Having the Billionaire's Baby(13)

For the moment though, things were back under his control. And he liked   to have control-of the beginnings, the middles and the ends.

Callie set her water down carefully, then frowning, looked beneath the   table to see the folded paper he had wedged beneath one of the legs to   minimize the wobble. She glanced quickly toward him. "It's not perfect   and it's only temporary," he said.

"I've been meaning to fix that," she said, then took a deep breath.   "Thank you." He suppressed the urge to smile at how much the words   seemed to cost her. They would get this meeting over and done with and   that would be it. It needed to be, because he liked just being with her   far too much.

He pulled out a chair for her, caught a faint trace of her perfume as she passed close by him to sit.

"So what are these questions?" She looked at the reports that lay   between them, touched a slender finger, stained a faded red, to the   brightly colored markers protruding from beneath the covers.

"How about you give me a little background on the business to start with. The personal side."

"It's not all there in the numbers?"

"The numbers tell a story. But I'd like to know what's behind them. How   did you start up? How long have Shannon and Marc been with you? What's   your style of doing business?"

"You don't want much, do you?" Gentle sarcasm laced her words.

He ignored it as he ignored the other wants that were always present when she was near.



"How much time have you got?"

Nick leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs out. "As long as it takes."

She sighed, her gaze flicked to him and then away, and she started   telling him about the business, her story hesitant and factual at first.   But as he asked questions she seemed to forget who she was talking to.   He listened to her mistakes and her successes with equal attention. He   could understand how tough it had been in the early days and admired  the  way she had hung in there.

He teased out the details and stories of Ivy Cottage's history. His   opinion should only matter because, the more confidence he had in her,   the easier it would be to leave her alone. She was careful also to give   credit to Jason. He didn't mind the sense that it was begrudgingly   given. Her ex-partner had done her no favors. Nick liked his new   brother-in-law a little less for that fact.

Somewhere in the telling of her story, her stance shifted from defensive to conspiratorial.

Nick forgot the passage of time. Could just be with her, listening to her, laughing with her. Watching her.

He didn't realize how long they had sat talking till she looked up, and   he followed her glance, to see the orange glow of sunset coloring the   horizon. She touched her fingers to her lips in surprise. "I'm sorry. I   didn't mean to talk for so long, and we haven't even got to the   reports."

He shook his head, leaned forward in his seat. "Don't worry about the   time on my account." He captured her wide brown gaze with his own. "I'm   only going back to my hotel room. But what about you? You have your   painting to do."                       
       
           



       

Her lips parted, but it wasn't until she broke the contact of their gaze   that words came out. "It hardly matters now. I've lost the light."

He knew he disconcerted her, that beneath her efficient facade shimmered   an awareness she wanted to deny. He wasn't going to let her, not   completely. But he needed to retain the upper hand, and talk of darkness   and hotel rooms could too easily lead his thoughts down dangerous   paths. Time to redirect them. "Have you always painted?"

"For as long as I can remember. I even started a fine arts degree."

There was something wistful in her tone. "Started?"

She frowned. "I changed to commerce." And suddenly her tone was as businesslike as her degree.

"Why?"

"Because there's a livelihood in it." Again the serious tone. Her hands had gone to her hips.

"Who are you quoting?"

Her eyes widened.

"Weren't you quoting someone just then?"

She tipped her head to one side and studied him. A rueful smile touched   her lips as she nodded once. "My mother's partner at the time."

"You changed your degree to please someone else?"

She shrugged. "Not exactly. But he'd been made redundant, and he helped   me see that I needed something solid to rely on, something I had  control  over. It made sense to study commerce."

"Not if it wasn't what you really wanted to do." He suddenly laughed, surprising himself as much as her.

"What's so funny?"

"That advice coming from me. I chose the university I attended because of someone else."



"What do you mean?"

He looked out over the hills. "My girlfriend at the time wanted to study   at Adelaide, so I went there too. To be with her." This was a definite   foray into the personal, a shifting of the ground.

"If you were choosing universities together, you must have been practically childhood sweethearts."

"Something like that."

"What happened to her?" Callie's tone was teasing.

"She left me for an affair with her English professor." It was the last, the only time, he'd been the one to be left.

"Bad trade."

Nick looked sharply at her, expecting to discern sarcasm. But her gaze   was serious. He allowed himself a smile. "I like to think so." But he   regretted the confidence he'd shared. Why Callie? Why had he told this   woman what he never talked about? The past was past, and certainly had   no place here. His uncharacteristic loss of focus could only have been   caused by the woman opposite him, by the way her softly parted lips made   him long to cover them with his own.

He pulled the top report off the small stack. "This shouldn't take long.   Clarify a couple of anomalies I've found, and then you needn't see me   again. We can both get on with what we do best." He'd found enough in   his reading of the reports, and from talking to her and others in the   industry, to know the business was in capable hands.

"That's a promise?"

She wanted to end the contact too. The fleeting closeness of this   afternoon had been an illusion. "You won't even have to see me in   person-phone and e-mail should be all we need." Impersonal. Freedom for   both of them.

Callie studied him. It was strange to think of him hurting. He seemed so   strong, so impervious. The warmth she'd felt only minutes earlier in   his presence had cooled. But over the last couple of hours, she had come   to realize that he didn't have to be an adversary, could in fact be an   ally. Through talking they'd reached a tenuous understanding. She  could  trust him and his word. She would be able to run her business how  she  wanted, and she wouldn't have Nick's constant presence to remind  her of  that one mistake.

That one night of magic.

He turned back the cover on the first report and she leaned forward,   resting her elbows on the table so that she could read the small print   better. The table wobbled slightly. She straightened in remembered   reflex, and her arm collided with her glass, sending it flying. It   crashed onto the wooden boards, shattering on impact.

Callie dropped to the floor, began picking up the larger pieces. Nick   crouched opposite her. "Leave it," she instructed him. "I'll fix it."

He ignored her and picked up another shard.

They reached for the same piece at the same time and his fingers brushed   hers. She glanced up to see if he, too, had felt that jolt of heat.  His  gaze was steady on her. Pulse pounding, Callie scooted back. Her  heel  caught on an uneven board and she started to fall. Her hands flew  out to  break her backward tumble and glass sliced into her palm.                       
       
           



       

Sitting on the wooden boards, she cradled her hand in her lap to examine it. The cut was clean, but long and deep.

Nick stepped closer. "What have you done?"

"Nothing." She let him help her to her feet. "I just need a Band-Aid."   Nursing her hand and her throbbing wrist, she headed inside, dripping   blood. Her T-shirt was already a mess, so, as best she could, she wadded   up the fabric and held it against the cut to stanch the flow. In the   bathroom, she pulled open the door of the cabinet. Grabbing a tissue,   she swabbed away the blood, then found the box of Band-Aids and   awkwardly extracted one and stripped the covering paper from it.