The Scent of Rain (6 page)

“She seems to have the elements of the most feminine qualities, but she also seems so warm, so the wood would ground her. If you're looking for a present, I'd recommend it.”

He reached for the photograph and planted it facedown on the credenza behind him. She was rattling on, she realized. And she hadn't gained back her sense of smell; it had only been a fleeting gift, taunting her with the essence of baby powder.

She stared at her boss again. Most people had no idea how to select a scent for themselves. Jesse's flavor would be a Hermes cologne with notes of berries, balsam wood, and dried mosses: manly and rugged, a protector with berry overtones hinting at accessibility under the gruff exterior. His type was true, she decided, not the sort to wander. The thought made her envy the blonde in the photo even more.

He was glaring at her now the way a wild animal stares at its prey. “We're not big on perfume at my house.”

She cleared her throat. “It's one of my gifts, sensing signature scents for people. By their personalities. Am I right?” She looked toward her feet. “About your wife, I mean?”

“I'm not married,” he said.

She wanted to point out the tattooed wedding band, but
Even fools are thought wise if they keep silent
, she reminded herself, and bit her tongue.

Somewhere during this disastrous conversation Anne had slipped out of the office.

“Please sit down.” Jesse motioned toward the chair, and she sat immediately like a well-trained dog. He closed his eyes for a minute as if her presence had already worn him out.

God, please. I can't take any more. Help me out here
.

When Jesse opened his eyes, she noted their color—a blue-green like she'd never seen. The blue parts were like a deep periwinkle, the green a soft, mossy earth color. She felt mesmerized by their uniqueness until he blinked and woke her from her momentary peace.

“I hope I didn't—”

“I'm not married,” he said again, as if she might have missed it the first time. “What exactly can you do for Gibraltar?”

Jesse stared across his desk at his recently acquired liability of Daphne Sweeten. How was he supposed to keep such a worldly creation cooped up in the dank halls of Gibraltar? At the sight of her, he'd instantly had the image of trying to keep a hummingbird still. He'd expected her to be beautiful—after all, she'd come from the fashion industry in Paris—but he hadn't expected her allure to have any effect on him. He thought himself above that weakness since Hannah's death. But his reaction betrayed him. There was nothing inappropriate about her attire or demeanor; she wore a knit suit that hugged all the right curves and yet was the essence of modesty. But he struggled to find words to speak to her. Instead he barked everything he said in cold staccato.

He tried to redeem himself. “I hate to be unprepared, but I had very short notice you were coming today. I confess I'm not sure what to do with you.” He stared down at her portfolio that lay open before him on the desk. “You're a perfumer, and as such I realize you're highly sought after in the field. But you're also overqualified for our needs here.” He rapped his fingers on his desk. “I make floor wax and dishwashing liquid.”

She gazed at him with wide blue eyes. With her dark hair and full red lips, she looked like a model on a magazine cover in the grocery store. But the picture came to life, and she came back at him with the same force he'd used himself.

“Perfume is no more glamorous than floor wax,” she said. “Maybe Switzerland and Paris are more glamorous settings, but the job is essentially the same. A little less art and a little more science, perhaps, but I assure you I'm up to the task. I have the chemistry background and am quite capable of formulation at any level. I've worked with the latest in formulation software and machinery.”

“The latest in software and machinery we don't have,” he said bitterly.
We do have . . . you
.

She shifted in her seat but otherwise seemed unfazed by his forthrightness. “You're getting me for a good price, since I'm fresh out of my internship. I'm sure you're aware of what Givaudan graduates make.”

“I'm aware of it, but from my standpoint it hardly seems worth it. I'm just not sure we need a Givaudan graduate on staff.”

“Have you ever had one?”

“No,” he admitted.

“That's because you don't understand scent. All brand managers think they understand scent, but they don't grasp the power that scent creates in a person's life. Maybe when you've had a chance to see me work, you'll think differently. Why don't we wait and see?”

He tried to escape the pull of her blue eyes, but he couldn't. “Tell me how you see the two connecting: dishwashing liquid and the professional nose.”

“I've changed my mind about you,” she said. “I think you'd have a musk foundation with cardamom. Maybe some teen angst in the form of sandalwood.”

“I think I've been insulted,” Jesse said. “But I'm not educated enough to know for sure.”

She laughed in a melodious tone. “See, I can help you with that.”

She wasn't afraid of him. Maybe that's all it was that intrigued him about her, but that would be his downfall.

The fact that Daphne could afford to lose this job was exactly why Dave shouldn't have hired her. She'd probably already booked her flight back to Paris. She'd leave him in the lurch, with some half-designed floor wax no one else could formulate.

“Back to your question of how I'll fit in here . . .”

She flicked her hair over her shoulder. He noticed its glimmer and forced himself to focus on her words, but then he found himself thinking again about how red her lips were.

“It's the same job. Less romance, as you pointed out. But as the Bible says, there's a time for everything under the sun. A time for sensual pleasures and a time for washing the dishes. This is my time to wash the dishes and make that job a more pleasurable experience.”

Her allusion to Scripture caught him off guard. Neither Paris nor California was exactly known for its faith. He saw his own prejudice coming out in his thoughts, and he wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. Which scared him. She was the kind of woman who wasn't easily shaken, but he couldn't afford to take his eye off the prize. He needed to make his department profitable this fiscal quarter.

“I see on your résumé that you worked on a perfume for a new movie coming out.” He tapped his pencil on the desk rather than meet her eyes.

She nodded. “I'm not into Hollywood, and the scent isn't my favorite. It will tank eventually, but by then it will have sold too many for anyone to care. Sometimes it's all about the marketing, not the quality of the product.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You created this product to fail?”

“We didn't create something to fail. My team created something, and the top brass on the movie selected the final product. I assume you've gone against your own ideals to please the customer. Ultimately, we gave them what they wanted, and sadly, that dog will follow me around on my résumé until I have something to replace it.”

“And do you?”

“I have the scent I created for the men's gifts at my wedding. I plan to market it myself.”

“Is it good?”

“It's perfect. I named it Volatility! to reflect—well, never mind. I think I'll be renaming it. Something manly.”

Jesse shrugged. “Afraid I can't help you there. I'm not much of a cologne wearer.”

“Back to why I can help you,” she said curtly. “Most scientists create with an end product in mind, and that is a completely reasonable way to go about product introduction. I am different, as are most perfumers, in that we create based on emotion. You, the brand manager, give me the
feeling
you want your customer to have when interacting with your product, and I create a scent around the emotion. Maybe you don't even know what that feeling is? In that case, I can offer up samples, and you can tell me what they make you feel.”

She may as well have told him she got her ideas from the Ghost of Christmas Past; it would have made as much sense. He scratched at the back of his neck. “What kind of ‘memory' does one want when washing the dishes? You've got your lemon-lime, your fresh apple, citrus—it's like fruit salad in your sink. Most people just want their dishes done. They're not looking for an aromatherapy experience.”

Did she just scowl at him?

“Fake scents only strengthen your resolve to get the dishes done. I've smelled your products, and quite frankly, I find them nasty. In fact, I might become a hoarder if I had to smell that every day—just let the dishes pile up in the sink, or start using paper plates.”

Daphne Sweeten was a spitfire. And he needed that in his life like Dayton needed another great flood from its four intersecting rivers.

“You're not shy with your opinions, are you? Do you happen to know the market share we've got with our dishwashing liquid?”

“I know you can use more, or your boss wouldn't have hired me.” She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms.

The peacock blue of her suit highlighted her eyes, and he imagined she knew that. She understood how her fluid movements captured attention. She had to. Anyone that in tune with the smallest details in life knew the effect her appearance had on others.

“I'll be frank with you.” He laced his fingers together on the desk. “I don't want to count on you for a product, only to have you fly off to Paris midcycle and leave me high and dry.”

Daphne's eyes softened, and for the first time Jesse realized she might not be as tough as the front she presented. She looked thoughtful, and he waited for her to speak.

“You don't have to worry about me leaving. Presently, I have nowhere to go.” Those blue eyes looked directly into his own. “I'm as stuck with you for now as you apparently are with me, and I promise you that when I get the opportunity to leave . . .
if
I get the opportunity to leave, I'll give you as much advance notice as I can possibly manage. Deal?”

She reached her arm across the desk, and he took note of her feminine hand and the soft pink nails, probably still manicured from her wedding.

He grasped her hand, and it felt small and vulnerable in his own. He quickly dropped it and cleared his throat. “I appreciate that. Would you like to visit the lab before I take you to lunch?”

She reached into her bag and pulled out a small, oddly shaped, cobalt blue bottle. She set it gently on his desk. “This is Volatility!”

“I don't really wear cologne,” he said. Then he caught sight of the gold lettering on the bottle and realized it had been her wedding favor, and empathy welled within him. He uncorked the stopper. The scent filled his nostrils. Truly, he'd never smelled a cologne like it. It wasn't heavy or overbearing, but it was distinctly masculine. “I think I get it.”

“I'd like to have a bottle designed and trademark the name. I really believe in this scent. It took a lot out of me. The ingredients aren't overly costly, so it's something that can be mass-produced pretty easily. And I have reason to believe it will be—with or without me.”

What did she mean by that? He couldn't figure her out. Of course, he'd never been able to figure women out, which was why he'd been such a failure as a husband.

“Maybe you should talk to Ken. He heads up beauty and grooming. He could help you.”

“Won't you help me?”

Were her eyes starting to swim with tears? He lifted the bottle. “I told you, I don't know the first thing about cologne.”

“I don't know the first thing about Ken, but this scent, you're exactly who it's designed for. Manly men, men who wouldn't be caught dead spending more than five minutes in front of the mirror,” she said. She glanced about his office. “You may not know cologne, but you know how to market products. How to package them.”

He laughed. “Laundry detergent. I know how to package laundry detergent and get it to market on time.”

He looked at her eyes again and was afraid she'd break into sobs at his desk. That tough exterior really was nothing more than an act. And Lord help him if he wasn't a sucker for a crying woman.