made a woman, he wondered and reached up to scratch his jaw, who was put together in a package like a sweet little china doll think she had to go through life like a caricature of a turn-of-the-century, stiffbacked, prim and proper suffragette?
Hell, he bet she did starch her panties. And they were probably white. Most likely cotton. With days of the week that she always wore on the proper day.
Why that image made him hot, he had no idea.
She was within a block now and he couldn’t help but appreciate the view. She was barely five-four. Her pale blond hair and large hazel eyes gave her a cute, fragile, elfin look that in his weaker moments made him want to protect her as much as provoke her. Since he was fairly certain she’d never let anyone protect her—regardless that she looked as delicate as the petals on a yellow rose—provoking her was a much better bet.
And again, she was not his type. She was the exact opposite of Rea, who’d been svelte, sexy and as predatory as a jungle cat. Thoughts of his ex made him shiver. Too bad he’d been so blinded by the svelte, sexy parts that he’d missed the other characteristic until it was too late.
Whoa, what’s this, he wondered when he saw Chrissie cross the street. Without a doubt she was on her way up to see him.
Fine. He walked away from the window, picked up the box and set it on his desk. He’d been about to have his secretary call a courier to pick it up and deliver it to Chrissie anyway. This would save him a buck or two. He’d had his fun. Now she could have her precious box. And the musty-smelling saddlebag that was in it.
His secretary, Janice Smith, who had been with him from the beginning seven years ago, buzzed him on the intercom as he settled in behind his desk.
“Yes, Janice.”
“Christine Travers is here to see you, Mr. Thorne.”
“Send her in.”
He rocked back in his chair. Propping his elbows on the arms and steepling his fingers beneath his chin, he prepared to be magnanimous. It wasn’t nearly as much fun as being obnoxious, but, hey, if nothing else, it would be a kick to throw her off guard by being nice.
She should have called, Christine realized when she found herself standing outside Jacob Thorne’s office door. Her palms began to sweat. She should have saved herself the stress of a face-to-face meeting.
But that was the coward’s way out and she’d never been that. She wasn’t starting now. Not for someone like him.
She turned the handle and stepped inside, expecting…well, not really knowing what to expect when she entered his inner sanctum. He did, however, manage to surprise her.
The office was large but not ostentatious. The furniture was top-of-the-line but functional, all stylish black lacquer and shining chrome. There wasn’t a dead animal in sight—either on the floor made into a rug or on the wall in the guise of a hat rack or displayed as a trophy. She grudgingly gave him points for that. And for the stunning collection of photographs adorning the walls.
Each dramatically framed photo was of a different oil fire site. And each photo captured all the fury, the danger and the unyielding hunger of the flames shooting into the air like geysers and of the courageous men who risked their lives putting them out.
“Impressive, aren’t they?”
She jerked her attention from the photographs to the man lounging idly behind a desk that was far from empty yet neat and uncluttered. He was watching her with a look that made her think of a lion lounging lazily in the sun, overseeing the lioness doing all the work. Clearly, though, he was a hands-on boss if the stacks of paperwork were any indication. Okay. So he got another point for being involved.
“Very,” she agreed belatedly with a nod back to the photos, because what was really impressive was the way he looked behind that desk and she didn’t want him to see how he had affected her. Since her cheeks were hot, she figured they were also pink. It was a curse of her fair complexion.
In the meantime she’d never seen him in business mode. She’d seen him at death’s door, as pale as the hospital sheets beneath him. She’d seen him all sexy swagger and irritating indolence, as he’d been the other night at the auction. This man-in-charge persona was disconcerting—and unexpectedly appealing.
His shirt was white. The top button was undone and his cuffs were rolled up on his strong forearms. His brown suit jacket and a truly stunning silk tie hung on the coatrack behind him. Style. He had it. In spades.
“That one was taken in Kuwait,” he said when she averted her attention to a print that, once she was able to study it without being hyperaware of him, gave her chills just thinking about the fierceness of the blaze.
“I’ll go to the ball with you,” she said without turning back to him.
Okay. It was out. She hadn’t intended to just blurt it out that way but now that she was here, now that she was suddenly aware of him as an entity other than the proverbial Thorne-in-her-side, she wanted to get this over with and get away from him as quickly as possible. And away from this unbelievable resurgence of attraction that not only blindsided her but also shook her composure. The sooner they cut this deal, the sooner she could go on about her business.
When she was met with nothing but silence, she drew a bracing breath and turned toward him.
He was frowning. Not a gloating or even an angry frown, but more as though he was in deep thought or contemplating something heavy.
“I said I’d go to the ball with you,” she repeated, and he finally rocked forward in his chair and came to attention behind his desk.
“So you did.”
And still he scowled.
Perplexed, she eyed him with wary suspicion. “Wasn’t that the condition?”
“Of me turning over the box?”
Her exasperation at the way he was drawing this out came in the form of an impatient breath. “I believe it was.”
“Ah. Well, you just said the magic word. Was. That was my condition. Two days ago. But now, we’re dealing with today.”
She narrowed her eyes. “There was a time limit?”
“It seems so, yeah.”
Sure. Now he was smiling.
Because this was still a joke to him. He had never intended for her to go to the dance with him. Just as she’d thought. He’d merely been playing with her, and when she’d called him on it, he’d figured a way to weasel out of the invitation. It shouldn’t have hurt so much.
“Why is this stuff so important to you anyway?” he asked, standing. He walked around the desk and settled a hip on its corner.
“Historic value,” she said truthfully.
He crossed his arms over his chest and scowled. “Musty saddlebags? Old guns? A lady’s purse? What else? Oh, yeah. A faded map.”
Her heart jumped over itself. “You looked?”
“You
