Bidding on Her Boss(2)

All he knew about this woman was that she liked halter tops, her hair  could stop traffic, she was wealthy enough to have spare cash lying  around to help out a new charity and her lips could set his blood  humming. But damn if he didn't want to know more.                       
       
           



       

"Evening, Faith," he said, walking around and opening his passenger side door.

She didn't take a step closer, just stood at the shop door looking adorable and said, "We won't be needing your car tonight."

He glanced around-the parking lot was empty. "You have a magic carpet tucked away somewhere?"

"No need," she said brightly. "We're already here."

She dug into her bag and came out with a handful of keys looped  together on what looked like plaited ribbons. As he watched in surprise,  she stuck a key into the front door, and he heard a click. She stepped  in, efficiently disabled the alarm and turned back to him. "Come on in."

Dylan narrowed his eyes, half expecting one of his brothers to jump out  and yell "gotcha" because he'd fallen for the prank. But Faith was busy  putting her bag behind the counter and switching on lights. Shaking his  head, he set the keyless lock on his car, followed her into the store  and closed the door behind them. He had no idea what she had planned or  what she really wanted out of this date, but for some reason that didn't  bother him. This woman was piquing his interest on more than one  level-something he hadn't experienced in a long while-and he realized he  was enjoying the sensation.

"Who are you, Faith Sixty-Three?" he asked, leaning back against the  counter and appreciating the way her dress hugged her lush curves.

She faced him then, her cheeks flushed and her warm brown eyes  sparkling. "I'm a florist. My name is Faith Crawford and I work for you  in this store."

Faith Crawford? That name rang a bell, but he couldn't remember any  specifics. He narrowed his eyes. "Mary O'Donnell is the manager here,  isn't she?"

"Yep, she's my manager," Faith said over her shoulder as she turned the light on in the storeroom in the back of the shop.

He wrapped a hand around the back of his neck. This had gone past Woman  of Mystery and was fast becoming ridiculous. Why would an employee want  to spend a purseful of money on a night or three with the boss? Could  she have an axe to grind? Was she hoping to sleep her way to a  promotion?

He blew out a breath. "How long have you worked for me?"

She turned to face him, standing a little taller. "Six months, Mr. Hawke."

"So you know Hawke's Blooms has a no fraternization policy." A policy  he wholeheartedly believed in. "Managers can't be involved with anyone  who works for them."

She didn't seem fazed. "I'm aware of that, yes."

"Yet," he pressed, taking a step closer and catching a whiff of her  exotic perfume, "you still paid good money for a date-well, three  dates-with me."

A small frown line appeared between her brows. "Nowhere was it  specified that they were supposed to be romantic dates with the  bachelors."

Dylan was about to reply, then realized he was losing control of the  conversation. "Then what do you want from me?" he asked warily.

She grabbed a clip from her handbag and pulled her hair back. "I want you to spend the evening here with me."

"Doing what, exactly?" he asked as he watched her clip her red curls,  which burst out the top of the clasp in copper-colored chaos.

"Watching."

He felt his eyebrows lift. "I have to warn you, kinky propositions still fall under the no fraternization policy."

Faith rolled her eyes, but he saw the corners of her mouth twitch. "I'll be making a floral arrangement."

Right. As if he didn't get enough of that in his average day. And yet,  he thought, glancing at her pale, long fingers, there was something  appealing about the idea of watching Faith at work. Her fingers looked  as if they'd be gentle yet firm. He could almost feel them on his jaw,  then stroking across his shoulders. His skin tingled...and he realized  he was getting carried away. This was not a path he could take with an  employee-which he'd only just explained to her.

Besides, his attraction was probably a result of being in the store at  night, alone, cocooned in the area illuminated by the lights. It  couldn't be more.

He rubbed a hand down his face. "Let me get this straight. I know what  you're earning, so unless you have a trust fund, your bid was a decent  amount of money to you. Yet you paid it to have me sit and watch you do  the job that we normally pay you to do."

She beamed at him. "That's it."                       
       
           



       

"I've missed something," he said, tilting his head to the side. She was becoming more intriguing by the minute.

She opened the fridge door and pulled out buckets of peonies, lilacs  and magnolias. "Have you ever had a dream, Mr. Hawke? Something that was  all yours and made you smile when you thought about it?"

Dylan frowned. His career dreams had always been for Hawke's Blooms,  but they were dreams he shared with his family. Had he ever had one that  was his alone?

"Sure," he said casually, knowing it was probably a lie and unsure how he felt about that.

While looking at him, she began to strip the leaves from the flower stems. "Then you know how it is."

As he took in the glow on her face, his pulse picked up speed. "What's your dream, Faith?"

She smiled mysteriously. "I have many dreams, but there's one in particular I'm trying to achieve now."

He met her gaze and the room faded away. He could have looked at her  all night. Then her eyes darkened. Her breathing became irregular. Dylan  wanted to groan. She felt the chemistry between them as well. His body  responded to the knowledge, tightening, heating. But he couldn't let  that happen. This was dangerous. He frowned and swung away.

"Tell me about the dream," he said when he turned back around, this time more in control of himself.

After a beat, Faith gave a small nod. "To open the Hawke's Blooms catalog and see one of my designs there on the page."

This was all about the catalog? He leaned back against the bench  opposite the one Faith was working on and crossed his ankles. "We have a  procedure in place for that."

"I know it by heart," she said, taking foam and a white tray down from  the shelf. "'Any Hawke's Blooms florist may submit an original floral  design to his or her manager, accompanied by a completed, signed  application form. If the manager believes the design has merit, she or  he will pass it to the head office to be considered for inclusion in the  catalog of standard floral designs used for customer orders.'"

Dylan smiled. She'd recited the procedure word for word. "And," he  added, "that process doesn't cost a single penny. Why didn't you go that  route?"

"I did." She clipped the bottoms from a bunch of peony stems. "About  twenty times, in fact. After my manager rejected number sixteen, I began  to think that way might not work for me." She smiled and her dimples  showed.

He thought about her manager, Mary O'Donnell. Mary was simpering to  management, which was annoying, but he knew she ran a tight ship. Was it  possible she was blocking her own staff from advancement? "Are you  making a complaint about your manager?" he asked, serious.

She shook her head, and her hands slowed to a stop as she met his gaze.  "I'm a good florist, Mr. Hawke. I take pride in my work, and take  direction from my manager. I do my best by our customers and have a good  group of regulars who ask for me by name. So I don't think it's too  much to ask to have just one of my designs considered so I can move my  career forward."

Dylan knew he was lucky-he'd grown up in the family business, where his  input had been not only listened to but also encouraged. But what if  he'd been in Faith's shoes? An employee of a large company who was  struggling to have her voice heard. He watched her place flowers in the  foam, turning the arrangement with the other hand as she went. He'd like  to think he'd have gone the extra mile, the way Faith was doing  tonight.

"So you decided to get creative," he said, hearing the trace of admiration in his own voice.

"Seeing you were auctioning off a night of your time seemed like a  sign." She glanced up at him, her long-lashed eyes earnest. "Do you  believe in destiny, Mr. Hawke?"

"Can't say it's something I've ever paid much attention to," he said.  Unlike, say, the way the side of her jaw sloped down to her neck, or the  sprinkling of pale ginger freckles across her nose.