Alice Reed was used to hiding her nerves. She was used to hiding almost everything. Today was different though. She could have disguised her anxiety about her upcoming interview as easily as she could have ignored a provocative mathematical challenge.
“Don’t worry about it. It’ll be a piece of cake. Just focus on what you know. You’re pretty damn awesome when you do that,” Maggie Lopez said soothingly as she stood over Alice and gave her a friendly, but critical once-over. Maggie was her graduate advisor at Arlington College’s executive MBA program. After a series of initial screwups that now looked like serendipity, Alice rented the apartment above Maggie’s garage. Most importantly, Maggie and Alice had become friends. She respected Maggie’s opinion, so her anxiety ratcheted up even higher when she saw her mentor’s slight frown as she stared down at her. A horrible thought hit her. She plopped her hand palm down on the top of her head.
“Shit. My roots. They’re showing, aren’t they? I forgot to color them. I got so caught up in running those numbers last night, I forgot about everything,” she moaned as she flung herself out of her chair and rushed to the mirror mounted on the wall in Maggie’s office. She was a decent athlete, but unaccustomed to wearing anything but combat boots, flip-flops, or tennis shoes. She nearly took a header in her new interview pumps.
Maggie sighed in amused exasperation behind her. “Only you would forget an interview for a chance at the most coveted executive training program in the United States—the world—because of some inconsequential calculations.”
Alice stared wide-eyed into the mirror. Her face looked especially pale due to her anxiety and the contrast between her short, near-black hair, navy suit, and lined dark blue eyes.
“You were the one who asked me to run those inconsequential numbers,” Alice mumbled distractedly. She flattened the hair next to her part and peered furiously into the mirror, as if she held her reflection responsible for all her many shortcomings. Sure enough, there were the telltale glimmering, reddish-gold roots. “Fuck it,” she muttered through her teeth. “This is a joke anyway. Durand has never sent a recruiter to Arlington College’s MBA program before. Is this another example of famous Durand charity?” she demanded, rounding on Maggie.
Maggie had grown immune to her frowns and sharp tongue in the past two years, however. She knew damn well that Alice’s bark was much worse than her bite.
Usually, anyway.
“Don’t you dare put down this program,” Maggie warned with a pointed finger and an ominous expression. “I happen to be extremely proud of it and everything we’ve accomplished in the past few years, thanks in large part to your brilliance, hard work, and groundbreaking research. Am I surprised Durand asked to recruit from our graduating class? No. I’m not,” Maggie added with finality, when Alice gave her a half-hopeful, half-doubtful look. “The philanthropy and profit article sent shock waves through the business community. Now stop feeling sorry for yourself,” she said as she dropped into her desk chair, making the springs protest loudly.
Alice’s pique deflated.
“I am proud of the P and P study,” she said honestly, referring to the groundbreaking business article she and a few other grad students had published with Maggie as the lead researcher several months ago. “Did Sebastian Kehoe tell you he was coming to Arlington because of the study?” she asked. Kehoe was the vice president of human resources for Durand.
“No.”
“Then why is he?” she grumbled.
Alice halfway wished Sebastian Kehoe had continued to ignore her little college. She performed best in solitude. It grated to have to sell herself to interviewers as if she were both a commodity and the pitchman for that commodity. To say she didn’t interview well was a gargantuan understatement.
“Durand is coming because they’re searching for talented, top-notch executives, I expect.”
Alice snorted. “You told me to look at this interview as good experience for future interviews. Even you don’t actually believe anyone at Arlington stands a chance with Durand.”
“I don’t know what I think, to be honest,” Maggie said stiffly. She snapped several tissues out of a box and held them up for Alice to take. “Now wipe off some of that crap you insist on putting on your eyes. Comb your hair back from the part to hide the roots. Put on a little lipstick for once. And for God’s sake, stiffen up the spine, Reed. I expect you to rise to the challenge, not wilt in the face of it.”
Alice’s spine did stiffen in reactionary anger for a few seconds before the truth of Maggie’s words penetrated. Her mentor was right. As usual.
“I’ll go to the bathroom to wash up a bit,” Alice agreed in a subdued tone. “I have ten minutes before the interview starts.”
“Good girl,” Maggie said bracingly.
“Alice,” Maggie called sharply as Alice reached for her office door.
“Yeah?” Alice asked, looking over her shoulder. She went still when she saw the unusually somber expression on Maggie’s face.
“There’s been a little change of circumstances as far as your interview. Sebastian Kehoe became ill a few days ago and had to send someone else in his place.”
A perverse, savage combination of disappointment, triumph, and relief swept through Alice. So. They’d sent some low-level stooge in Kehoe’s place? Figured. She knew Durand would never take anyone in her graduating class as a serious contender for “Camp Durand.” The four-week-long program on the shores of Lake Michigan was where the brightest and best business school graduates went every summer to show their stuff. Sixty percent of the Camp Durand counselors were chosen to become the highest-paid, most elite young executives in the world. Through a combination of team-building exercises, intense observation, and a highly reputable children’s camp held on the lake, Durand culled the chosen few, ending up with the best of the best.
Those selected for Camp Durand were paid a hefty sum for their weeks of service, whether they went on to become permanently employed or not. Alice coveted that chunk of money, even if she didn’t dare to hope she’d ever be offered a regular corporate position at the highly successful international company. She had student loans that would come due soon, and no solid job leads. Still . . . she was torn about being forced to prove herself to the slick, influential company.
“I knew Durand couldn’t be serious about Arlington,” Alice said.
Or me.
Maggie must have noticed the smirk Alice strained to hide. “They’re so unserious about Arlington College that their chief executive officer is coming in place of Sebastian Kehoe,” Maggie said.
Alice’s hand fell from the knob of the door and thumped on her thigh.
“What?”
Suddenly, Maggie seemed to be having difficulty meeting her stare. “Several Durand executives were on a business trip here in Chicago recently. When Kehoe got ill, Dylan Fall agreed to fill in for his remaining appointments.” Maggie glanced at her warily. Or was it worriedly? “I . . . I didn’t want to tell you because I thought you’d get more nervous, but I didn’t want you to walk in unprepared, either,” she said miserably.
A wave of queasiness hit her.
“Dylan Fall,” Alice stated in a flat, incredulous tone. “You’re telling me that in nine minutes, I’m going to be interviewed by the chief executive officer of Durand Enterprises?”
“That’s right.” Maggie’s expression of stark compassion faded and was replaced by her game face. “This is the opportunity of a lifetime. I don’t expect you to get a spot at Camp Durand, necessarily—that might be too much to hope for, all things considered. But you’re a unique, smart girl, and you’re kick-ass with numbers, and . . . well, you’re the best Arlington has got. You’re the best I’ve ever known,” she added with a defiant look. “At the very least, you had better walk in there, hold your head up, and do Arlington College proud.”
Maggie’s proclamation still rang in her head while Alice waited on hot coals in the waiting room of the dean of business’s offices. The dean had apparently cheerfully vacated his office for Dylan Fall.
Of course.
Fall probably had people regularly lying across mud puddles so he could cross without soiling his designer shoes.
Maggie had been right to call her out earlier. Alice didn’t stand a chance of getting into Camp Durand—let alone getting hired as an elite Durand executive. But that didn’t mean she would cower. Alice had stood up to bastards and lowlifes that were a hundred times scarier than a suit like Dylan Fall.
She’d stood up and walked away, pride intact.
“He’s ready for you,” Nancy Jorgensen, the business department secretary, twittered as she stuck her head around the corner of the door leading to a hallway. Alice stood, clutching her new vinyl portfolio and trying not to sway in her heels. She cast Nancy Jorgensen a dark glance. The middle-aged, typically gray little woman looked suspiciously flushed with color and excitement. She suspected she knew why: Dylan Fall. Traitor, Alice thought bitterly as she stalked past Nancy.
Just get this damn thing over with.
Instead of walking into the office Nancy specified, Alice charged. The door was lighter than she’d imagined from its formidable, oak-paneled appearance. She pushed at it too aggressively and it thumped against the wall inside the office. Alice started at the loud noise and froze on the threshold. The man sitting behind the large oak desk looked up and blinked.
“Is there a fire?” he asked quietly.
“No,” Alice said, frowning, wary because she wasn’t sure if he was kidding or not. Funny he had mentioned fire. She hadn’t been this nervous since she’d locked herself in her bedroom and her uncle Tim had ignited some of her mother’s meth-cooking chemicals in order to smoke her out of it. He hadn’t succeeded, but he’d very nearly killed Alice—and himself—in the process.
Nancy closed the door behind her with a hushed click. Dylan Fall studied her while Alice’s lungs burned for air.
He suddenly whipped off the glasses he wore and stood. Alice willed her ungainly limbs to move. He reached out his hand.
“Alice. Dylan Fall. I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to meet you,” he said, his voice low with just a hint of gravel to it. Her spine flickered with heightened awareness at the sound.
“Thank you for taking the time to see me,” she said, gripping his hand firmly and giving it a perfunctory pump. He held out his other hand in an elegant “please, sit” gesture and lowered into his seat. She sat in the leather chair before the large desk, feeling like her arms and legs were glaringly out of sync with her brain . . . worse, like she were a beggar supplicant at the polished altar of the god of wealth and power. She absolutely refused to be impressed or cowed by Dylan Fall.
You can refuse all you want. You are.
“I’m glad to have the opportunity to meet with you. From what I’ve gathered, much of the statistical brilliance from the philanthropy and profit article in the Journal of Finance and Business is owed to you,” he said, picking up a pen and tapping it on the desk. He moved the pen in an absentminded fashion, running long fingers over the smooth metal cylinder, flipping it, and repeating the process.
Alice ripped her stare off the vision and focused on his face. Her heart had started to beat uncomfortably fast. He played with the pen in a distracted way, but his gaze on her was razor sharp. The thick drapes were drawn, blocking out the spring sunlight. The contrast of shadow and glowing lamplight made his strong jawline and near-black eyes appear even more dramatic. Enigmatic. She’d already known what to expect from his looks, or at least that’s what she’d told herself. He had dark brown hair that was smooth, despite its thickness. It was longer in the front than in the back. He wore it combed back, the style suiting his business attire, even if it did look like it could be sexily disheveled in a heartbeat by a woman’s delving fingers. A pair of lustrous, drilling eyes advertised loud and clear you better give Fall exactly what he wanted, or he’d freeze you to the spot. Dark lashes and slanting brows added to a sort of sexy gypsy-gone-corporate-pirate aura about him. His face was handsome, but in a rugged fashion—full of character and strength. He was far from being a pretty boy. There was something rough about him, despite the expensive suit and epic composure. The cleft in his chin only added to the sense of hard, chiseled male beauty.
The media loved him. She’d seen photos of him clean-shaven, sexily scruffy, and even once with a beard and mustache. Currently, he wore a very thin, well-trimmed goatee. His skin wasn’t pale, but he didn’t look like the type of man who tanned as a matter of course, either. Alice imagined that, like her, he spent a lot of his time reading reports and squinting at numbers on a computer screen, or else sitting at the head of a boardroom table.
Durand Enterprises was well known for not only its strong philanthropic practices, but its financial robustness. Alice herself had suggested it right off the bat for their multifactorial, longitudinal study about the correlation between company philanthropy and profit. Alice had pored through journal and magazine articles, collecting relevant data on Durand, so she’d seen photos of Fall.
She’d stared at those photos a lot. So much so, in fact, that she’d started to think she was getting a little obsessed with the business mogul.
She was pretty unimpressed by men as a rule. She’d had to deal with her share of strutting, bullshitting, worthless, and dangerous males in her life. Good-looking men usually had even fewer redeeming qualities than the plain or ugly ones, in her opinion. The ugly ones had to compensate somehow in order to compete for women. She didn’t usually blink twice when she met a hot guy, but Dylan Fall was the kind of rough-and-tumble gorgeous that had all sorts of involuntary chemical reactions sparking in her body.
At the moment, she damned him straight to hell for it. Didn’t he possess an unfair amount of advantages as it was?
She straightened her spine and cleared her throat. “I was one of four research assistants on Dr. Lopez’s project. We all did our share of research and running numbers.”
His sliding fingers slowed on the pen. His gaze narrowed on her. “You’re a team player, then?” he asked quietly.
“I’m just stating the truth.”
“No. You’re not.”
Her chin went up. She almost immediately ducked her head when she felt how muscle and skin tightened, making her thrumming pulse probably more obvious to him, exposing her vulnerability.
“I spoke to Dr. Lopez about it in person before arriving here today,” he said. “She says that most of the innovative statistical analyses run on the project were not only completed by you, but designed by you.”
She couldn’t think of what to say, so she just held his stare.
“You don’t want to brag about your accomplishments?” he asked.
“Is that what you’d like? A little dog-and-pony show?”
His long fingers stilled, holding the silver pen mid-flip.
Shit.
Her cheeks flooded with heat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that,” she said, flustered. “I’m just a little confused as to why Durand is here at Arlington College. We all are, to be honest. Did you come because of the article?”
“Does that surprise you?” he asked, tossing the pen on the blotter. “Durand was one of the main companies featured. You single-handedly vindicated our strong philanthropic principles using hard statistics to do it. I’m impressed,” he said starkly. She swallowed thickly when he leaned forward, elbows on the desk, and met her stare. “Very.”
“Did you need vindication?” she couldn’t stop herself from asking.
He shrugged slightly and leaned back again, the action bringing her gaze downward to broad shoulders and a strong-looking chest. He knew how to wear a suit, that much was certain. Powerful. Elegantly dangerous. On Dylan Fall, a suit was transformed into the modern-day equivalent of a warrior’s armor.
“Not really, no. Durand is a privately held company, as I’m sure you already know. There are no stockholders to whom I need to justify my actions.”
“What about to other officers on the board?” she asked, curiosity trumping her anxiety.
His stare narrowed on her. “I was under the impression I was the one interviewing you.”
“Sorry,” she said quickly. Is that all she was going to do during this interview? Apologize? And was that a tiny smile tilting his mouth? Somehow, she’d rather it wasn’t, as unsettling as she was finding this whole experience. She wasn’t wilting, like Maggie had worried she would, but she was blowing this. Not by a slow burn, either.
More like death by blowtorch.
“I was just curious about Durand’s reaction to the article,” she backpedaled. “I worked on that project even in my sleep for fifteen months straight. It sort of gets into your blood.”
“As someone who sleeps, drinks, and eats Durand, I’m inclined to understand completely,” he said dryly. “Actually, Durand’s philanthropic goals are built in to Alan Durand’s—the company founder’s—directives. Durand has a long tradition of community projects, people-building, and charitable programs. After completing the study, were you convinced it’s a worthwhile goal for a company to have?”
“Sir?”
“Do you think most companies should include philanthropy in their operating directives?”
“The statistics certainly indicate they should.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
She stared at her interlaced fingers, lying on top of her folder. A small patch of perspiration wetted the vinyl. “If a company can increase its profits by doing good works for the community and its people, it seems like a win-win situation all around, doesn’t it?”
She looked up at his dry laugh. “That’s certainly a politically correct answer. Now give me an honest one, Alice. Do you think companies like Durand should continue with philanthropic community efforts?”
The silence stretched taut.
“Alice?” he prodded quietly.
“Of course. It’s just . . .”
“What?”
“It’s nothing.” His dark brows slanted menacingly. “It’s only . . . It seems . . .” What the hell, you’ve already blown the interview anyway. Everyone knows you never stood a chance from the get-go. “A little patronizing, that’s all.” She cringed a little when he went eerily still. “Aside from that, I think the answer is an obvious yes. I think large corporations should have charitable directives.”
“Patronizing?” he asked, his quiet voice striking her as similar to the deep purr of a misleadingly calm lion. “Like Durand is grandstanding, you mean. Making itself look good in the public’s eye for the sole purpose of selling widgets . . . or candy bars, soda, energy drinks, and chocolate milk, among other things, in Durand’s case.”
“All of the things your campers at Camp Durand—low-income urban youth from poverty-infested neighborhoods—consume,” she couldn’t stop herself from saying. Heat rushed into her cheeks.
She forced herself not to flinch under his boring stare, but her defiance definitely wavered. To call his eyes merely “deepest brown” or “almost black” vastly understated their impact. They shone like polished stones with fire in the depths. Somehow, his eyes managed to startle her on a constant basis instead of a quick rush.
“Do you consume those products, Alice?”
“Once in a while,” she said with a shrug. In truth, she was a chocoholic. Durand Jingdots, Sweet Adelaides, and Salty Chocolate Caramels rated among her favorite guilty pleasures while sitting at her computer running numbers. Not that she’d confess that weakness to Dylan Fall. “Why?” she asked warily. “Is that a prerequisite to be chosen for the Durand training program?”
“No,” he said, picking up a piece of paper from his desk. Her heart raced. He was going to tell her any second the interview was over. Let him. The sooner she was done here, the better. He idly perused what she realized was her resume. “But I happen to know that Little Paradise—where you grew up—is one of the crime-infested, low-income urban areas you just described.”
Her heart jumped uncomfortably against her sternum. She unglued her tongue from the top of her mouth.
“How did you know I grew up in Little Paradise?” she rasped, mortified that Dylan Fall, of all people, knew about the infamous place where she’d grown up—Little Paradise, the grossly inaptly named, sole remaining trailer park within the Chicago city limits; a grimy, mangy little community tainted by toxic-smelling fumes from the nearby factories of Gary, Indiana. The address wasn’t on her resume. She wanted no part of Little Paradise. She’d used a local address ever since she’d left for college nearly six years ago.
“Dr. Lopez mentioned it,” he said without batting an eye. “Are you ashamed of where you grew up?”
“No,” she lied emphatically.
“Good,” he said, dropping her resume to the desktop. “You shouldn’t be.”
He was probably only ten or so years older than her almost twenty-four years. She resented him for his air of experience and unflappable composure, despite his relative youth. What were the circumstances of him becoming CEO of Durand at such a young age? Wasn’t he related to the company founder or something? She struggled to recall. It’d been extremely difficult to find personal details about both Alan Durand and Dylan Fall. She’d never found many details about Fall’s meteoric rise in the powerful company.
It suddenly struck her full-force how out of place she was in the face of his polished, supreme confidence. He was no doubt amused by her gauche defensiveness and confusion.
“Are you going to ask me any relevant questions in regard to business, my interest in Durand, or my qualifications?” she asked through a tense jaw.
“I thought that’s what I’d been doing.” Her rigid expression didn’t break. He exhaled. “Fine.” He briskly put on the charcoal-gray glasses he’d been wearing and picked up some papers from the desk. He looked extremely sexy wearing those glasses.
Of course.
“I have some questions for you in regard to your research decisions on the philanthropy and profit research.”
She began to relax slightly as he launched into a series of pointed queries regarding her statistical analysis. Alice knew mathematical models backward and forward. She was also a workaholic. In this arena, he couldn’t fluster her. Even so, she sensed after a period of time that Fall not only understood the nuances of the statistics as well, if not better, than her, he was light-years ahead of her in knowledge about what her conclusions meant in the practical workings of the business world. She was envious of his knowledge, but also curious. Hungry. Tantalized by the glittering promise of power that those numbers might grant her when paired with knowledge and experience like Fall’s.
After nearly an hour of intense question and answering, he tipped his forearm and glanced at his watch.
“You’re a statistical trend spotter, aren’t you?” he asked casually, referring to her ability to absorb data and quickly break it down into meaningful trends, spot anomalies, and even predict outcomes.
“I suppose you could call me that,” Alice said.
“Are you a savant?”
“No,” she denied tensely. The word savant labeled her as a freak. All she wanted was to go unnoticed. Freaks didn’t blend in. “I just have a decent feel for numbers and what they mean.”
“You have a phenomenal feel. A rare gift,” he corrected, his deep voice making her spine prickle again in heightened awareness.
“I think you’ve informed me of just about everything I need to know,” he suddenly said briskly, his gaze on the papers on the desk. Alice eased forward in her chair, recognizing the end of the interview. “I was wondering—were you interested specifically in Durand Enterprises before you began the philanthropy study?”
She shook her head. “No. I mean . . . I knew about it, of course. I was familiar with both its corporate success and philanthropic emphasis.”
“Ah. I was under the impression from your advisor that you were the one who first suggested Durand for the study,” he said.
“I might have been. I’m a business major,” she said shrugging. “Durand Enterprises is one of the most successful businesses in the world.”
He took off his glasses, his gaze on her sharp.
“Are there any questions you have for me?” he asked after a pause in which Alice had to force herself not to squirm.
“How many people will be chosen as Camp Durand counselors?”
“Fifteen. We try to keep the camper-to-counselor ratio as low as possible, while offering scholarships to as many of the kids as we can. New-participant numbers remain fairly steady, but the returning campers have to keep a clean legal record and pass several random drug tests if they have a history, in addition to maintaining an acceptable grade point average. As you probably already know, the camp focuses on junior high and high school-aged kids. Each counselor usually has around ten kids on his or her team.”
“So only nine counselors make the cut to become a Durand manager,” she reflected. “Do you honestly think that this setup—a summer camp on the shores of Lake Michigan for three weeks—really gives Durand the information it needs to hire top-notch executives?” she asked skeptically. “It seems a little”—silly, she said in the privacy of her brain—“odd to expect business graduate students to have the necessary experience. We’re not social workers or teachers. Or babysitters.”
He flashed her a glance when she mumbled the last under her breath.
“You’re not expected to be any of those. Well . . . maybe teacher, but not in the classic sense. There are regular, experienced staff at Camp Durand—cabin and grounds supervisors around the clock. It’s true, though, that the counselors play a crucial role in the campers’ experience. The Durand counselors are, essentially, the face of leadership and support to each individual camper. We offer a week-long training period to the counselors, so they know what to expect. That training program is similar to many management retreats utilized around the world by companies to hone leadership skills. But that’s only the beginning. Then the kids arrive, and the challenge really begins. What’s required to succeed as a counselor—and as a Durand executive—is a large measure of ingenuity, leadership, people skills, and humanity. Those are qualities we’ve been unable to measure adequately from a resume, recommendation letters—which are almost always glowing—and a few interviews. Camp Durand works for us, no matter how unconventional it may seem. It’s worked for us for decades. The executive contestants are under nearly constant observation for four weeks: one week of training and the three weeks while the children are there. Their schedule is arduous. They’re considered to be on the clock from seven thirty in the morning until nine p.m., when the night supervisory staff takes over for them. They’re expected to work Saturdays until three, with only Sundays off. It’s not enough to brag about qualities of leadership, planning, intelligence, innovation, salesmanship, compassion, determination, hard work, and courage: The counselors have to demonstrate those skills daily with a group of children, some of whom have been labeled as criminal, uncooperative, manipulative, lazy, or unreachable. It’s a lot harder than it sounds at first blush,” he said, his mild tone in direct contrast to his lancing stare.
“So Durand does it again. It combines philanthropy—no, it uses it—to optimize the bottom line.”
His smile was closemouthed, slashing . . . dangerous.
“Yes, I understand. That’s the way you would view it,” he mused as if to himself, sounding not at all concerned by her pessimism as he leaned back in his chair. His stare on her made her feel like a wreck he was considering making into a project. It was a cold, sharp knife, that stare, so Alice couldn’t figure out why it made her sweat so bad.
“Would you be adverse to accepting a position at such a seemingly mercenary organization?” he asked.
“No,” she replied without pause.
His gleaming brows arched. “Ah. So you’re a little mercenary yourself.”
“I don’t know about that. I’m not stupid, if that’s what you mean.”
He gave a gruff bark of laughter. “No one could accuse you of stupidity,” he said with a swift glance at her paperwork spread across the desk. He stood abruptly. Alice jumped up like she’d been released after being held down on springs.
“This has been enlightening,” he said briskly, holding out his hand. They shook. “We’ll be making our decision on finalists for Camp Durand within the next two weeks. Chicago-area colleges and universities were Sebastian Kehoe’s last stop on the recruitment tour. We’ll be in contact.”
“Right.”
His eyes flashed. She grimaced. She hadn’t meant to sound sarcastic, but recognized she had. Well, at least this fiasco was over with. Now she had all the valuable interviewing experience either she or Maggie could ever want for her. Everything after Dylan Fall would be trite. She had a future full of cakewalk interviews before she landed her new, realistic job.
Probably a boring, entry-level, menial one given the current job market.
She turned to go.
“Alice.”
She came to an abrupt halt, pausing in the action of reaching for the door. She didn’t care for the fact that she looked over her shoulder with a measure of eagerness. It was hard not to crave every glance she could get of Dylan Fall. Despite the fact that he intimidated her, he was one hell of a sight.
“I know a man—he’s a member of the Durand board, in fact—who grew up in the Austin neighborhood on the west side of Chicago,” Fall said. “Are you familiar with that neighborhood?”
She studied him narrowly, trying to see his angle and failing. “Yeah. It’s one of the worst in the city.”
“Worse than Little Paradise.”
She barely repressed a snort. Mr. Slick, Gorgeous CEO in his immaculate Italian suit had a lot of nerve, presuming to know about Little Paradise. He noticed her flash of disdain, because his brows rose in a silent, pointed query.
“There’s nothing worse than urban hillbillies, Mr. Fall,” she explained with a small, apologetic smile. “I don’t know how much you actually know about Little Paradise, but that’s a pretty apt descriptor for who lives in the trailer park there. It’s just that in our case, the ‘hill’ is a giant garbage dump.”
She’d been trying to use levity. She must have only sounded flippant, though, because he looked very sober.
“My point is, Durand doesn’t just offer philanthropy to needy kids to get publicity and prime photo ops, and then drop them off on the streets and forget about them. The man I’m speaking of rose through the ranks, starting as a Camp Durand camper when he was twelve years old. People-building isn’t an empty philosophy at Durand. We want the best, no matter where the best comes from.”
She realized belatedly she’d turned and was staring at him now full in the face. Searching. Suspicious.
Hopeful.
Against her will, her gaze flickered down over his snow-white tailored dress shirt and light blue silk tie. A vivid, shocking impression popped into her head of sliding her fingers beneath that crisp cotton and touching warm skin, her palm gliding against the ridges and hollows of bone and dense, lean muscle. Her gaze dropped to his hands.
Just the thought of his hands sliding across her skin made her lungs freeze.
I’ll bet he could play me perfectly. He just looks like he knows his way around a woman’s body. He’d do things to me I’ve never even imagined.
They were completely inappropriate thoughts, but that didn’t halt her instinctive reaction. Need rushed through her like a shock to the flesh, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. Her thighs tightened, as if to contain that unexpected flash fire.
Maybe it was because her few former lovers suddenly seemed young and clumsy in comparison to Dylan Fall?
Her stare leapt guiltily to his face. His dark brows slanted dangerously, but he also looked a little . . . startled? His eyes flickered downward, just like hers had. She hunched her shoulders slightly at the webwork of sensation that tingled the skin of her breasts, tightening her nipples against her bra.
The whole scoring, nonverbal exchange lasted all of three ephemeral seconds.
Her hand curled into a fist when she recognized she’d let her guard drop.
“I’m happy for your friend. But I’m not a charity project,” she said.
“Neither was he.”
She flinched slightly at the stinging authority of his reply. Dylan Fall was a little scary in that moment.
“We’ll be in touch,” he repeated, looking down at the desk in a preoccupied fashion, and she knew she’d imagined not only that spark of mutual lust, but his cold, clear anger at her pitiful display of insubordination.