He still tracked Rowan as she took an idle stroll into the dark corners of the office, pausing at the window as rain gusted against the glass before taking herself to the bookshelf of worn style-guides, atlases, and other reference tomes.
“Use my tablet if you want a novel,” he offered. “There are hundreds on it.”
“If I have time to read, I have time to practice.” She said it like something she’d memorized by rote. “Same goes for television—not that that’s an option right now.” She came away from the bookshelf with a look that was both disgruntled and lost. “I’ve already done my exercises. If I work my leg anymore I’ll just hurt myself. I was about to start dinner, but the freezer is empty and the power’s gone.”
“I brought the boat,” Nic reminded her, his body involuntarily reacting to the way she moved like a leaf in a stream, meandering in a way that mesmerized him.
“I’ve had enough of the sea today, thanks.” Her aimless path took her to a lamp fringe, which she lightly stroked, making the silk lift and fall in a ripple.
This was so like her—the way she accepted as her due that a room would pause and take notice when she entered. What was it about her that made it happen? he wondered. She was lovely, with her buttermilk skin and sable hair, the sensual softness of her features and the toned perfection of her frame, but that wasn’t what gave her such power. There was something more innate, something warm, that promised happiness and fulfillment if she noticed you.
Nic shut down that bizarre tangent of thought. He was not one of those people who fell for charisma, watching and waiting for the next act, aching to feel important because he was touched by her attention.
Irritated with himself, he did what he’d always done when Rowan inveigled herself into his space. He pretended he was ignoring her even though he could practically feel the heat off her body from across the room.
That was his libido keeping her on its scope. He hadn’t made much time for women in the last year and his body was noticing.
“Cold sandwiches are fine,” he said. “Bring mine here so I can keep working.”
“That reminds me. I should have said earlier, Nic.” She moved toward him, pale fingers coming to rest like a pianist’s on the opposite edge of his desk. The candlelight made her solemn expression all the more wide-eyed and impactful. “What you’ve done for Olief? Looking after things for him? That’s good of you. I’m sure he’d appreciate it.”
The unexpected praise turned him inside out. No one had ever suggested he was a good son. Olief certainly hadn’t acknowledged him that way—ever—and Nic had long given up expecting him to. Having Rowan offer this shred of recognition was a surprise stiletto through the ribs that slid past his barriers to prick at the most deeply protected part of himself.
For a second he couldn’t breathe. The sensation was so real and sharp and paralyzing. Then his inner SWAT team snapped into action and he remembered her using this same gamine face and earnest charm to garner affectionate pats on the head and indulgent approval from Olief. They’d been president of each other’s fan club, and now she was obviously looking for a new partner in her mutual admiration society.
“I’m not doing it for him,” Nic stated bluntly, angry with himself for sucking up her flattery like a dry sponge.
“But …” Rowan’s brows came together and she took a half step back from the refutation she read in his face. “Who, then?”
“Myself. I’ve been working my way up since he brought me aboard to launch his web journals on the Middle East ten years ago. It was a merger, actually, since I was already established in the electronic publishing side. I made it clear then that I had ambitions. He hadn’t named me as heir, and I wasn’t at the top of his corporate succession plan when he disappeared, but it was due to be reviewed and we both knew this is where I wanted to end up.”
“What do you mean, he didn’t …? Of course you’re his heir!”
Rowan’s certainty made a harsh bubble of laughter rise to catch in Nic’s throat. They were talking about a man who hadn’t spoken to his son until Nic had walked up to him at an awards gala and said, “I believe you knew my mother.”
With fresh rancor, Nic said, “We won’t know who inherits until he’s been declared dead and his will is read. Perhaps he left his fortune to Cassandra and you?”
With a shake of her head that made loose tendrils of hair catch the candlelight and glitter like an angel’s halo, Rowan said, “You’re his son. And you can build on what he’s already accomplished. Of course he would leave everything to you. Except maybe Rosedale.” Her chin hitched with challenge as she gave him a considering look.