The Millionaire And The Glass Slipper. Christine FlynnЧитать онлайн книгу.
his mother’s maiden name. He needed to remember that. “Sorry,” he replied, “but that’s me.” He handed her another file as his eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t be Candace Chapman, would you?”
Still looking a little flustered, she took the file, reached for another. She had a beautiful mouth. Full. Unadorned. Kissable.
With a frown, he reminded himself that she also didn’t look a day over twenty-two. Not exactly jailbait, but not fair game for a man who preferred women who held as few illusions as he did when it came to the opposite sex.
“No. I’m…no,” she repeated. “I know you have a one-o’clock with her, though. I can get these. Really,” she insisted, her focus on the transparencies and computer disks she quickly pushed back into a folder. She reached past him for another disk. Bumping his knee with her forearm, she pulled back, apparently deciding that disk could wait. “If you’ll have a seat, I’ll let her know you’re here.”
He handed her the disk and another file, then watched her snatch up the rest and start to rise. Snagging her upper arm, rising, too, he helped her to her feet.
“Thank you,” she murmured, and aimed an apologetic smile at his chin before she reached across the desk to punch a button on the ringing phone.
Her tone totally professional, she answered with a brisk, “Good afternoon, Kelton & Associates,” as she dumped the files on the desk.
His glance ran over the curve of her narrow hips, down to where her slim skirt ended modestly at the back of her knees. Her slender legs were covered with dark gray tights. The black ballet flats she wore spoke of comfort and practicality. Nothing about the way she dressed could be remotely construed as provocative. Yet he found himself thinking her body looked as taut as the muscles in her arm had felt, when a tall, leggy blond in killer heels and a lipstick-red suit rounded the corner into the reception area.
“I’ll need ten copies of this report, too, Amy. And when you get a chance—” she continued, only to cut herself off when her head snapped up and she saw him standing there.
The young woman at the desk immediately transferred the call she’d answered and put another on hold. “This is Mr. Taylor,” she informed the blonde with a nod in his direction. “He just arrived. Ten copies,” she repeated, and slipped into the secretarial chair to straighten the files she’d dropped while telling whoever was on the line that the person he wanted to speak with wasn’t in but that she’d be happy to transfer him to her voice mail if he wanted to leave a message.
The thirty-something ad executive in the red power suit gave him an easy smile as she extended her perfectly manicured hand. In that same moment, she managed a blink-of-an-eye once-over that somehow managed to take in everything from his Italian leather shoes to the quality of his open-collared dress shirt and hand-tailored sport coat and the neat cut of his dark, slightly graying hair.
“Jared Taylor. I’m Candace Chapman.” Eyes the pure blue of a summer sky held his. Expertly applied makeup turned her strikingly attractive features flawless. “I’ve looked forward to meeting you. It’s always exciting to be in on the birth of a new company.” She tipped her head to one side, the motion causing her shining, shoulder-length hair to shimmer in the overhead lights. She snagged it back with her left, noticeably ringless, hand.
“Hold my calls, will you please?” she asked the young woman now heading into another hallway with the report she’d been handed. “Would you like coffee?” Candace asked him.
His attention diverted as much by the woman speaking to him as his reason for being there, he replied, “Please. Black.”
“And two coffees?” she called after her infinitely more nondescript subordinate.
“So, tell me, Jared,” she continued, only to quickly pause. “May I call you Jared?”
Since he’d been J.T. all his life, “Jared” would definitely take getting used to. “If I can call you Candace.”
“Of course.” The charming smile was back. “Anyway,” she continued, leading him past offices with employees at drafting tables, “you mentioned on the phone that you’re new to the Portland market. Are you planning to offer your architectural services only in Oregon, or all of the Northwest?”
She and the agency knew exactly how to make an impression. The first thing he noticed when she led him into her corner office at the end of the hall was an expansive view of the city, its river dividing east side from west and several of the dozen bridges linking them together. Then there were the industry and civic awards on and above a black-lacquered credenza behind the matching executive desk. Photos in sleek frames of Candace and an older woman who looked much like her shaking the hands of presumably important personages graced the opposite wall.
Rather than sit in the executive chair behind the desk, she headed for the end of the room and one of four barrel chairs spaced around a low cube-shaped coffee table.
“I’m not limiting myself,” he replied, as they settled themselves. “I’ll go wherever the client wants.”
She crossed her long legs, carefully adjusted her skirt and balanced a yellow legal pad in her lap. “And your market will be business developers?”
“And companies looking to build new facilities. I can handle anything from a single-level building to multilevel campuses with subterranean access and egress.”
“So we’ll need saturation in trade and financial magazines,” she concluded. “Do you mind if I ask what sort of advertising you do now?”
He told her he did none himself, then danced around the nature of his present situation by explaining that he was with a company that designed industrial complexes in Europe and Asia. He didn’t say a word that wasn’t true, he just omitted a lot as he went on to tell her that his partners didn’t yet know he was leaving. No one in the company did. Because of that, because he was striking out on his own, confidentiality was imperative.
It was as he was speaking of the need for discretion that he realized the associate she’d addressed as “Amy” had entered the room. With his back to the door, he didn’t see her until he noticed Candace give her a nod and she moved to his side.
Holding the small tray she carried low so he could take his cup, she accepted his “Thanks,” with a quiet “You’re welcome,” then set the tray with the other mug soundlessly on the cube.
The gaminelike woman was the antithesis of the chic advertising executive with the obvious business savvy and not-so-subtle sexuality. Even as the girl in gray slipped back out, her motions quiet, efficient, the woman across from him shifted to cross her legs the other way.
The motion immediately drew his glance to the length of her shapely calves. A man would have to be drawing his last breath not to notice legs like hers.
“No one outside the offices of Kelton & Associates will know of your plans until the time comes to unveil them,” Candace assured him. “Everyone from our assistant,” she said with a nod toward the now empty doorway, “to our graphic artists knows it would hardly be to our advantage to ruin the impact of an advertising campaign or alienate a client.”
“Just so we understand each other.”
She touched her pen to the corner of her glossy red mouth. “I’m certain we do. So,” she said, “talk to me about your vision. Do you have a mission statement?”
She asked intelligent questions, took notes, and spent the next ten minutes having him do the talking to get as much information as possible. He spent the next ten letting her impress him with previous work they’d done for their clients and confirming what he’d learned about the agency in his research. By the time Candace gave him a tour of the place and started introducing him to the various people on the agency’s creative team, she was well on her way to convincing him that Kelton & Associates was the firm he needed to launch his new venture.
It also became enormously apparent that Candace Chapman hadn’t a clue that he was Harrison