Hunter filled the doorway, his eyes simmering obsidian. But his voice was cool with control. “I thought we were a team.”

Sinclair swallowed. “I didn’t know,” she finally blurted out.

“Didn’t know what? Was there something ambiguous about ‘Don’t tell anyone about this deal’?”

“That was before it went through,” she shot back, refusing to give him another inch. But what she really wanted, she finally admitted to herself, was him. Her boss. He was powerful and charismatic, and he held her in his gaze in a way no other man ever had.

The heat simmering between them was unbearable.

“I’m in the wrong. I can take it. What do you want me to do?” She forced herself to ask him.

Hunter actually smiled. There was a fire still raging in his eyes, an unwavering desire. Her mouth went dry. Unwavering desire…for her?

Barbara Dunlop writes romantic stories while curled up in a log cabin in Canada’s far north, where bears outnumber people and it snows six months of the year. Fortunately she has a brawny husband and two teenage children to haul firewood and clear the driveway while she sips cocoa and muses about her upcoming chapters. Barbara loves to hear from readers. You can contact her through her website at www.barbaradunlop.com

Beauty and
The Billionaire
by
Barbara Dunlop

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Prologue

A one-night stand only lasted one night. Sinclair Mahoney might be far from an expert, but she could guess that much.

So, while Hunter Osland’s bare chest rose and fell in his king-size bed, and a door slammed somewhere in the far reaches of the mansion, she pushed her feet into her low-heeled black pumps and shrugged into her pinstriped blazer. She was only guessing at the protocol here, but she suspected it wasn’t a lingering goodbye in the cold light of day.

Peacefully asleep in the gleaming four-poster, Hunter had obviously done this before. There were three brand-new tooth-brushes in his en suite, along with half a dozen fresh towels and an assortment of mini toiletries in a basket on the marble counter. He had everything a woman needed if she wanted to make a simple, independent exit—which was exactly what Sinclair had in mind.

Last night had been good.

Okay, last night had been incredible. But last night was also over, and there was something pathetic about hanging around this morning hoping to see respect in his eyes.

So, she’d washed her face, brushed her teeth, and pulled her auburn hair into a simple ponytail, glancing one last time at the opulent cherry furnishings, the storm-tossed seascape that hung above his bed, and two potted palms that bracketed a huge bay window. It was nearly 8:00 a.m. She had just enough time to find her twin sister in the maze of the rambling Osland mansion. She’d say a quick goodbye before hopping a taxi to the Manchester, Vermont, airport and her flight to JFK.

She had a planning meeting at noon, then a conference call with the Cosmetics Manager at Bergdorf’s. There were also two focus-group reports on Luscious Lavender beauty products tucked in her briefcase.

Last night was last night. It was time to return to her regular life. She squared her shoulders and reached for her purse, her gaze catching Hunter’s tanned, toned leg. It had worked its way free from the tangled ivory sheets, and she followed its length to where the sheet was wrapped snugly around his hips.

She cringed at the telltale tightening beneath her ribs. His broad shoulders were also uncovered, along with the muscular arms that had held her tight into the wee hours of the morning. At five foot seven and a hundred and fifteen pounds, she wasn’t used to feeling small and delicate in a man’s arms. But she had in Hunter’s.

In fact, she’d felt a lot of things she hadn’t expected for a one-night stand.

Her friends had talked about them. But Sinclair had only imagined them. She always assumed they’d be stilted and awkward, each party self-conscious and trying to impress the other, while convincing themselves it wasn’t tacky and shallow to sleep with a near stranger.

She’d been wrong about all of it.

There was an edge of the forbidden, sure. But Hunter had mostly been sweet and funny. At first, his intelligence had challenged her. Then his smile had enticed her. His touches and kisses had been the most natural things in the world. By the time they were naked, she felt as if she’d known him for years instead of hours.

In fact, standing here on the brink of goodbye, she could feel the heady sensations all over again. She wanted to turn back the clock, climb into the big, soft bed, taste those lips, run her fingertips over his skin, inhale the clean, woodsy scent of his hair.

She took a reflexive step forward.

But he shifted in the bed and she froze, appalled to realize she was about to hop in for round three. Or was it four? She supposed that depended on whether you counted his orgasms or hers.

He stretched his arm across the bed, and his expression drew taut in his sleep. He felt around and frowned.

Any second now, he would open his eyes. She knew somewhere deep down in her soul that if she was still standing here when he woke up, she’d be flat on her back in an instant. He knew his way past her defenses, knew a hundred ways to make her gasp and moan, knew all the right things to growl and whisper in her ear.

Her palm closed around her purse strap, and she commanded herself to back off.

He gave a bleary blink, and she grasped at the doorknob.

Before he could focus, she was out in the hall, shutting the door behind her and striding for the staircase.

It was over.

It was done.

Her best hope was to never see him again.

One

Hunter was here.

Six weeks later, Sinclair’s stomach clenched around nothing as he strode into the Lush Beauty Products boardroom like he owned the place.

“—in a friendly takeover bid,” Sinclair’s boss, company president Roger Rawlings, was saying. “Osland International has purchased fifty-one percent of the Lush Beauty Products voting shares.

Sinclair reflexively straightened in her chair. Good grief, he did own the place.

Could this be a joke?

She glanced from side to side.

Would cameramen jump out any second and shove a microphone in her face? Were they filming even now to record her reaction?

She waited. But Hunter didn’t even look her way, and nobody started laughing.

“As many of you are aware,” said Roger, “among their other business interests, Osland International owns the Sierra Sanchez line of women’s clothing stores across North America, with several outlets in Europe and Australia.”

While Roger spoke, and the Lush Beauty managers absorbed the surprising news, Hunter’s gaze moved methodically around the big, oval table. His gaze paused on Ethan from product development, then Colleen from marketing. He nodded at Sandra from accounting, and looked to Mary-Anne from distribution.

As her turn grew near, Sinclair composed her expression. In her role as public relations manager, she was used to behaving professionally under trying circumstances. And she’d do that now. If he could handle this, so could she. They were both adults, obviously. And she could behave as professionally as he could. Still, she had to wonder why he hadn’t given her a heads-up.

The Hunter she’d met in Manchester had struck her as honorable. She would have thought he’d at least drop her an e-mail. Or had she totally misjudged him? Was he nothing more than a slick, polished player who forgot women the second they were out of his sight?

Maybe he didn’t e-mail because he didn$#146;t care. Or, worse yet, maybe he didn’t even remember.

In the wash of her uncertainty, Roger’s voice droned on. “Sierra Sanchez will offer Lush Beauty Products a built-in, high-end retail outlet from which to launch the new Luscious Lavender line. We’ll continue seeking other sales outlets, of course. But that is only one of the many ways this partnership will be productive for both parties.

Hunter’s gaze hit Sinclair.

He froze for a split second. Then his nostrils flared, and his eyebrows shot up. She could swear a current cracked audibly between them. It blanketed her skin, shimmied down her nervous system, then pooled to a steady hum in the pit of her stomach.

Hunter’s jaw tightened around his own obvious shock.

Okay. So maybe there was a reason he hadn’t given her a heads-up.

There were days when Hunter Osland hated his grandfather’s warped sense of humor. And today ranked right up there.

In the instant he saw Sinclair, the last six weeks suddenly made sense—Cleveland’s insistence they buy Lush Beauty Products, his demand that Hunter take over as CEO, and his rush to get Hunter in front of the company managers. Cleveland had known she worked here, and he’d somehow figured out Hunter had slept with her.

Hunter’s grandfather was, quite literally, forcing him to face the consequences of his actions.

“So please join me in welcoming Mr. Osland to Lush Beauty Products,” Roger finished to a polite round of applause. The managers seemed wary, as anyone would be when the corporate leadership suddenly shifted above them.

It was Hunter’s job to reassure them. And he now had the additional duty of explaining himself to Sinclair. God only knew what she was thinking. But, talking to her would have to wait. He refocused his gaze on the room in general and moved to the head of the table.

“Thank you very much,” he began, smoothly taking control of the meeting, like he’d done at a thousand meetings before. “First, you should all feel free to call me Hunter. Second, I’d like to assure you up front that Osland International has no plans to make staffing changes, nor to change the current direction of Lush Beauty Products.”

He’d mentally rehearsed this next part, although he now knew it was a lie. “My grandfather made the decision to invest in this company because he was excited about your product re-development—such as the Luscious Lavender line—and about your plans to expand the company’s target demographic.”

Hunter now doubted Cleveland had even heard of Lush Beauty Products before meeting Sinclair. And Cleveland would be a lot less excited about the product redevelopment than he was about yanking Hunter’s chain.

“Osland International has analyzed your success within the North American midprice market,” Hunter told the group. “And we believe there are a number of opportunities to go upscale and international. We’re open to your ideas. And, although Roger will continue to manage day-to-day operations, I’ll be hands-on with strategic direction. So I want to invite each of you to stop by and see me. I expect to be on site several days a month, and I believe I’ll have an office on the twentieth floor?”

He looked to Roger for confirmation.

“Yes,” said Roger. “But if any of you have questions or concerns, you should feel free to use me as a sounding board.”

The words surprised Hunter. Was Roger telling them not to go directly to Hunter?

“We’ll try to make this transition as smooth as possible,” Roger continued in a silky voice that set Hunter’s teeth on edge. “But we understand some of you may feel challenged and unsettled.”

Oh, great little pep talk. Thanks for that, Roger.

There’s no need for anyone to feel unsettled,” Hunter cut in. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s business as usual. And my door is always open.” Then he looked directly at Sinclair. “Come and see me.”

An hour later, Sinclair took Hunter up on his invitation. On the twentieth floor, she propped herself against the doorjamb of his airy corner office. “This,” she said, taking in the big desk, the credenza piled with books and the meeting table that sat eight, “I have got to hear.”

He straightened in his high-backed chair and glanced up from his laptop, a flash of guilt in his eyes.

Ignoring the way her heart lifted at his reaction, she took two steps inside and closed the door behind her. He cared that he’d blindsided her. At least that was something.

Not that she cared about him in any fundamental way. She couldn’t. They were a brief flash of history, and nothing more.

“It was Gramps,” answered Hunter. “He bought the company and sent me here to run it.”

“And you didn’t know about me?” she guessed.

“I didn’t know,” he confirmed.

“So, you’re not stalking me?”

He hit a key on his computer. “Right. Like any reasonable stalker, I bought your company to get close to you.”

She shrugged. “Could happen.”

“Well, it didn’t. This is Gramps’ idea of a joke. I think he knows I slept with you,” said Hunter.

“Then there’s something wrong with that man.” And there was something frightening about a person with enough economic power to buy a four-hundred-person company as a joke. There was something even more frightening about a person who took the trouble to actually do it.

“I think he’s losing it in his old age.” Then Hunter paused for a moment to consider. “On the other hand, he was always crotchety and controlling.”

“Kristy likes him,” said Sinclair. Not that she was coming down on Cleveland Osland’s side. If Hunter was right, the man was seriously nuts.

“That’s because he’s batty over your sister.”

Sinclair supposed that was probably true. It was Cleveland Osland who had helped Kristy get started in the fashion business last month. And now her career was soaring.

A soaring career was what Sinclair wanted for herself. And what she really wanted was for Hunter not to be a complication in that. She had a huge opportunity here with the planned company expansion and with the development of the new Luscious Lavender line.

She advanced on his wide desk to make her point, forcing herself to ignore the persistent sexual tug that had settled in her abdomen. Whatever they’d had for that brief moment had ended. He was her past, now her boss.

Even if he might be willing to rekindle. And she had no reason to assume he was willing. She was not.

She dropped into one of his guest chairs, keeping her tone light and unconcerned. “So what do we do now?”

A wolfish grin grew on his face.

All right, so maybe there was a reason to assume he was willing.

“No,” she said, in a stern voice.

“I didn’t say a word.”

“You thought it. And the answer is no.”

“You’re a cold woman.”

“I’m an intelligent woman. I’m not about to sleep my way to the top.”

“There’s a lot to be said for being at the top.”

“I guess you would know.”

He leaned back in his chair, expression turning mischievous. “Yeah. I guess I would.”

She ignored the little-boy charm and leaned forward to prop her elbows on his desk. “Okay, let’s talk about how this works.”

“I thought we’d pretty much demonstrated how it worked last month.”

She wished he’d stop flirting. It was ridiculously tempting to engage. Their verbal foreplay that night had been almost as exciting as the physical stuff.

“Nobody here knows about us,” she began, keeping her tone even.

“I know about us,” he pointed out.

“But you’re going to forget it.”

“Not likely,” he scoffed.

She leaned farther forward, getting up into his face. “Listen carefully, Hunter. For the purposes of our professional relationship, you are going to forget that you’ve seen me naked.”

“You know, you’re very cute when you’re angry.”

“That’s the lamest line I’ve ever heard.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Can you be serious for a second?”

“What makes you think I’m not serious?”

“Hunter.”

“Lighten up, Sinclair.”

Lighten up? That was his answer?

But she drew back to think about it. Could it be that simple? “Am I making too much of this?”

He shrugged. “I’m not about to announce anything in the company newsletter. So, unless you spread the word around the water cooler, I think we’re good.”

She eyed him up. “That’s it? Business as usual?”

“Gramps may have bought Lush Beauty Products for his own bizarre reasons. But I’m here to run it, nothing more, nothing less. And you have a job to do.”

She came to her feet and gave a sharp nod, telling herself she was relieved, not disappointed, that it would be easy for him to ignore their past.

“See you around the water cooler, I guess,” she said in parting.

“Sure,” Hunter responded. “Whatever.”

Despite the casual goodbye, Hunter knew it would be hell trying to dismiss what they’d shared. As the office door closed behind her, he squeezed his eyes shut and raked a hand through his hair. Their past might have been short, but it was about as memorable as a past could get.

For the thousandth time, he saw Sinclair in the Manchester mansion. She was curled in a leather armchair, beneath the Christmas tree, next to the crackling fireplace. He remembered thinking in that moment that she was about as beautiful as a woman could get. He’d always had a thing for redheads.

When he was sixteen years old, some insane old gypsy had predicted he’d marry a redhead. Hunter wasn’t sure if it was the power of suggestion or a lucky guess, but redheads were definitely his dates of choice.

The flames from the fire had reflected around Sinclair, highlighting her rosy cheeks and her bright blue eyes. Her shoulder-length hair flowed in soft waves, teasing and tantalizing him. He’d already discovered she was smart and classy, with a sharp wit that made him want to spar with her for hours on end.

So he’d bided his time. Waiting for the rest of the family to head for bed, hoping against hope that she’d stay up late.

She had.

And then they were alone. And he had been about to make a move. She was his cousin’s new sister-in-law, and he knew their paths might cross again at some point. But he couldn’t bring himself to worry about the future. There was something intense brewing, and he owed it to both of them to find out what it was.

He came to his feet, watching her closely as he crossed the great room. Her blue eyes went from laughing sapphires to an intense ocean storm and, before he even reached her chair, he knew she was with him.

He stopped in front of her, bracing a hand on either arm of the chair, leaning over to trap her in place. She didn’t flinch but watched him with open interest.

He liked that.

Hell, he loved that.

“Hey,” he rasped, a wealth of meaning in his tone and posture.

“Hey,” she responded, voice husky, pupils dilated.

He touched his index finger to her chin, tipping it up ever so slightly.

She didn’t pull away, so he bent his head, forcing himself to go slow, giving her plenty of time to shut him down. He could smell her skin, feel the heat of her breath, taste the sweet explosion of her lips under his.

His free hand curled to a fist as he steeled himself to keep the kiss gentle. He fought an almost overwhelming urge to open wide, to meet her tongue, to let the passion roar to life between them.

Instead, he drew back, though he was almost shaking with the effort.

“Stop?” he rasped, needing a definite answer, and needing it right now.

“Go,” she replied, and his world pitched sideways.

With a groan of surrender, he dropped to one knee, clamping a hand behind her neck, firmly pulling her forward for a real kiss.

There was no hesitation this time. Their tongues met in a clash. She shifted in the chair to mold against him, her breasts plastered against his chest while desire raced like wildfire along his limbs.

Her hair was soft, her breath softer, and her body was pure heaven in his arms.

“I want you,” he’d muttered.

“No kidding,” she came back.

His chuckle rumbled against her lips. “Sassy.”

“You know it,” she whispered in the instant before he kissed her all over again.

The kiss went harder and deeper, until he finally had to gasp for air. “Can I take that as a yes?”

“Can I take that as an offer?” she countered.

“You can take it as a promise,” he said, and scooped her into his arms.

She placed her hands on his shoulders and burrowed into the crook at his neck. Then her teeth came down gently on his earlobe. Lust shot through him, and he cursed the fact that his bedroom was in a far corner on the third floor.

A knock on his office door snapped him back to reality.

“Yeah?” he barked.

The door cracked open.

It was Sinclair again.

She slipped inside, still stunningly beautiful in that sleek ivory skirt and the matching blazer. Her pale-pink tank top molded to her breasts, and her shapely legs made him long to trail his fingertips up past her hemline.

“Since it’s business as usual,” she began, perkily, crossing the room, oblivious to his state of discomfort.

“Right,” he agreed from between clenched teeth.

“I have something I’d like to discuss with you.”

At the moment, he had something he wished he could discuss with her, too.

“Fire way,” he said instead.

She took up the guest chair again and crossed her legs. Her makeup was minimal, but she didn’t need it. She had a healthy peaches-and-cream glow, accented by the brightest blue eyes he’d ever seen. Sunlight from the floor-to-ceiling bay window sparkled on her hair. It reminded him of the firelight, and he curled his hands into new fists.

“I have this idea.”

He ordered himself to leave that opening alone.

“Roger’s been reluctant to support it,” she continued.

She wanted Hunter to intervene?

Sure. Easy. No problem.

“Let’s hear it,” he said.

“It’s about the ball.”

Hunter had just read about the Lush Beauty Products’ Valentine’s Ball. They were going to use it to launch the Luscious Lavender line. It was a decent idea as publicity went. Women loved Valentine’s Day, and the Luscious Lavender line was all about glamming up and looking your best.

“Shoot,” he told her.

“I’ve taken the lead in planning the ball,” she explained, wriggling forward, drawing his attention to the pale tank top. “And I’ve been thinking we should go with something bigger.”

“A bigger ball?” He dragged his attention back to her face. They’d rented the ballroom at the Roosevelt Hotel. It didn’t get much bigger than that.

Sinclair shook her head. “Not a bigger ball. A bigger product launch. Something more than a ball. The ball is fine. It’s great. But it’s not…” Her lips compressed and her eyes squinted down. “Enough.”

“Tell me what you had in mind,” he prompted, curious about how she conducted business. He’d been struck by her intelligence in Manchester. It would be interesting to deal with her in a new forum.

“What I was thinking…” She paused as if gathering her thoughts. “Is to launch Luscious Lavender at a luxury spa. In addition to the ball.” Her voice sped up with her enthusiasm. “We’re going after the high-end market. And where do rich women get their hair done? Where do they get their facials? Their body wraps? Their waxing?”

“At the spa?” asked Hunter, trying very, very hard not to think about Sinclair and waxing.

She sat back, pointed a finger in his direction, a flush of excitement on her face. “Exactly.”

“That’s not bad,” he admitted. It was a very good idea. He liked that it was unique, and it would probably prove effective. “What’s Roger’s objection?”

“He didn’t tell me his objection. He just said no.”

“Really?” Hunter didn’t care for autocracy and secrecy as managerial styles. “What would you like me to do?”

Whatever it was, he’d do it in a heartbeat. And not because of their history. He’d do it because it was a good idea, and he appreciated her intelligence and creativity. Roger better have a damn good reason for turning her down.

“If you can clear it with Roger—”

“Oh, I can clear it with Roger.”

Her teeth came down on her bottom lip, and a hesitation flashed through her eyes. “You agreed awfully fast.”

“I’m agile and decisive. Got a problem with that?”

“As long as…” Guilt flashed in her eyes.

“I’m reacting to your idea, Sinclair. Not to your body.”

“You sure?”

“Of course, I’m sure.” He was. Definitely.

“I was going to approach New York Millennium.” She named a popular spa in the heart of Manhattan.

“That sounds like a good bet. You need anything else?”

She shook her head, rising to her feet. “Roger was my only roadblock.”

Two

"Obviously,” Roger said to Sinclair, with exaggerated patience. “I can’t turn down the CEO.”

She nodded where she sat in a guest chair in his office, squelching the lingering guilt that she might have used her relationship with Hunter as leverage. She admitted she’d been counting on Roger having to say yes to Hunter.

But she consoled herself in being absolutely positive the spa launch was a worthwhile idea. Also, Roger had been strangely contrary lately, shooting down her recommendations left and right. It was all but impossible to do her job the way he’d been micromanaging her. Going to Hunter had been her option of last resort.

Besides, Hunter had invited all the employees to run ideas past him. She wasn’t taking any special privilege.

“I’m not holding out a lot of hope of you securing the Millennium,” warned Roger.

Sinclair was more optimistic. “It would be good for them, too. They’d have the advantage of all our advance publicity.”

Roger came to his feet. “I’d like you to take Chantal with you.”

Sinclair blinked as she stood. “What?”

“I’d appreciate her perspective.”

“On…” Sinclair searched for the logic in the request.

Chantal was a junior marketing assistant. In her two years with the company, she’d mostly been involved in administrative work such as ad placement and monitoring the free-sample program.

“She has a good eye,” said Roger, walking Sinclair toward the door.

A good eye for what?

“And I’d like her to broaden her experience,” he finished.

It was on the tip of Sinclair’s tongue to argue, but she had her yes, so it was time for a strategic retreat. She’d figure out the Chantal angle on her own.

Her first thought was that Roger might be grooming the woman for a public relations position. Sinclair had been lobbying to get an additional PR officer in her department for months now, but she had her own assistant, Amber, in mind for the promotion, and Keely in reception in mind for Amber’s job.

“Keep me informed,” insisted Roger.

“Sure,” said Sinclair, leaving his office to cross the executive lobby. First she’d set up a meeting at the Millennium, then she’d sleuth around about Chantal.

Three days later, Sinclair lost the Millennium Spa as a possibility. The President liked Lush’s new samples, but he claimed using them over the launch weekend would put him in a conflict with his regular beauty products supplier.

She’d been hoping the spa would switch to Luscious Lavender items on a permanent basis following the launch. But when she mentioned that to the spa President, he laughed and all but patted her on the head over her naiveté. Supply contracts, he told her, didn’t work that way.

Chantal had shot Sinclair a smug look and joined in the laughter, earning a benevolent smile from the man along with Sinclair’s irritation.

Then the next day, at a pre-Valentine’s event at Bergdorf’s on Fifth Avenue, Chantal earned Sinclair’s irritation all over again.

It was twelve days before Valentine’s Day and the main ball and product launch. Sinclair had worked for months preparing for both events.

For Bergdorf’s, she’d secured special space in the cosmetics department, hired top-line professional beauticians, and had placed ads in Cosmopolitan, Elle and Glamour. She’d even talked Roger into an electronic billboard in Times Square promoting the event. Her spa plan might have fallen flat, but she knew if they could get the right clientele into Bergdorf’s today for free samples and makeovers, word of mouth would begin to spread in advance of the ball.

The event should have come off without a hitch.

But at the last minute Roger had inserted Chantal into the mix, displacing one of the beauticians and making the lineups unnecessarily long. Amber, who had already heard about Chantal’s appearance at the spa meeting, was obviously upset by this latest turn of events. Sinclair didn’t need her loyal employee feeling uncertain about her future.

The result had been a long day. And as the clock wound toward closing time, Sinclair was losing energy. She did her hourly inventory of the seven makeover stations, noting any dwindling supplies on her clipboard. Then she handed the list to Amber, who had the key to the stockroom and was in charge of replenishing.

She reminded the caterers to do another pass along the lineup, offering complimentary champagne and canapés to those customers who were still waiting. The cash register lineup concerned her, so she called the store manager on her cell, asking about opening another till.

The mirrors on stations three and six needed a polish, so she signaled a cleaner. In the meantime, she learned they were almost out of number five brushes and made a quick call to Amber in the back.

“How’s it going?” Hunter’s voice rumbled from behind her.

She couldn’t help but smile at the sound, even as she reflexively tamped down a little rush of pleasure. They hadn’t spoken in a few days and, whether she wanted to or not, she’d missed him. She twisted to face him, meeting his eyes and feeling her energy return.

“Controlled chaos,” she mouthed.

“At least it’s controlled.” He moved in beside her.

“How are things up on the executive floor?” she asked.

“Interesting. Ethan gave me a tour of the factory.” Hunter made a show of sniffing the back of his hand. “I think I still smell like a girl.”

“Lavender’s a lovely scent,” said Sinclair, wrinkling her nose in his direction. She didn’t detect lavender, just Hunter, and it was strangely familiar.

“I prefer spice or musk.”

“Is your masculinity at stake?”

“I may have to pump some iron later just to even things up.”

“Are you a body builder?”

Even under a suit, Hunter was clearly fit.

“A few free weights,” he answered. “You?”

“Uh, no. I’m more of a yoga girl.”

“Yoga’s good.”

“Keeps me limber.”

“Okay, not touching that one.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“My grandfather would agree with you on that point.”

A new cashier arrived, opening up the other till, and the lineup split into two. Sinclair breathed a sigh of relief. One problem handled.

Then she heard Chantal’s laughter above the din and glanced at the tall blonde, who wore a cotton-candy-pink poof-skirted minidress and a pair of four-inch gold heels. She was laughing with some of the customers, her bright lips and impossibly thick eyelashes giving her the air of a glamorous movie star.

With Hunter here, Sinclair felt an unexpected pang of self-consciousness at the contrast between her and Chantal. Quickly, though, she reminded herself that her two-piece taupe suit and matching pumps were appropriate and professional. She also reminded herself that she’d never aspired to be a squealing, air-kissing bombshell.

She tucked her straight, sensibly cut hair behind her ears.

“So what happened at the spa?” asked Hunter.

“Unfortunately, it was a no go.”

“Really?” He frowned with concern. “What was the problem?”

“Some kind of conflict with their supplier.”

“Did you—”

“Sorry. Can you hang on?” she asked him, noticing a disagreement brewing between the new cashier and a customer. She quickly left Hunter and moved to step in.

It turned out the customer had been quoted a wrong price by her beautician. Sinclair quickly honored the quote and threw in an extra tube of lipstick.

When she looked back, Chantal had crossed the floor. She was laughing with Hunter, a long-fingered, sparkly-tipped hand lightly touching his shoulder for emphasis about something.

He didn’t seem the least bit disturbed by the touch, and an unwelcome spike of annoyance hit Sinclair. It wasn’t jealousy, she quickly assured herself. It was the fact that Chantal was ignoring the customers to flirt with the CEO.

Sinclair made her way along the counter.

“Chantal,” she greeted, putting a note of censure in her voice and her expression.

“I was just talking to Hunter about the new mousse,” Chantal trilled. Then she fluffed her hair. “It works miracles.”

Sinclair compressed her lips.

In response, Chantal’s gaze took in Sinclair’s plain hairstyle. “You should…” She frowned. “Uh…have you tried it?”

Hunter inclined his head toward Sinclair. He seemed to be waiting for her answer.

“No,” Sinclair admitted. She hadn’t tired the new mousse. Like she had time for the Luscious Lavender treatment every morning. She started work at seven-thirty after a streamlined regime that rarely included a hairdryer.

“Oh.” Chantal pouted prettily.

Sinclair nodded to a pair of customers lingering around Chantal’s sample station. “I believe those two ladies need some help.”

Chantal giggled and moved away.

“Nice,” said Hunter after she left.

“That better have been sarcasm.”

All men considered Chantal beautiful, but Sinclair would have been disappointed in Hunter if he hadn’t been able to see past her looks.

“Of course it was sarcasm.” But his eyes lingered on the woman.

Sinclair elbowed him in the ribs.

“What?”

“I can tell what you’re thinking.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Yes, I can.”

“What am I thinking?”

“That her breasts are large, her skirt is short, and her legs go all the way to the ground.”

Hunter coughed out a laugh.

“See?” blurted Sinclair in triumph.

“You’re out of your mind.”

“The doors are closing,” murmured Sinclair, more to herself than to Hunter, as she noticed the security guards stop incoming customers and open the doors for those who were exiting.

“You got a few minutes to talk?” he asked.

“Sure.” Hunter was the CEO. She was ready to talk business at his convenience.

She nodded to two empty chairs across the room.

They moved to the quiet corner of the department, and Sinclair climbed into one of the high leather swivel chairs. She parked her clipboard on the glass counter.

Hunter eased up beside her. “So what’s the plan now?”

She glanced around the big room. “The cleaning staff will be here at six. Amber will make sure the leftover samples are returned to the warehouse. And I’ll write a report in the morning.” Later tonight, she was going to start painting her new apartment, but she didn’t think Hunter needed that kind of information.

His gray eyes sparkled with merriment. “I meant your plan about the spa.” “Oh, that.” She waved a hand. “It’s dead. We couldn’t make a deal with the Millennium.”

Her gaze unexpectedly caught Chantal. The woman was eyeing them up from across the room, tossing her glittering mane over one shoulder and licking her red lips.

Under the guise of more easily conversing, Sinclair scooted a little closer to Hunter. Let miss Barbie-doll chew on that.

Hunter slanted a look toward Chantal, then shot Sinclair a knowing grin.

“Shut up,” she warned in an undertone.

“I never said a word.”

“You were thinking it.”

“Yeah. And I was right, too.”

Yeah, he was. “It’s something Pavlovian,” she offered.

His grin widened.

“I didn’t want her to think Luscious Lavender mousse trumps brains, that’s all.”

“It doesn’t.”

“I don’t even use mousse. It’s nothing against Luscious Lavender. It’s a personal choice.”

“Okay,” said Hunter.

“Kristy has always been the glitter and glam twin. I’m—”

“Don’t you dare say plain Jane.”

“I was going to say professional Jane.”

He snorted. “You don’t need a label. And you shouldn’t use Kristy as a frame of reference.”

“What? You don’t compare yourself to Jack?”

“I don’t.” But his expression revealed a sense of discomfort.

“What?” she prompted.

“Gramps does.”

Sinclair could well imagine. “And who comes out on top?”

Hunter raised an eyebrow. “Who do you think?”

“I don’t know,” she replied honestly. Jack seemed like a great guy. But then so did Hunter. They were both smart, handsome, capable and hard-working.

“Jack’s dependable,” said Hunter. “He’s patient and methodical. He doesn’t make mistakes.”

Sinclair found herself leaning even closer, the noise of the store dimming around them as the last of the customers made their way out the door. “And you are?”

“Reckless and impulsive.”

“Why do I hear Cleveland’s voice when you say that?”

Hunter chuckled. “It’s usually accompanied by a cuff upside the head.”

In the silence that followed, Sinclair resisted an urge to take his hand. “That’s sad,” she told him.

“That’s Gramps. He’s a hard-ass from way back.” Then Hunter did a double take of her staring. “Don’t look at me like that.”

She swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

“It makes me want to kiss you,” he muttered.

“Don’t you—”

“I’m not going to kiss you.” He glanced back to Chantal. “That would definitely make the company newsletter.” He focused on Sinclair again. “But you can’t stop me from wanting to.”

And she couldn’t stop herself from wanting to kiss him back. And it didn’t seem to matter what she did to try and get rid of the urge, it just grew worse.

“What can we do about this?” She was honestly looking for help. If the feelings didn’t disappear, they were going to trip up sooner or later.

Hunter rose to his feet.

“For now, I’m walking out the door. Chantal is already wondering what we’re talking about.”

Sinclair shook herself and rose with him. “Check.” If they weren’t together, they couldn’t give in to anything.

“But later, I need to talk to you.”

She opened her mouth to protest. Later didn’t sound like a smart move to her at all.

“About the spa,” he clarified. “Business. I promise. What are you doing tonight?”

“Painting my apartment.”

“Really?” He drew back. “That’s what you do on Saturday night?”

Yeah, that was what she did on Saturday night. She rattled on, trying not to seem pathetic. “I just bought the place. A great little loft in Soho. But the colors are dark and the floor needs stripping, and the mortgage is so high I can’t afford to pay someone to do it for me.”

“You want a raise?”

“I want a guy with sandpaper and a paint roller.”

“You got it.”

“Hunter—”

“Give me your address. We can talk while we paint.”

Her and Hunter alone in her apartment? “I don’t think—”

“I’ll be wearing a smock and a paper cap. Trust me, you’ll be able to keep your hands off.”

“Nothing wrong with your ego.”

He grunted. “I know you can’t resist me under normal circumstances.”

“Ha!” The gauntlet thrown down, she’d resist him or die trying.

Now that she thought about it, maybe painting together wasn’t such a bad idea. Hunter’s family had bought the company. He was a permanent part of Lush Beauty Products, and the sooner they got over this inconvenient hump, the better. In fact, it was probably easier if they smoothed out the rough spots away from Chantal’s and other people’s prying eyes.

“Seventy-seven Mercy Street,” she told him with a nod. “Suite 702.”

“I’ll be there.”

On his way to Sinclair’s house, Hunter stopped in at the office. He was pretty sure Ethan Sloan would still be around. By all accounts, Ethan was a workaholic and a genius. He’d been with Lush Beauty Products for fifteen years, practically since the doors opened with a staff of twenty and a single store.

He had developed perfumes, hair products, skin products and makeup. The man had a knack for anticipating trends, moving from floral to fruit to organic. In his late thirties now, he’d wisely set his sights on fine quality, recognizing a growing segment of the population with a high disposable income and a penchant for self-indulgence.

Hunter was also willing to bet Ethan had a knack for management and the underlying politics of the company. And Hunter had some questions about that.

He found Ethan in his office, on the phone, but the man quickly motioned to Hunter to sit down.

“By Thursday?” Ethan was saying as Hunter took a seat and slipped open the button on his suit jacket.

Ethan was neatly trimmed. Hunter had noticed that he generally wore his shirtsleeves rolled up, although he’d wear a jacket on the executive floor. Smart man.

“Great,” said Ethan, nodding. “Sign ’em up. Talk to you then.”

He hung up the phone. “New supplier for lavender,” he explained to Hunter. “Out of British Columbia.”

“We’re running short?”

“Critically. And it’s our key ingredient.” He rubbed his hands together. “But it’s solved now. What can I do for you?”

Hunter settled back in his chair. “Not to put you on the spot. And way off the record.”

Ethan smiled. He brought his palms down on the desktop, standing to walk around its end and close the office door. “Gotta say.” He returned, taking the second guest chair instead of sitting behind his desk. “I love conversations that start out like this.”

Hunter smiled in return. “Tell me if I’m out of line.”

“We’re off the record,” said Ethan. “You can get out of line.”

“What do you think of Chantal Charbonnet?”

Ethan sat back. “Sly, but not brilliant. Gorgeous, of course. Roger seems to have noticed her.”

“She was at the Bergdorf’s promotion this afternoon.”

“Yeah?” asked Ethan. “That’s a stretch for her job description.”

“It got me wondering,” confided Hunter. “Why was she there?”

“Eye candy?”

“Women were the target demographic.” Hunter had been thinking about this all the way over.

“Maybe she asked Roger really, really nicely?”

Hunter had considered that, too. But he didn’t have evidence to support favoritism. He was coming at this from another angle. “Could she have been a role model for the consumers?”

Ethan considered the idea. “There’s no denying she knows how to wear our products.”

“Lays it on a bit thick, wouldn’t you say?”

Ethan grinned. “My kind of consumer. We want them all to apply it like Chantal.”

Ethan’s words validated the worry that was niggling at Hunter’s brain. Chantal was dead center on the new target demographic. Hunter was worried that Roger had seen that in her, and it wasn’t something he’d seen in Sinclair. Sinclair was a lot of things—a lot of very fabulous, fun, exciting things—but she wasn’t a poster child for Lush Beauty Products.

He filed away the information and switched gears. “Did Sinclair mention her spa plan to you?”

Ethan nodded. “Had lots of potential. But I hear it went south with Millennium.”

“I’m going to try to revive it.”

“I hope you can. If you secure the outlet, we can provide the product.”

“Including lavender.”

“Got it covered.”

“Do you have any thoughts on a spa release overall?”

Ethan stretched out his legs, obviously speculating how frank he could be with Hunter.

Hunter waited. He wanted frank, but there was no way to insist on it.

“If it was me,” said Ethan. “I wouldn’t target a single spa, I’d go for the whole chain. And I’d try for the Crystal. The Millennium is nice, but the Crystal has the best overseas locations.”

Hunter didn’t disagree with Ethan’s assessment. The Crystal Spa chain was as top of the line as they came.

“You get into Rome and Paris,” said Ethan. “At that level. You’ll really have some momentum.”

“Tall order.”

Ethan brought his hands down on his thighs. “Osland International usually shy away from a challenge?”

“Nope,” said Hunter. When he was involved, Osland International always stepped up to the plate.

He could already feel his competitive instincts kick in. Although he’d come into the job reluctantly, making Lush Beauty a runaway success had inched its way to the top of his priority list.

He also knew he wanted Sinclair as a partner in this. He liked the way she thought. He liked her energy and her outside-the-box thinking. And, well, okay, and he just plain liked her. But there was nothing wrong with that. Liking your business associates was important.

All his best business relationships were based on mutual respect. Sure, maybe he didn’t want to sleep with his other business associates. But the principle was the same.

Sinclair hit the buzzer, letting Hunter into the building.

She didn’t know whether she’d been brilliant or stupid to take him up on his offer to paint, but there was no turning back now.

She’d dressed in a pair of old torn blue jeans and a grainy gray T-shirt with “Stolen From the New York City Police Department” emblazoned across the front. Her hair was braided tight against her head, and she’d popped a white painter’s cap on her head. She had no worries that the tone of the evening would be sexy in any way.

The bell rang, echoing through the high-ceilinged, empty room. Her living room furniture was in storage for another week. But she’d already finished the small bedroom, so it was back together.

She opened the front door and the hinges groaned loudly in the cavernous space as Hunter walked in.

“Nice,” he said, looking around at the tarp-draped counters and breakfast bar, the plastic on the floors, and the dangling pieces of masking tape around the bay window.

“It has a lot of potential,” she told him, closing and locking the oak door. There was no doubt it was smaller than he’d be used to, but she was excited about living here.

“I wasn’t being sarcastic, honest.” He held up a bottle of wine. “Housewarming.”

“That might be a bit premature.” She still had a lot of work to get done.

He glanced around the room for somewhere to set the bottle down. “In a cupboard?” he asked, heading for the alcove kitchen.

“Beside the fridge,” she called.

He got rid of the wine and shrugged out of his windbreaker. Then he returned to the main room in a pair of khakis and a white T-shirt that were obviously brand-new.

She tried not to smile at the outfit.

It really was nice of him to come and help. Still, she wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity to tease him.

“You don’t do home maintenance often, do you?”

He glanced around the tarp-draped room. “I’ve seen it done on TV.”

“It’s not as easy as it looks,” she warned.

He shot her an expression of mock disbelief. “I have an MBA from Harvard.”

“And they covered house painting in graduate school?”

“They covered macroeconomics and global capitalism.”

She fought a grin. “Oh sure, go ahead and get snooty on me.”

“Dip the brush and stroke it on the wall. Am I close?”

“I guess you might as well give it a try.”

“Give it a try?”

Her grin broadened at his insulted tone.

He bent over and pried open a paint can. “You might want to shift your attitude. I’m free labor, baby.”

“Am I getting what I paid for?”

“Sassy,” he said, and her heart tripped a beat.

“You need to shake it,” she told him, battling the sensual memory. He’d called her sassy in Manchester. In a way that said he wanted her bad.

“Shake it?” he interrupted her thoughts.

She swallowed. “You need to shake the paint before you open the can.”

He raised his brow as he crouched to tap the lid back down.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“You bet. Nothing like keeping the billionaire humble.”

“Don’t stereotype. I’m always humble.”

“Yeah. I noticed that right off, Mr. Macroeconomics and Global Capitalism.”

“Well, what did you take in college?”

She hesitated for a second then admitted it. “MBA. Yale.”

“So, you took macroeconomics and global capitalism?”

“Magna cum laude,” she said with a hoity toss of her head.

“Yet you can still paint. Imagine that.”

She glanced at him for a moment, trying to figure out why he hadn’t escalated the joke by teasing her about the designation. Then it hit her. “You got summa, at least, didn’t you?”

He didn’t answer.

“Geek,” she said.

He grinned as he shook the paint. Then he poured it into the tray.

She broke out the brushes, and he quickly caught on to using the long-handled roller. Sinclair cut in the corners, and together they worked their way down the longest wall.

“What do you think of the Crystal Spa chain?” he asked as his roller swished up and down in long strokes.

“I’ve never been there,” said Sinclair from the top of the step ladder. This close to the ceiling lights, she was starting to sweat. She finally gave in and peeled off her cap.

Wisps of strands had come loose from her braid. Probably she’d end up with cream-colored specks in her hair. Whatever. They were painting her walls, not dancing in a ballroom.

“You want to try it?”

She paused at the end of her stroke, glancing down at him. Was he talking about the Crystal Spa? “Try what?”

“I was thinking, we shouldn’t let the Millennium’s refusal stop us. We should consider other spas.”

Was he serious? More importantly, why hadn’t she thought of that?

She felt a shimmer of excitement. Maybe her spa idea wasn’t dead, after all. And the New York-based Crystal Spa chain would be an even better choice than the Millennium.

She’d learned from the Millennium experience. She’d make sure she was even better prepared for a pitch to the Crystal.

“Can I try out the Crystal on my expense account?” she asked with a teasing lilt.

“Of course.”

Scoffing her dismissal, she went back to painting. “Like Roger would ever go for that.”

Besides, she didn’t have to test out the Crystal Spa to know it was fantastic. Everyone always raved.

“Forget Roger, will you?” urged Hunter. “Here.”

She glanced back down.

With the roller hooked under one arm, he pulled out his wallet. Then he tossed a credit card onto her tarp-covered breakfast bar. “Consider this your expense account.” She nearly fell off the ladder. “You can’t—”

“I just did.”

“But—”

“Shut up.” He went back to the paint tray. “I know the spa idea’s great. You know the spa idea’s great. Let’s streamline the research and make it happen.”

“You can’t pay for my spa treatments.”

“Osland International can pay for them. It’s my corporate card, and I consider it a perfectly legitimate R & D expense.”

Sinclair didn’t know what to say to that. Trying out the spa would be great research, but still…

He rolled the next section. “It’s not like I can go in there and check out the wax room myself.”

She cringed, involuntarily flinching. “Wax room?”

He chuckled at her expression. “Buck up, Sinclair. Take one for the team.”

“You take one for the team.”

“I’ve done my part. It’s my credit card.”

“They’re my legs.”

“Who said anything about legs?”

She stared at him. He didn’t. He wouldn’t.

“We were this close!” She made a tiny space with her thumb and index finger. “This close to having a totally professional conversation.”

“I’m weak,” he admitted.

“You’re hopeless.”

“Yeah. Well. Irrespective of what you get waxed, and whether or not you show me, it’s still a good idea.”

It was a good idea. And her gaze strayed to his platinum card sitting on the canvas tarp. Even if he couldn’t keep his mind on business, this was not an opportunity she was about to give up. “I’m thinking a facial.”

“Whatever you want. I need to know if they can deliver the kind of opportunity we’re looking for.”

“What if they’re locked into a supplier contract like the Millennium?”

Hunter shrugged. “Every business is different. We’ll deal with that when and if it happens. Tomorrow good for you?”

She nodded.

With only twelve days until Valentine’s Day. There was no time to lose.

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