George.” The sun god spoke, his tone languid, his voice warm and smoky as if fueled by the heat. She stared at him without expression. She was still sweating.
“The night security guard. His first name is George. Last name McCallahan.” The man’s eyes were gem-green in a face sinful in its seduction. “You didn’t know that, did you?”
Even if her excessive sense of responsibility and guilt gave her the inclination, she could never know everyone who worked for the Sweetfield Corporation. “This building employs hundreds of people.” Terrific. She was defending herself to a psychopath.
“His wife, Velma, is going in for a knee replacement on her right knee next week. Had the left one done five years ago. Went like a breeze. Still, George is a little apprehensive.”
Play nice with the nut case now. She smiled while her mind worked overtime. Security would be here in less than a minute. Her silver letter opener could gut a catfish but it was in her top desk drawer. Still smiling, she sat down as if to have a nice chat and employed the one weapon at her disposal—she crossed her legs. While her sister had received the bulk of her mother’s beauty, and Savannah had got whatever was left, her mother’s dancer genes and Savannah’s perverse need to exercise had eventually resulted in a facsimile of Belle’s former Radio City Music Hall Rockette legs. Psychotic or not, the man was, after all, a man.
She twisted to the side, turning her entwined legs to greater advantage. If she could distract him, she might be able to grab the solid brass sculpture on the nearby table before he could stop her.
She shifted again, uncrossed her legs slowly, then recrossed them several inches higher on her thigh. The man was in a trance now. She edged her fingers along the chair’s arm.
“Ms. Sweetfield?”
Savannah jumped, startled by the voice at the door. Her arm flung out, knocking the sculpture onto her exposed toes.
Pain shot from the point of impact up her limbs. Savannah howled. She’d never howled in her life. She grabbed the murderous objet d’art off her well-shod foot and waved back the security guard as he rushed toward her.
The man sitting in her custom chair eased back and propped his long, lean legs across her polished desk. She stared at his heavy boots wriggling hello at her from the desk’s corner.
“Steel toes, sweetheart. Only way to go in this big, bad world.”
She met the sun god’s calm gaze. In her mind’s eye, she jumped up and lunged toward him, her hands circling that bronzed throat. For the first time, she wished she were a woman who followed her impulses. Her hands gripped the sculpture. “When the police arrive to take this man away,” she spoke to the security guard without taking her eyes off the trespasser and his size-thirteen tootsies resting on her rosewood desk, “tell them I’ll be down before lunch to personally press charges.”
George cleared his throat. “Are you sure you want to do that, Ms. Sweetfield?”
Her head whipped to the guard. “A man breaks into my office—”
“Well, no, actually he didn’t break in, Ms. Sweetfield.”
“What’d he do—just ask for the key card at the front desk?”
“No.” The security guard glanced at the man behind her desk. “I let him in.”
“You let him in?” After the howl, she was careful to keep her voice temperate but firm. Her hands tightened on the sculpture.
“I figured, being the man is your fiancé and all—” Savannah’s head swung to the intruder.
“And since policy had been sent down to show Mr. Walker directly to your office on arrival, I escorted him here as instructed. Had a nice chat, too.”
“Well, I, for one, appreciate your rare sense of hospitality, George.” The sun god spoke. “And your even rarer, although mistaken, identification of me as worthy of this lovely lady.”
Amusement twinkled in the sun god’s emerald eyes as he flashed the whitest teeth she’d ever seen. Had he actually just winked at her? Her knuckles popped as she clutched the sculpture.
“No, George, my brother is the lucky man who gets to marry Ms. Sweetfield. I have only come as Cupid, bringing my soon-to-be sister-in-law a message from her one and only.”
“You’re McCormick’s brother?” The question came although Savannah already knew the answer. She’d heard enough of the stories. The one repeated most often was how he’d left his bride at the altar seven years earlier. The poor girl had died in a car crash a week later, but many said it was a broken heart that had killed her.
Savannah waited for the man to answer, the clear picture of her hands wrapped around his neck keeping her calm.
“Ms. Sweetfield, if I’ve—” The security guard’s apology was already in his tone.
“Don’t give it nothing but a chuckle, George,” the man interrupted. “Ms. Sweetfield’s confusion is understandable.”
When had he become the one in charge? And she the one whose actions needed explanation?
Probably about the time she imagined herself bounding over the desk to throttle him.
She looked at the smooth column of his neck. Would it be cool beneath her touch? Or pulsing with the heat of life the man seemed to thrive on?
“You see, George, my name is only mentioned in whispers or paired with colorful expletives. Certainly not repeated in the presence of a lady such as Ms. Sweetfield.”
“Cash Walker.” Savannah’s hands released from his throat. She held only the sculpture.
“Welcome to the family, darlin’.” Full lips that were rumored to have kissed countless women curved with complete enjoyment. “Was it the whispers you heard or the profanity?”
She stared right back at him. There was none of the predominant refined Walker fairness in this brother. The strong, clean lines of his face were harsh and unrepentant as if they, like the man, didn’t give a damn. Grooves running from his handsome nose to a mouth that seemed to say sex enhanced his image. His hair, the color of tarnished gold and swept back off his face with a natural carelessness, was several inches longer than her classic bob.
Her hand lifted, almost made it to her shoulder before she reminded herself that the urge to check her hair could be perceived as a sign of insecurity…or something worse.
Keeping her gaze on her future brother-in-law, she spoke to the guard. “Yes, this is all just a silly mixup. Thank you, George.” She emphasized the name, to Cash’s amusement.
She stood and extended her hand, keeping her gaze as firm as the shake she intended to deliver. “Cash.” His name made her voice sound breathless. “When McCormick mentioned you’d be coming in early, I didn’t realize he meant literally.” She smiled a future sister-in-law’s smile. “But unusual circumstances or not, I’m pleased to finally meet you.”
He pushed back from the desk and stood. His shoulders were wide and square, his long waist tapering into an elegant V toward narrow hips and long legs. He had the lean, physically alert look of one who spent much time running. He captured her hand.
