Her Secret Affair. Arlene JamesЧитать онлайн книгу.
It was easier just to do what had to be done himself than to delegate everything. Besides, the business pretty much ran itself from the corporate offices in Dallas. He had a lean, efficient staff operating a mere dozen offices around the world and a state-of-the-art web site. It was a neat, tight operation and a lucrative one. Oh, he knew he could make some fast bucks in a big way if he’d go public, put a BMT Travel Agency on every other street corner, but he knew instinctively that in the long run it would be the death of the thing.
BMT’s success was built on personal service to exotic locales. Part of the allure had to do with the fact that not just anyone could get in on the deal. Spaces were limited and prices high, satisfaction an absolute guarantee. His customers were upscale and demanding, just like him, and he personally negotiated every service contract with every nation that sponsored a tour package, which often resulted in travel visas not available to the general public. He also had the final say on every package that was designed and put together by his team, and he always took the first tour himself before any customer was allowed to buy space. Otherwise, he spent most of his time with Seth and Viola.
It was a good life, but he was mature enough to admit that lately it seemed to lack something, something about five-feet-six-inches tall and deliciously curved. He pondered that kiss again. The sizzle was still with him. Every time he looked in the mirror he half expected to find his eyebrows singed off. It had been a long while since a kiss had so affected him. Who was he kidding? No kiss had ever affected him like that one, and he knew darn well that she’d felt the same thing, so why was she avoiding him?
She could be involved with someone else. He disliked competition, but he could handle it—given the chance. Then again, he firmly believed that a man made his own chances, and so he would see her tomorrow. One way or another.
The bell rang at precisely ten o’clock in the morning, too late for breakfast and too early for lunch but well within the twenty-four-hour deadline. Brodie got up from his desk and started downstairs, aware that someone else within the household would likely beat him to the door.
When Brodie arrived on the scene, it was Viola who stood to one side of the closed door, beaming affectionately as Seth regaled “Mish Chey” with the latest episode of his morning television program, complete with extravagant gestures and sound effects. Chey stood, staring down at him politely as he spoke. Her assistant stood next to her, a familiar briefcase tucked beneath one arm as if to justify his presence. Not even bothering to pretend interest in the prattle of a little boy, he craned his neck to see what could be seen of the house. It was he who spotted Brodie and sent a discreet elbow to his employer’s ribs.
Chey straightened as Brodie strode near, and for an instant he thought he saw a flash of heat in her eyes, but it was followed so quickly by wariness that he couldn’t be certain. He didn’t smile, though the impulse was strong. She looked like a confection ready to be devoured, all ivory and pale blue and yellow hair twisted into an elaborate knot that begged to be unwound.
He placed a quelling hand on top of Seth’s head; otherwise, the monologue could have gone on indefinitely as Seth tended to get caught up in these recitals and embellish them, imagination blending seamlessly with actuality. Seth looked up, caught Brodie’s wrist with both hands and tried to climb him like a tree, announcing unnecessarily, “Mish Chey an’ some guy come see us, Daddy.”
Brodie ignored Chey and concentrated on the assistant, sticking out his hand. “I believe the name is George?”
“It’s Zhorzh,” the man sniffed, emphasizing the pronunciation with a decidedly French accent. Brodie mumbled an ill-natured apology, and only then did Zhorzh grace him with a handshake.
“This is my son Seth,” Brodie said by way of introduction, “and this is my grandmother, Viola Todd.”
“How do you do?” Georges said, bowing slightly over Viola’s hand.
To Brodie’s everlasting amazement, Viola actually blushed and batted her lashes. “A pleasure to meet you, Georges.”
Brodie barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes. Georges literally shoved past Chey, saying, “You don’t need me, do you, dear?” Before Chey could answer him, he addressed himself meaningfully to Viola. “I only came to get a look at this beautiful old house.”
Taking the bait, Viola insisted, “Well, I must show it to you, then. Come along, Seth.”
Georges handed the briefcase to Chey and followed Viola and Seth down the hall. Chey stared after them with such barely concealed disgust that Brodie had to discipline a smile. He was perfectly aware why Georges was there, and it wasn’t to see the house. He had to wonder just how much buffer she’d thought Georges would be.
“Let’s do this in my office,” he said, knowing that it would afford the greatest privacy of any room in the house, aside from his bedroom. The business setting apparently appealed to her, for she nodded and started briskly for the stairs. He let her pass him, wondering if she realized how much her hips swayed with her consternation. Grinning to himself, he slid his hands into his pants pockets to quell the urge to put his hands on her.
He followed her up the stairs, admiring the way her slender skirt pulled neatly across her rounded bottom with each step. By the time they reached the landing, his hands had made fists inside his pockets. Counting prudence the better part of valor, he went ahead of her and opened the door to his office. She stepped inside as if expecting to find a trap. He closed the door behind them and went to remove a crate of files from a chair at the end of the desk for her, then slid around to his own chair. She sat down gingerly, crossed her long lean legs and placed the briefcase on her lap. He took his seat and rolled the chair as close to the corner of the desk, and her, as he could. She was already spreading out the designs. A glance showed him that they were quite detailed this time and many more in number than before. She had been busy, and he gave that industry the respect it was due, studying each design carefully.
The family rooms were much as they’d discussed before, only the designs were fully realized this time. The guest rooms were the big surprise. She had employed specific themes here, each one designed to show off his personal collection of artifacts and art objects. One room was labeled Oriental, another European and a third Polynesian. The big surprise was the room labeled Western Americana. All of the designs, though specific in theme, showed an underlying period fashion in line with that of the rest of the house. He might have been an antebellum planter who had managed to see the world and even the future and bring back pieces of it to decorate his lovely home.
He tossed the last of the renderings onto the top of the pile he had made of the others and sat back in his chair, contemplating the woman who had made them. “These are,” he said deliberately, “incredible.”
She sat a little straighter, her personal guard lowered by the long minutes concentrated on business. “You approve then?”
“Wholeheartedly.”
She smiled for the first time and dove back into her briefcase. “You’ll need to look at these lists and schedules then.” Eagerly, she brought them out, lists of contractors, supplies, tasks to be completed, schedules for the same. He looked over everything carefully, nodding his approval.
“How soon can we get started?”
“I thought we’d start with the air-conditioning,” she said delightedly. “I can meet the contractor here tomorrow. He ought to have men on the job in the next day or so.”
He tossed the papers aside. “Do it.”
She seemed surprised. “Just like that? No quibbling over details?”
“We’ve been at least a week longer at this than I would have liked,” he drawled meaningfully.
She immediately bounced up to her feet and began stuffing the papers into the briefcase. “Fine. We’ll be here tomorrow.”
He recognized a bolt when he saw it and sat forward abruptly, clamping a hand around her wrist. “Sit down.”
He meant it as an order, and she took it that way, slowly sinking down into her chair,