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Besides every other logical reason she had not to encourage this crush she seemed to have developed, guys like him didn’t go for girls like her. He was suave, sophisticated, experienced. And she was…the opposite. Plain. Inexperienced. Nervous.
She didn’t want a guy like him, anyway, she told herself for the billionth time. A jet-setting playboy, he probably had a girl in every port and his closest relationship was with the air hostesses he met as he flew between them. He would think Cassie’s ideas of stability, work, home and family old-fashioned and boring. God forbid he ever hear about her Plan-with-a-capital-P. He’d laugh until his sides split.
Cassie pulled out her own laptop, ignoring Ronan’s dismissal. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have enough to do—there were still the hundred or so things to be done before the Hawthorn store opened and then there were the notes she needed to make for each of the store managers they’d be visiting.
The rest of the flight passed without incident. Occasionally, Ronan had popped his head up to ask Cassie something and a couple of times those questions had led into discussions about the operations of Country Style.
They talked briefly and politely when the flight attendants brought around a morning snack and they had to momentarily each put their computers away, but otherwise he paid her little attention—peering at his laptop and typing furiously right up until the plane was about to land.
As the flight attendants made preparations for landing, Cassie could feel the familiar panic begin to build. She knew it was irrational, and she wasn’t proud of her fear. It was just something she couldn’t control. Crashes happened, as she knew all too well. And although the odds weren’t high—especially on a large passenger jet—it was still possible.
She screwed her eyes shut again in an attempt to block everything out. Hopefully Ronan would think she was taking a nap.
“Cassie?”
She silently cursed her traitorous responses as a shiver went through her at the sound of her name on his lips. Would he hold her hand again?
“Yes?” she answered. It was too late to try to hide her terror from him, but she still tried her best to sound calm. She opened one eye.
He gestured to a hard copy spreadsheet he’d pulled out when he’d been forced to pack away his laptop. “I’ve noticed an anomaly with this supplier, Brentons. They seem to deliver late, almost every time.”
Cassie blew out a breath. Of course he’d noticed that. She opened both eyes to look at the report he referred to.
“Yes,” she said, nodding slowly. “They are unreliable. But the cabinets they make are one of our top sellers.” Beautiful timbers, handcrafted and hand painted, Brentons made mini works of art, not just furniture.
He frowned. “But not one of your most profitable.”
“No. But they pull in traffic—all our managers know if they’re having a slow week, put a Brentons cabinet in the window and they can double the passing trade.”
“So they’re a loss leader for you?”
“We don’t make a loss, but you’re right, they’re not especially profitable. And when they’re late with deliveries, it does make our lives difficult.”
His lips tightened in thought. “So why not pull them into line? They’re a boutique supplier—Country Style must be their biggest customer. Have threats not worked?”
Threats? Cassie shook her head in disbelief and a mounting sense of anger. “No, it’s not like that.” She shifted to face him, memories of her last conversation with the owners of Brentons fresh in her mind. “Brentons is run by a couple—it’s a family business, like ours. They’ve had a rough year—their daughter was diagnosed with leukemia. She’s only seven and understandably her treatment has interrupted their time with the business. They’ve worked very hard to fill our orders, but I’ve let it slide when they’ve occasionally delivered late.”
“Occasionally?” An eyebrow quirked as he ran a finger down a column that Cassie knew was showing him that the Brentons had consistently run late—very late—for the past year.
“Okay, so more than occasionally. But I decided to cut them some slack, given the circumstances.”
“Can Country Style afford for such personal concerns to take precedence over efficiency and reliability? Surely you can find another supplier who’d make something comparable? And probably cheaper. What about sourcing a similar product overseas, say in China?”
Yesterday Ronan’s questions had been gentle, probing; more like suggestions, really. Apparently he’d just been letting her in easy, preparing her for the onslaught. Once again, Cassie had to tell herself to be on guard at all times, no matter how charming and good-looking he was. Despite the lack of pocket protector or bow tie, he clearly had a heart made of spreadsheets and calculators instead of flesh and blood.
“Yes, we probably could get a cheaper product overseas,” she answered, her tone betraying her outrage at his callousness. She couldn’t help it. “Although I doubt we would find the dedication to quality and craftsmanship that Brentons pride themselves in. But more important the Brentons have been valuable partners to Country Style for a number of years—as our business has grown so has theirs. I felt that given what was happening to Molly—that’s their little girl—they deserved some compassion and leeway.”
His eyes met hers and he nodded. “Fair enough. I probably would have made the same call.” And then he smiled, something Cassie didn’t understand until the announcement came over the PA.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Perth. Please remain seated until we have come to a full stop at the gate and the captain has turned off the fasten-seat-belts sign.”
Comprehension dawned.
“Did you do that to distract me?” A wave of irritation flooded through her, although she wasn’t sure why. She should probably be thankful—but that idea grated.
The slight smile tipped into a cocky grin. “Not entirely. I did want to find out the official story.”
“Official story?”
“In the warehouse yesterday I commented on one of the Brentons cabinets. Beautiful pieces of furniture, by the way—you’re right about the craftsmanship. The warehouse manager told me all about the late deliveries, and about Molly, and even some of the fundraising Country Style has done for children’s leukemia charities.”
“That is the official story.”
“Indeed. And now I know.” He cocked his head on one side and gave a short nod, as if that concluded the conversation. She watched as he gathered his laptop and belongings, preparing to disembark.
Cassie’s frayed nerves tingled. She wasn’t sure which was worse: a plane landing or an inquisition from Ronan McGuire. At least the plane landing was uncomplicated, pure, clean fear. Cassie’s feelings about Ronan were far muddier. There was an element of fear, for sure. So much was riding on this; she’d be an idiot if she didn’t recognize that. But he unsettled her in so many other ways, many of which she was still struggling to pin down.
Like why, for example, did she always seem to notice how good he smelled? And why was she fascinated by those blue eyes of his—hard as arctic glaciers one moment, sparkling with amusement the next? He’d held her hand to help calm her, that was all. And yet the touch of his thumb on her wrist had woken feelings all through her body. In places that had never been disturbed before—places Cassie had long thought must be defective. That was why Part Two of the plan was so important, and she only hoped it would help with achieving Part Three, the part of her plan that felt like the most impossible. Surely if she looked the part of a sexy woman, the rest would follow naturally?
She stood up and crowded into the aisle. Ronan stood next to her, twisting around to reach the jacket he’d laid out in the overhead compartment to stop it from creasing. He shrugged it on and Cassie told herself not to notice his expensive cologne or the way the tailored jacket emphasized his broad shoulders and narrow waist.
He noticed her look and gave her a quick smile that reached all the way to his eyes before he busied himself with zipping up his laptop case.
He did that a lot, Cassie noted. Did something flirty—a look, a smile, a touch—and then pulled himself back. It was probably his nature. He flirted with all women, but when he remembered he was flirting with her, he stopped. She really must be that unattractive to him. The idea hurt more than it should.
She shook her head. At least in an hour or so they’d be in the store, and there’d be other people around. Dealing with him one-on-one was far too stressful.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE HEAT WAS UNRELENTING and so, it seemed, was Cassie Hartman. Ronan could feel his shirt sticking to his back—he’d given up on his jacket hours ago—as they climbed into their rental car after the last store visit of the day.
The sun was beginning to move toward the horizon but the temperature didn’t feel as if it had dropped a single degree since midafternoon. The air itself was oven-hot, and he gratefully gulped in lungfuls of the air-conditioning inside the car.
Cassie seemed oblivious, powering her way through the stores, greeting the staff like a long-lost older sister, praising good work done, gently chiding when she saw things requiring improvement. Ronan noticed that she couldn’t help tweaking things when they needed it—without doubt every store they’d been to had looked better, more inviting, more stylish, by the time they left. It was only a matter of a lamp here, or a vase there, but clearly Cassie had a knack for interior design.
He wondered what she’d make of his apartment back in San Francisco. The entire top floor of an old Victorian-style mansion, he’d always known it had the potential to be a showpiece—he’d just never got around to doing anything about it. A window in the kitchen was permanently open to let an old cat that seemed to have adopted him come and go as she pleased—leaving mess and paw prints as she went. The whole place never failed to produce comments from visitors. He lived like he was still in college—crates for shelves, movie posters tacked up on the walls, secondhand mismatched furniture—and not in a good, bohemian kind of way. More in a “Is that sofa safe?” kind of way.
He’d just never been all that concerned about it. His focus had always been on Conroy Corporation and, as long as he had a bed, a fridge and somewhere to park his car, he didn’t care so much about what his home looked like. Besides, he was too restless to settle in one place for long. It was why he was always the first to volunteer for projects that involved travel—although usually that meant within North America or, occasionally, Europe. When he was away from headquarters, away from his father’s all-pervasive influence, it felt easier to breathe, somehow. Not that he didn’t love his family. Just sometimes the pressure of being Ronan Conroy and heir to Conroy Corporation—and all the seemingly impossible-to-fulfill expectations that accompanied that—was a heavy burden.
No amount of pretty furnishings in his apartment was going to help cure those feelings, he knew. But his mind went back to Country Style’s boardroom—that incongruous room in a warehouse that Cassie had decorated as a family-style kitchen. He’d been comfortable there. It made him wonder whether proper decor in his own apartment might help him feel more settled. It also made him think that it might be a good gesture to demonstrate his commitment to his father—show that he was the mature leader Conroy Corporation needed. Perhaps his college-student-style approach to furnishings reflected his approach to life.
The more he thought about it, the more the idea appealed. He could imagine getting the place redone and then inviting his father and the board over for a dinner party. That would show his maturity and readiness for leadership, surely. He made a resolution to investigate that as soon as he got home. Maybe Cassie could help refer someone—she clearly had links to the interior design industry, although he knew she’d never done any formal study.
From her résumé, he knew that Cassie had begun her career with Country Style at seventeen, working her way up from junior salesperson to her current role. A couple of times he’d found himself standing back and watching, smiling to himself as she fixed a display or chatted to a staff member. Then he’d shake himself and give a stern internal lecture about why he was there. As much as he might want to let down her hair and get rid of those unflattering clothes—he expected she’d look like a brunette Botticelli’s Venus when he did—flirting with Cassie Hartman was off the table.
Watching her through the day, Ronan felt the faint stirrings of guilt about the true purpose of his investigation. He knew it was almost certain that Cassie would lose her job as part of the buyout. It wasn’t anything to do with her skills or knowledge—simply a matter of economies of scale. The other company already had head-office management in Australia—they didn’t need more managers. Likely, that was another reason Taylor had called in Conroy Corporation—because he wanted to be able to place the blame for it all on someone else. Ronan could just imagine how Taylor’s conversation with her would go: I’m sorry Cassie, but Conroy’s made it clear this was the right decision.
It was a pity, because she was very good at what she did. He didn’t understand why she’d spent so many years with Country Style—with her talent and experience, she could easily have moved into a more senior, higher-paying role somewhere else. He made a mental note to ask her about that when the time was right. Perhaps with a little push from him, she might start to see her potential beyond Country Style, which would make her termination seem not quite as serious as it otherwise might. She could certainly look at a lucrative career in merchandising, if she didn’t want to work for a Country Style rival.
Ronan adjusted the car’s air-conditioning vents and sent a welcome blast of cool air over his face.
“Heat getting to you?” Cassie asked, pulling the car out onto a wide, empty road. She’d insisted on driving and given that she knew where they were going and was familiar with driving on the left-hand side of the road, Ronan had been happy to acquiesce. Still, their bland, white rental sedan had given him a surge of longing for the sports car he’d hired in Melbourne and been forced to return early once he’d found out about the travel plans. Hopefully it would still be available over the weekend when they returned.
“I could use a beer,” Ronan said, conceding that San Francisco’s comparatively chilly summers had in no way prepared him for Australia’s scorching temperatures.
She gave a little laugh. “Yeah, that sounds good. Our hotel isn’t far. I knew the Fremantle store would be our last stop of the day, so I had Mel book our accommodation down here—it’s really pretty. It will take us a bit longer to get to the airport tomorrow, but it’s worth it.”
There was a glow about her as she spoke, Ronan noted. It had been there all day. Well, once they’d left the airport and the green tinge to her skin had disappeared. There was no doubting that Cassie loved her job. Really loved it. Even the heat hadn’t dampened her enthusiasm. She wore that unremarkable Country Style uniform, but despite the long, hot day, looked fresh and alert. The only sign that the heat had affected her was the wispy curls that had formed around her face. Her mane was tied back and tucked up and away somehow, but perspiration and enthusiasm had loosened some of it, creating ringlets around her ears.
Ronan itched to unfasten the clip and run his fingers through her hair. He clasped his hands firmly in his lap.
Cassie pulled up in front of a colonial-style building that turned out to be their hotel. They climbed out and were efficiently checked in by a cheerful young man who filled Ronan’s hand with tourist brochures when he heard the American accent.
Cassie grabbed her bag and gave him a smile. She was satisfied with how the day had gone, he could tell, and it had lessened the nerves she seemed to have when she was around him. He couldn’t blame her.
“Well, thanks for today.” She jangled the key in her hand. “You know, I really appreciate the way you’ve been talking to the staff we’ve met. You’ve been friendly and engaging, but still discreet. I…I appreciate it.”
Ronan shrugged. “Of course.” He hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary, but he was pleased with the compliment.
“We have to leave here about seven tomorrow morning to catch our flight to Sydney.”
“Sounds good.” He fixed her with his most winning smile as he grabbed his own bag. “So, see you down here in about half an hour?”
Her confident expression faltered. “Half an hour?”
“Is that enough time to freshen up? You’re not going to make me find my own dinner in a strange city all alone are you?”
Spending any time outside of work with this woman was a dumb idea, but the riot of responses that flooded her face at his request was too much fun to resist. Besides, he was a big boy. He could have dinner with a colleague and behave himself.
“Uh…I was planning to get room service…catch up on some work.”
Her stammering excuse betrayed the lie.
“But that’s what flying time is for. Come on. One beer and a quick dinner. I insist.”
Insisting was probably the wrong move, but for the moment he knew she thought it was in her interests to keep him happy. He wondered if she realized just how open her face was, how easy she was to read. She was torn, knowing it would be unwise to refuse him, at the same time scared to accept. Scared? Yes, he was sure it was fear that flashed in her eyes. Hmm, that was interesting. He wondered why.
She was attracted to him—he knew that. It wasn’t vanity on his part; life had taught him that most women were. But unlike most women, Cassie had been prickly from the start, not just coolly professional, but actively keeping her distance. Part of him—his pride, mostly, he had to admit—wanted to know why.
Eventually she gave a short nod. “Half an hour.”
Ronan ran the shower as cold as it would go and dressed in tan chinos and a pale blue cotton shirt—untucked, collar open and sleeves rolled up. The corporate wardrobe he’d packed for this trip wasn’t especially well suited to this weather and if it kept up, he’d be forced to shop for new clothes.
He’d been waiting in the foyer for a few minutes when Cassie appeared. She kept her eyes averted from his, looking all sweet and shy. And for a moment Ronan was glad, because he wasn’t sure how well he hid his reaction.
Her summery floral dress swirled around her knees, revealing shapely calves and strappy sandals. Intriguingly, her toenails were painted orange—not red, not even a strange coral shade of red—but definitely, absolutely, orange. The dress had a little belt at the waist, showing off the hourglass figure that he’d just known lurked under that stuffy uniform. Buttons down the front were fastened demurely, but showed enough for Ronan to glimpse the creamy swells of full breasts. A fine gold chain hung around her neck and her hair was…tied back. As always. Damn.
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