Billionaire’s Pursuit(7)

 Just as she finished speaking, the car lurched forward. The tires squeaked on the slick surface of the tarmac and in that same instant, her purse fell from her lap, spilling its contents onto the floor in the process.

 “Oh my God!” she gasped.

 For a split second, I almost reached down to help her, but when I got a look at her cleavage, I thought better of it. While I got an eyeful, she corralled a stack of paper and an assortment of other random knickknacks and jammed them back into her bag.

 Returning to her seat, she flung a handful of her blond hair out of her eyes. It came to rest in an even split along her shoulder, with half of it covering her breast and the other half concealed from my view as it draped down her back. A hint of crimson flushed to her cheeks as I studied her attempt to compose herself. She flashed a closed-lipped grin at me once the fidgeting ceased.

 “Everything okay?” I asked.

 “Yes,” she began. “I’m so sorry about that, Mr. Sinclair, about what happened when you got off the plane, I’m just… sorry. Can we start over?”

 Spreading my legs, I unfolded my hands from their position in my lap and covered my kneecaps with my palms.

 “Sure thing,” I replied. “We can do that.”

 “Oh, thank you. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.” As she spoke, she broke eye contact with me just long enough to start fishing around inside of her purse once again. Within a few seconds, she produced a handful of paper, now tattered at the edges from the mishap moments before.

 “What do you have there?” I asked.

 “Oh,” she said, as she jumped in with eagerness. Clutching the half-folded stack in her hand she smiled and said, “Well, I… I’ve compiled a list of activities based on the proposal I sent you. You know, stuff you might be interested in seeing or doing in town when you’re not working.”

 Raising my hand, I motioned for her to pass the information to me. I took the papers from her, spun them around and placed them in my lap for a closer examination.

 “Got a pen?” I asked, as I started to scan the list.

 She cleared her throat, and then I heard the now familiar sound of her rummaging through the loose items in the bottom of her purse. After a few moments, the noise ceased as she located a writing instrument.

 “Here you go,” she said, extending the pen in my direction.

 As I perused the list, it became obvious she’d put a fair bit of time into it. Under ordinary circumstances, I might even enjoy some of the items she’d laid out. Of course, I’d have no interest in doing any of them by myself no matter what. In any case, I decided to have some fun with her about it.

 “Yeah,” I said with an exhale as I pressed my back into the seat. “This list… it’s not gonna work. Not at all.”

 “Oh,” she replied. Her tone sank.

 This would be easier, and far more fun, than I suspected.

 “Yeah, for example. You’ve got daytime activities in here, like visits to the museum.” I paused mid-sentence and began to cross items off the list one at a time. As I wrote, the sound of her sinking into the seat across from me filled the air. “You see, I’m working all day when I’m here, so this kind of thing is out.”

 She remained silent as I laid waste to her list with the angry tip of my red ballpoint.

 “Okay, then here, at night. You’ve scheduled trips to the opera and at least what… two, three, four art shows?” I stopped and glared at her to drive home the point. “You really think I want to go to four art shows in five days?”

 Her shoulders drew up towards her ears in doubt.

 Elevating my voice I said, “And to make matters worse, for tonight, you have me going to dinner in my hotel. Honestly?”

 I lifted my gaze up from the wrinkled pages again to see her pink twinge had deepened in color and spread down to her chest. Before continuing, I gave her a chance to offer up a defense, which she wasted little time in mounting.

 “Ugh, Mr. Sinclair. I’m so sorry,” she began. She made a gesture for me to pass the pages back to her. Continuing, she said, “I’ll figure something out. I promise.”

 With a flick of my wrist, I pinched the stack of pages between my thumb and forefinger and held them up halfway between us.

 “I should hope so,” I replied.

 Taking them from me with a ginger tug, she reached up and pulled two long strands of hair behind her ears as she placed the pages flat in her lap. Without looking up, I watched as she traced my markings with her eyes.