Who was she? Her brain clicked back on, and Morgan suddenly remembered. She had to tread carefully if she was going to leave with her goal accomplished. She gave him a warm, professional smile and made sure her voice was steady. "You must be Caleb Pierce. The, uh, gentleman outside said to come in. I'm Morgan Raines."
One brow shot up, and he rubbed a hand over his head, messing up his hair even more. "I don't know you. And if that was my asshole brother, you can tell him to grow up and stop acting like a toddler."
She refused to bend to his rudeness. "Funny, he used the same term when he spoke about you."
The man gave a humorless laugh and went back to his drink. "Yeah, we're a real tight-knit family. Welcome to the fun house. Can you close the door on the way out?"
She lifted her chin. Great. Already she realized working with Caleb Pierce was going to be a bit . . . difficult. Lucky for her, she didn't give up easily. "Mr. Pierce, I'm here on behalf of my clients, Mr. and Mrs. Slate Rosenthal. I contacted you a few weeks back about building a house for them in Harrington on a recently secured piece of property on the harbor."
She hoped the celebrity name-dropping would make him turn back around, but he either lived under a rock or didn't care. "Name sounds familiar. Wait, I do remember. I told you no. I'm dealing with some other shit now and can't take on a new job. Sorry. Close the door, please."
Her ankle had turned into a full-blown ache, but she refused to shift her position. A show of strength at the beginning of any encounter was key to setting up the dynamics of a business relationship. "Mr. Pierce, I'm here to change your mind. It's imperative to my clients your company be the one to build their house. I'd like to discuss the benefits and terms with you. I'm sure you'll change your mind."
He had another long sip from his glass. She waited. Finally he glanced back. "I don't change my mind, princess. Now, I'm sure you can find another company to get you what you need. My assistant can get you a list of names. Just leave your business card on the way out."
This time, he deliberately turned his back and walked away. He sat at his desk, put his drink on the blotter, and began clicking away at the keyboard like she was some type of lowly, annoying gnat he'd just batted away. Princess? Was he kidding?
Disappointment flowed. He was going to be a real prize to work with, but she'd better wrap her head around it and deal. Morgan shut the door with a decided click, noting he didn't even bother to look up to see if she'd left. His brother was correct: he was an asshole.
She walked back over to the desk and waited. After a few moments, he stopped typing and looked up. His brows snapped together in pure annoyance. "You're still here."
Morgan smiled. "Yes. I don't think you understand, Mr. Pierce. I'm not interested in any other companies. I want Pierce Brothers. I'm also going to need to go over the initial plans with your architect and make sure we can start immediately. The house must be done by the end of fall. Mr. and Mrs. Rosenthal need to be settled in Harrington on their estate in order to be ready for filming. I can imagine how full your schedule is, but once you see my proposal, I'm sure we'll be able to work something out."
He seemed to break out of his fog and realize she wasn't going away. Satisfaction cut through her, until that hard gaze began at the top of her head and raked over her figure all the way down to her peekaboo shoes that showed her tasteful pink polish matching her fingernails. Morgan also noticed he seemed to spend way too much time on the thrust of her breasts from her very proper blouse, and the length of her calves, since the white business suit stopped at the knee in a perfectly conservative way. Morgan prepared herself to feel harassed or bullied, but instead, her skin tingled with anticipation. So odd. She should be positively insulted and disgusted by his male behavior. What was it about his smoky eyes that stripped her clothes from her body, saw everything underneath, and made her feel like a sexual wanton? And why, oh, why did she like it?
Her brain misfired along with her hormones, but Morgan held tight to her stance and met his stare head-on. She'd learned men respected strength. She usually won her battles by keeping her stubborn silence, waiting them out, and presenting a professional front.
Too bad inside her clothes she felt all itchy, turned-on, and completely nonprofessional.
But Caleb Pierce never had to know.
Those full lips twitched in a half smirk. Almost as if he guessed her thoughts and figured it might be fun to toy with her. Too bad for him she'd gone through tons of confrontations with arrogant billionaires, diva celebrities, and demanding teen pop stars who wanted their way and refused to compromise. Morgan had learned from the best. A simple contractor wouldn't get in her way.
"You have mud on your skirt."
She never lost a beat. "I encountered the two Cujos in your foyer and realized they wanted to kill me in a way I wasn't prepared for. We wrestled, and I won."
"Never heard Balin and Gandalf called Cujos before. You'd be in more danger of being licked to death."
"Tolkien fan, huh? Nice. Still, I wouldn't term them a great welcome committee for new clients."
"I don't want any new clients, so they work great for me."
"You won't need any other clients after you take the Rosenthal job. You'll be able to pick and choose to your liking."
"I'm in a bad mood, princess. Sure you want to take me on now?"
She tilted her head and regarded him thoughtfully. "Why don't you try me, Charming?"
His gaze narrowed. Oh, yeah, that got his attention. She tried not to get sucked into the depths of those amazing eyes, but she was fascinated at how quickly they could turn from smoke to cold steel. She wondered briefly what they'd look like when he was buried deep inside a woman. Whoa, what was that thought? Was she insane?
"What did you just call me?"
Morgan smiled at his slightly shocked tone. "Charming. If I'm playing the passive princess, you can play the part of the stud with brawn but no brains. Personally, I think the horses were the most interesting part of those stories."
He shook his head. "Who the hell are you again?"
Morgan decided this was a great time to grab the chair opposite his desk and sit down. Both of her feet wept in relief. "Morgan Raines. I'm a personal interior design artist hired by the Rosenthals. In case you haven't seen a movie in the past five years, let me remind you they're the darlings of Hollywood, and Slate was nominated for an Academy Award last year. His wife is the face of Glimmer makeup. Maybe you've seen her in half a dozen commercials while you're watching the Kardashians?"
Was that the grinding of his teeth or just her imagination? Oh, she hoped it wasn't her imagination. "I've heard of them. Why is a design artist trying to hire me to build a house?"
Morgan went to cross her legs, felt his gaze drop to the exposed skin of her thighs, and remained still. She clasped her hands on her dirty white skirt and gave her spiel. "I'm much more than an interior designer, Mr. Pierce. My clients hire me to be their voice and vision and oversee the entire project of their dream home. I work with the contractors while the house is built and am the only one they deal with during the construction. I'm the one involved with every tiny detail, from the faucets and tile all the way to what type of doorknobs I want installed. I'm present every day and work closely with the builder on all aspects to completion."
He fell back into the chair and let out a humorless laugh. "You gotta be kidding me. Basically, your job is to babysit all the spoiled, wealthy clients so they can show up to a completed house built to spec."
It was so much more than that, but Morgan knew he wouldn't understand until they began their project. Better not to mention he wouldn't be able to breathe without her knowing. "Close enough."
"You pick out their throw pillows, too? What happens if they're the wrong color?"
The jab didn't bother her. Morgan was used to the critics, but with a long trail of success stories and a book full of celebrity clients, she could afford to be gracious. "Yes, I pick out the throw pillows. And I never make a wrong decision."
"Never?"
She calmly met his gaze and refused to veer off course, even though that strange breathlessness was seizing her lungs again. The man was so very . . . vital. "Never."
"Must be nice." He remained silent for a while, but she waited him out, her face smoothed out in a mask of endless patience. Morgan noticed he seemed to have no twitchy habits. She'd studied men in countless confrontation situations, and most of them slipped up, giving her a sign of how they dealt with emotion. Some paced. Others tapped an object or finger. Some shifted in their seats or crossed a leg over an ankle or beat a foot against the floor.