So he’d give her a few minutes to tell her story. And then he’d kick her excellent behind right out of his office.
With a generous sweep of his hand, he offered her one of the visitors’ chairs. Once she was seated, he sat and faced her. “You’ve got five minutes to say whatever you came to tell me, Maggie.”
“Fine.” She sat and cleared her throat, then smoothed her jacket down a few times. She seemed nervous, but Connor knew better. She was playing the delicate angel, a role she had always performed to perfection.
He scowled, remembering that he used to call her his Red-Haired Angel. She still had gorgeous thick red hair that tumbled down her back, and her skin was still that perfect peaches and cream he’d always loved to touch. God, she was as beautiful as she was the day he met her. But she was no angel. Connor had learned that the hard way.
“My formulas have won every eligible competition for the past eighteen months,” she began slowly, picking up speed and confidence as she spoke. “I’ve singlehandedly transformed the pale ale category overnight. That’s a quote from the leading reviewer in the industry, by the way. And it’s well deserved. I’m the best new beer maker to come along in years.”
“I know all that.” Connor sat back in his chair. “It’s one of the reasons why I’ve been trying to hunt down Taylor James all these months. For some reason, he didn’t feel compelled to respond.”
“He wasn’t ready,” she murmured, staring at her hands.
Connor was certain that those were the first truthful words she’d uttered since walking into his office.
She pursed her lips as if weighing her next sentence, but all Connor could think was that those heaven-sent lips were still so desirable that one pout from her could twist his guts into knots.
His fists tightened. He was about to put an end to this nonsense when she finally continued to talk.
“Here’s my offer,” she said, leaning forward in her chair. “I’ll sell you all of those prizewinning formulas and I’ll also create something unique and new for MacLaren. It’ll be perfect as a Christmas ale and you’ll sell every last bottle, I guarantee it.”
“At what price, Maggie?”
She hesitated, then named a figure that would keep a small country afloat for a year or two. The amount was so far out in left field, Connor began to laugh. “That’s absurd. It’s not worth it.”
“Yes, it is,” she insisted. “And you know it, Connor. You said it yourself. The Taylor James brand is golden. You’ll be able to use the name on all your packaging and advertising and you’ll make your money back a thousand times over.”
She was right, but he wasn’t going to admit that just yet. He stared at her for a minute, wondering what her real motivation was. Why had she come to him? There had to be other companies that wanted to do business with her. Or rather, with Taylor James.
“Why now, Maggie?” he asked quietly. “Why do you want to sell those formulas? And why sell to me?”
“Why?” She bit her luscious bottom lip and Connor had to fight back a groan. Irritated with himself as much as he was with her, he pushed himself out of his chair and scowled down at her. “Answer me, Maggie. Tell me the truth or get the hell out of here. I don’t have time for this crap.”
“You want the truth?” She jumped up from her chair and glared right back at him. “Fine. I need the money. Are you happy? Does it fill your heart with joy to hear me say it? I’m desperate. I’ve been turned down by every bank in town. I would go to other beer companies, but I don’t have the time to sift through bids and counteroffers. I need money now. That’s why I came to you. I’ve run out of choices. It’s you or…”