not interested in what you need, Maggie. It’s too late for that.”
“But—”
“Meeting’s over. It’s time for you to go.”
For the briefest second, her shoulders slumped. But just as quickly, she reminded herself that she was stronger now and giving up was not an option. She used her old trick of mentally counting from one to five as she made one last effort to draw from that sturdy well of self-confidence she’d fought so hard to reconstruct.
Defiantly she lifted her chin and stared him in the eyes. “I’m not leaving this office until you hear what I have to say.”
Two
He had to admire her persistence.
Still, there was no way Connor would play this game with her. At this point in his life, he wanted less than nothing to do with Mary Margaret Jameson. Yes, they’d been high school sweethearts and college lovers. At age twenty-two, he’d been crazy in love with her and had planned to live with her for the rest of his life. But then she’d left him with barely a word of warning, moved to the East Coast and married some rich guy, shattering Connor’s foolish heart into a zillion pieces. That was ten years ago. At the time, he vowed never to be made a fool of again by any woman, especially Maggie Jameson.
Except it now looked as if she’d succeeded in fooling him again. All it took was a convenient lie. But then, he’d found out long ago just how good Maggie was at lying.
The last time they’d spoken to each other was on the phone. How screwed up was it that Connor could still remember their final conversation? He’d been about to go on some camping thing with his brothers and she’d mentioned that she wouldn’t be there when he got home. How could he have known she meant that she really wouldn’t be there? Like, gone. Out of his life. Forever.
Well, until today. Now here she was, claiming to be the very person he’d been trying to track down for months.
Odd how this mystery had played itself out, Connor thought. Eighteen months ago, a fledgling beer maker began to appear on the scene and was soon sweeping medals and gold ribbons at every beer competition in the western states. The extraordinary young brewmeister’s name was Taylor James, but that was all anyone knew about “him.” He never showed up in person to present his latest formulation or to claim his prize, sending a representative instead.
Taylor James’s reputation gained ground as the quality of his formulas grew. He won more and more major prize categories while attracting more and more attention within the industry.
And yet no one had ever seen him.
Connor had been determined to find Taylor James and, with any luck, buy him out. Or hire him. But he hadn’t been able to locate him. Who was this person making these great new beers and ales while continuing to hide himself away from his adoring public? For the past year, Taylor James had continued to beat out every other rival. Including, for the first time ever, MacLaren’s Pride, the pale ale that had put the MacLaren brothers on the map and helped them make their first million. Losing that contest had been a slap in the face and had made the MacLarens even more determined to find the mysterious beer maker.
Through one of the competitions, Connor was able to obtain Taylor James’s email address and immediately started writing the guy. He received no answer. From another competition, Connor unearthed a post office box number. He began sending letters, asking if the elusive brewer would be interested in meeting to discuss an investment opportunity. He never heard a word back—until this moment.
Now as he stared at the woman claiming to be the reclusive new genius of beer making, Connor was tempted to toss the fraudulent Ms. James out on her ear. It would be even more fun to call security and have her ignominiously escorted out to the sidewalk. The shameful exit might give her a minuscule taste of the pain and humiliation he’d endured when she walked out of his life all those years ago.
But that would send the wrong signal, Connor reasoned. Maggie would take it as a sign that he actually cared one way or the other about her. And he didn’t. The purely physical reaction to her presence meant nothing. He was a guy, after all. And he had to admit he was curious as to why she’d hidden herself away and worked under an assumed name. She was a talented brewer, damn it. Her latest series of beers and ales were spectacular. And why wouldn’t they be? She came from a long line of clever Scottish brewers, including her grandfather Angus, who had retired from the business years ago.
So he’d give her a few minutes to tell her story. And then he’d kick her excellent behind right out of his office.
With a generous sweep of his hand, he offered her one of the visitors’ chairs. Once she was seated, he sat and faced her. “You’ve got five minutes to say whatever you came to tell me, Maggie.”
“Fine.” She sat and cleared her throat, then smoothed her jacket down a few times. She seemed nervous, but Connor knew better. She was playing the delicate angel, a role she had always performed to perfection.
He scowled, remembering that he used to call her his Red-Haired Angel. She still had gorgeous thick red hair that tumbled down her back, and her skin was still that perfect peaches and cream he’d always loved to touch. God, she was as beautiful as she was the day he met her. But she was no angel. Connor had learned that the hard way.
“My formulas have won every eligible competition for the past eighteen months,” she began slowly, picking up speed and confidence as she spoke. “I’ve singlehandedly transformed the pale ale category overnight. That’s a quote from the leading reviewer in the industry, by the way. And it’s well deserved. I’m the best new beer maker to come along in years.”
“I know all that.” Connor sat back in his chair. “It’s one of the reasons why I’ve been trying to hunt down Taylor James all these months. For some reason, he didn’t feel compelled to respond.”
“He wasn’t ready,” she murmured, staring at her hands.
Connor was certain that those were the first truthful words she’d uttered since walking into his office.
She pursed her lips as if weighing her next sentence, but all Connor could think was that those heaven-sent lips were still so desirable that one pout from her could twist his guts into knots.
His fists tightened. He was about to put an end to this nonsense when she finally continued to talk.
“Here’s my offer,” she said, leaning forward in her chair. “I’ll sell you all of those prizewinning formulas and I’ll also create something unique and new for MacLaren. It’ll be perfect as a Christmas ale and you’ll sell every last bottle, I guarantee it.”
“At what price, Maggie?”
She hesitated, then named a figure that would keep a small country afloat for a year or two. The amount was so far out in left field, Connor began to laugh. “That’s absurd. It’s not worth it.”
“Yes, it is,” she insisted. “And you know it, Connor. You said it yourself. The Taylor James brand is golden. You’ll be able to use the name on all your packaging and advertising and you’ll make your money back a thousand times over.”
She was right, but he wasn’t going to admit that just yet. He stared at her for a minute, wondering what her real motivation was. Why had she come to him? There had to be other companies that wanted to do business
