Tempting the Billionaire (6 page)

T
ownsend flew in from Miami to his Columbus headquarters named, fittingly, Town Ventures. Crickitt had learned that his newly acquired company, MajicSweep, wasn’t his first rodeo. Which, according to Shane, was good news for August Industries. Repeat business was a rarity.

“So,” Shane said, ushering Crickitt into the air-conditioned lobby, “this could be huge for us.” He worked the buttons on his jacket through their holes with the fingers of one hand. “Ready?” If he was nervous, it didn’t show. He was pressed and poised, not a hair out of place. She allowed her gaze to slide down his jacket and pants, taking in the sleek lines and the way his body filled out his suit.

“Ready,” she said, dragging her eyes from his broad shoulders and trying to mimic his Fonzie cool.

On the eighteenth floor, they stepped out of the glass elevator. Shane introduced himself to the receptionist, a pleasant-looking blonde who returned his smile and directed them to the conference room. When Shane thanked her and turned, the woman perused the length of his body with hungry eyes. She noticed Crickitt watching her but only offered an unapologetic shoulder shrug as if to ask,
Do you blame me?

And, no, she didn’t. Shane’s attractiveness was undeniable.

A young man wearing a brown suit gestured for them to go into the conference room where light poured in from the floor-to-ceiling windows that ran along one long wall. Townsend’s staff each gave them an acknowledging nod before turning back to murmur among themselves, their voices echoing off the high, bare ceilings.

“Mr. August.” Townsend entered and his staff cut their conversations off midsentence. Townsend extended a palm, standing a few inches over her Shane’s six three. His tanned skin contrasted dramatically with his white, cropped hair, and his suit looked as if it’d been stitched together while he wore it.

“This is my assistant, Crickitt Day,” Shane said.

“Nice to meet you,” Townsend said with a scowl suggesting the contrary. Crickitt kept a smile on her face and echoed his greeting, determined not to be intimidated by his powerful presence.

With staff introductions out of the way, Crickitt followed Shane’s lead and took a seat at the long mahogany table. Henry’s six staff members waited until Townsend took his seat before collapsing into their chairs like dutiful soldiers. Already this felt more like her divorce hearing than a team meeting. Didn’t Townsend’s employees know they were all on the same side?

Mr. Townsend opened the meeting by pointing in Shane’s direction. Shane handed over a leather portfolio filled with plastic-protected linen pages and began the informal presentation. Henry stared him down, but Shane remained unflustered. He outlined the plan for MajicSweep, referencing the charts and forms when necessary.

“Do you have a wholesale supplier for MajicSweep’s cleaning products?” Shane asked.

Townsend looked to the woman on his left. “Carrie?”

Carrie blinked from behind a pair of tortoiseshell glasses and did her best to answer, all the while quaking like an overcaffeinated chipmunk. Crickitt offered her a reassuring smile, but the woman sank into her chair, trying her best to blend in with the upholstery.

Crickitt felt the frown dent her brow and quickly hid it. There was no reason for the man to be so brusque, but she wasn’t all that anxious to be on the receiving end of his steely glare, either.

Townsend reached for one of the water pitchers in the center of the table and refilled his glass. He took a long drink, idly flipping through the portfolio while everyone, Crickitt included, held a collective breath. When he turned to the last page, he paused, and Crickitt caught a glimpse of MajicSweep’s new mascot. The idea was mentioned in the file she’d reviewed last night, but this was her first look at—

“Sweepy the Broom,” Mr. Townsend grumbled.

“Our art department took your suggestion to create a mascot,” Shane explained. He lifted his notes before continuing, “Carrie Dillard worked closely with our head graphic designer on the concept.”

Carrie swallowed with an audible
gulp
. Shane nodded at her. “I agree with Carrie. A mascot is a great tool. Potential customers may choose MajicSweep over Company X because they’re familiar with your cartoon from billboards or television ads.”

Crickitt eyed Shane, trying to discern if he thought this
particular
mascot was the best representative for a corporate cleaning service. While she agreed a mascot helped with company recognition, she doubted if Sweepy, a cartoon broom with wide, round eyeballs, would draw the kind of high-paying clientele Henry Townsend intended to attract.

“What about you?”

Crickitt looked up to find Mr. Townsend grousing at her.

“Me?” she asked, her voice higher than she would have liked.

“Yes, you. You look like you have something to say. What is your opinion about”—he held up the full-color grinning broom—“Sweepy, here?” He rattled the page when she didn’t answer.

All eyes were on her. “Well…” She flicked a look at Shane who dipped his chin in encouragement.

“To be perfectly honest…”

Carrie’s eyes widened behind her glasses.

“I think it’s…”—Crickitt cleared her throat and forced herself to continue—“silly.”

Shane was silent during the elevator ride to the ground floor, watching the numbered buttons rather than face Crickitt’s reflection on the doors. But, oh, she could feel his eyes boring into her now as they strode toward the visitors’ parking area.

Thomas rounded the limo and opened the door for them. Behind her, Shane muttered, “Can you give us five minutes?”

“Certainly,” Thomas answered. “I’ll just grab a cup of coffee. Can I bring you back anything?”

“No, thanks,” Shane said.

“Miss?” Thomas asked.

Crickitt shook her head, wondering if she’d even be allowed in the limo when he got back. Maybe Shane would put her on a bus back to Osborn. Or make her walk. She doubted he wanted to ride home with the woman who tanked his reputation in the span of a few seconds.

“Get in,” Shane instructed, one hand on top of the car door.

She did as requested, grateful Thomas had left the AC running. Shane climbed in behind her, and heat infused the space between them. And this time, not because of the taut cord of attraction she felt whenever he was near.

Wrestling with the cuffs on her shirt, she pushed the sleeves above her elbows, then fanned her collar over her damp bra. The door slammed as Shane settled into the bench beside her. Before he opened a can of “You’re fired,” Crickitt turned toward him and made her plea.

“I know what you’re going to say, and you’re right. It wasn’t my place to speak so boldly in there. Mr. Townsend is a consummate professional. Like you,” she added, figuring a little sucking up never hurt. “I should have deflected his question, or at the very least answered with a bit of finesse. It wasn’t my intention to undermine your authority or insult our design staff. And I embarrassed poor Carrie who suggested the mascot in the first place.” She took a breath to give him a chance to comment.

Silence greeted her.

“If you keep me on at August Industries, the next time I promise…” She trailed off as Shane’s lips tilted into a smile.

“You through?” he asked.

“I guess so.” Crickitt clasped her hands and awaited the blow. “Am I fired?”

Shane barked a laugh. “Fired?” He shook his head, looking more bemused than frustrated. “I underestimated you,” he said. “You know how to handle people.” He leaned against the armrest, propping his head in his hand. “You’re an asset, Crickitt. You saved my ass in there.”

She blinked at him. “Really?”

“Hell, yes, really! Townsend is one tough customer. He didn’t appreciate my ‘kid gloves’ approach. He asked for your opinion and you gave it to him. He liked your honesty.”

“But he said ‘We’re through here,’ and then he left the room.”

“Did you notice I stopped to talk with him on the way out?”

She didn’t. Reeling from embarrassment, she’d made a mad dash for the elevators in her sensible shoes.

“Henry told me to get my best people on an entirely new concept for the company,” Shane said. “He also said that the team had better include you. He gave us one week.”

“He did?”

“I should probably give you a raise.”

“You should?”

His smile widened, crinkling his eyes at the corners. “Yes, Crickitt. You were amazing in there.”

He pointed to her as she opened her mouth, cutting her off. “And don’t you dare say otherwise.”

T
he calm didn’t last.

Shane’s easy demeanor had slipped during the drive back to Osborn. And since it was because of Crickitt’s assessment that Townsend had requested a new marketing plan, she’d felt mostly responsible for Shane’s mood swing.

Which was probably why she’d offered up her rudimentary art skills. Well, that and the fact that Shane had mentioned he’d be working late in his home office tonight. What did Shane August’s lair look like? She’d admit, curiosity had gotten the best of her.

Shane’s house was more like the Bat Cave than Bruce Wayne’s mansion. There were no expensive paintings, no ornately carved wooden furniture, no butler. A wide blank wall stood behind a black fireplace and cream-colored chaise longue in the open foyer. Beyond, a massive black wraparound couch dominated the sunken living room, which connected to a monochrome kitchen.

“Not much for color, are you?” she asked, toeing off her shoes.

“Oh, well, I don’t give it much thought.” He dropped his jacket on the chaise and she followed suit, laying down her bag.

Crickitt took the three stairs that led to the kitchen and scanned the floor plan, which was beautiful, open, and inviting. But the color scheme—if it could be called that—didn’t fit its owner. She glanced over at Shane who unbuttoned his cuffs and shoved his sleeves over his forearms, his warmth in contrast with the cold backdrop.

“Hungry?” he asked, bracing his arms on the counter.

Yes. But not for food. Crickitt swallowed, her throat suddenly tight. She shook her head.

“Yeah, me, neither,” Shane said.

A chime sounded, pulling her attention back to the living room. Next to a television mounted above another fireplace was an aging wall clock, its gold pendulum swinging. The wood was worn, the glass scratched. The brown-stained wood was definitely outside of the monochrome palette, but it didn’t look antique or expensive. Just old, and out of place.

“How about wine?”

Crickitt flexed her tired feet on the cool ceramic tile. “Oh, wine sounds great.”

“Normally, I force myself to work out before indulging,” he said, placing two balloon-shaped goblets on the breakfast bar between them. “But we’re in for a late night as it is.”

“Rules are made to be broken.” Especially the one about how a PA shouldn’t be standing barefoot in her boss’s kitchen, eyeing him from across the room.

Shane knelt in front of a narrow cooler on the far wall, his shirt molding to the muscles on his back. She followed the line of his shoulders, running her eyes down his defined arms to his torso, and finally to the pants that hugged his remarkable backside.

When he turned, bottle in hand, Crickitt averted her gaze, though she did peek under her lashes to watch him peel the wrapper from the neck. He opened a drawer and extracted a black gadget, cylindrical in shape and nearly as tall as the wine bottle itself.

“What is that?” she asked.

“Electric wine opener.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Fancy.”

“Want to try it?”

“That’s okay.”

“It’s fun,” he teased, dragging out the word.

Well, who could resist that? “Oh, all right.”

Shane rested the device over the neck, and Crickitt grabbed hold of the bottle. “There’s a button,” he murmured, enclosing her hand with deft fingers and sliding hers to the opener. He was leaning a hairbreadth away, his brows pulled down as he arranged her fingers over the round rubber circle she couldn’t see. Then he pinned her with a hooded gaze, his lips kicking up in one corner. “Just push,” he said.

Crickitt stared at his pursed lips.

“You’ll hear when the cork pops.”

She depressed the button that sent the opener whirring to life, unsure if the shock waves were coming from the reverberation of the equipment in her hands or from Shane’s fingers. She met his eyes over the bottle, pulse pounding in her neck, palms dampening under his.

How had she managed to turn this into an erotic experience?

Look at him. He
is
an erotic experience.

A subtle
pop
sounded, and Crickitt dragged her eyes from his face as he released her hands.

“You’re a natural,” he said, pressing another button to release the cork and catching it in one hand.

A lump of lust formed in her throat. She put a palm to her cheek. Her face felt hot. Actually, her
everything
felt hot. Shane disposed of the cork, his every move as fluid and smooth as the wine he poured into their waiting glasses.

“You okay?” he asked.

She dropped her hand. “Yep,” she answered a little too loud. “I’m great.”

He handed her a glass and raised his for a toast. “To kicking ass.”

She released a laugh and, hopefully with it, some of the tension knotting her intestines.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said after they took a drink.

Lord, she hoped not.

“You’re wondering if I have any personality at all.”

Way off. Way,
way
off.

She swept her hair from her neck, hoping a dose of cool air might domesticate her Girls-Gone-Wild hormones. “No, I don’t think that,” she said, gesturing across the room in an attempt to change the subject. “Anyone with a clock like that has to have a personality.”

He didn’t laugh with her as he moved from the breakfast bar to stand next to her. He frowned at the clock, his emotions receding like he’d backed into a dark corner. “It was my father’s.”

Crickitt’s heart squeezed.
Was.
The clock was a family heirloom, and from the sound of it, not a good one. She’d singled out the one personal item in the room and learned that it held a secret he wouldn’t share. One that he
shouldn’t
share with a colleague. Taking a giant mental step away from the line she’d crossed, Crickitt said, “I like it.” Before tacking on a lame, “It’s nice.”

“We should get started,” he said. Brushing by her, he headed down the hallway.