him in particular that this was still the Beaumont Brewery in every sense of the word.
“Thank you,” she murmured, placing her hand on his shoulder to balance herself as she stepped down.
She didn’t stick the landing, although he couldn’t say if that was accidental or on purpose.
Before he could stop himself, his arm went around her waist to steady her.
Which was a mistake because electricity arced between them. She looked up at him through those lashes—he’d lost count of how many times she’d done that so far—but this time it hit him differently.
After almost a month of dealing with passive-aggressive employees terrified of being downsized he suddenly felt like a very different man altogether.
“Thank you,” she said again, in a quiet whisper that somehow felt more honest, less calculated than almost every other word she’d uttered so far. Imperceptibly, she leaned into him. He could feel the heat of her breasts through his suit.
As soon as he was sure
