An Irresistible Bachelor (4 page)

Abruptly, Callie turned around and started for home. She reminded herself that walking alone through the city on a cold night could only get her two more things she wasn't interested in: a case of pneumonia and mugged.

Besides, she had more important things to worry about than the real or imagined character defects of some man she was never going to see again. She had to think about shelter. Food.

She shoved her hand into her pocket and felt the lining give way.

Clothing.

JACK STOOD in front of the dingy six-floor walk-up and frowned. The front door hung off-kilter in its jamb, a pile of Chinese food leaflets littered the stoop, and the place looked as if it was sagging in on itself. He went up five stone steps and leaned in, looking through grungy glass. A bald lightbulb hung over a battered set of stairs and a decrepit tile floor.

He went over to an intercom with a row of buttons below it. There were no names attached to the thing so he punched a few randomly. He wasn't surprised when there was no answer. He hadn't expected it to work.

With a curse, he stepped back and looked up again. He was finding it hard to believe that the conservationist lived in such a building, so he took out the slip of paper he'd written her address on. After double-checking the street and the number Grace had given him, he thought maybe it was a working studio.

A cold gust of wind shot down the street and he glanced in its direction. He'd tried calling Ms. Burke a number of times throughout the day, but hadn't gotten so much as an answering machine. Since he was going back to Boston tomorrow, he'd figured his best shot at reaching the woman was to do a flyby in person, but it appeared, unless he was prepared to do a little breaking and entering, that he'd reached another dead end.

He tried the front door in case its lock, like so much else, was broken. When it held fast, he figured enough was enough.

He didn't have any more time to waste. If she was so damn hard to find, it was her loss. Crumpling the paper in his hand, he started down the steps.

Just as he hit the sidewalk, a woman rounded the corner at the far end of the block. He was about to look away when he caught a flash of red hair and his breath left him in a cloud of mist. An image from the dream, of pale hands touching the skin of his stomach, brought him to a standstill.

Christ, he told himself, don't think like that.

He watched as she moved between two parked cars and crossed the street, her head down as if she were deep in thought. It wasn't until she was halfway to him that she lifted her eyes, caught sight of his limousine, and stopped dead in the middle of the road.

“Hello,” he called out, raising a hand. “You're a hard lady to track down.”

She frowned and looked to the left and the right.

“Yes, you,” he said, smiling.

When she started walking again, it was much more slowly.

“What are you doing here?” she said.

He narrowed his eyes, taking in every detail of her. Her cheekbones and the tip of her nose were glowing bright red from the cold. Her hair, which fell past her shoulders, was being tossed around by the wind. Her blue eyes were regarding him with open suspicion.

She was as beautiful as he remembered and he had to wonder if her body was anything like what he'd dreamt of. He couldn't make out anything under her enormous coat and he was surprised at what she was wearing. The thing was old and shaggy, a mottled brown tent that did nothing to accentuate her dramatic coloring or her curves.

“Well?” she prompted him. “Why are you here?”

He lifted an eyebrow. People didn't tend to address him with annoyance in their voices.

“As I said before, I want you to conserve my painting.”

The cool glance she shot him wasn't encouraging and he felt himself gearing up for a lively negotiation. Which was just fine with him. He loved a good barter, whether it was over a company, a stock position, or a piece of art. The tougher the battle, the sweeter the reward when he won.

She walked up the stone steps, not even looking at him as she passed. “I told you, I'm not interested.”

“I find that hard to believe,” he said sharply. “Considering the way you stared at that portrait.”

As she turned around, he knew she was itching to get rid of him, and her impatience made him want to pull up a chair and hang around for a while.

“I'm not right for the job.”

“Then you have a low opinion of your capabilities.”

“It has nothing to do with my skills.” She brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes.

“Come on, you're dying to work on that painting.”

She got out her keys and pivoted away again. “I'm not prepared to take the assignment. Thank you.”

She was putting her hand on the doorknob when he took the steps two at a time and reached out for her arm. The moment he touched her, he felt her stiffen through the sleeve of her coat.

“Let go of me. Please.”

As she refused to meet his eyes, he grew curious.

“Tell me, what have I done to earn this animosity?” He dropped his hand and threw her a smile.

“You show up uninvited on my doorstep,” she retorted. “I've told you no and you're still standing here. You're obviously prepared to pressure me into working for you for reasons that I can't begin to guess at. Why should I welcome you cheerfully?”

“Are you always this wary?”

“When things don't make sense to me, yes.”

“So how's my offering you the job of a lifetime senseless?”

“Because I don't believe in miracles.”

“Atheist?”

“Realist.”

Jack grinned. He liked her resistance, even more so because he could tell she wasn't nearly as tough as she was pretending to be. Her face might have been composed but those eyes of hers were bouncing around, touching on his face, the top knot of his tie, the width of his shoulders.

“I think you can do the work.”

“Based on what? You must be a quick study because we've only met once before.”

“I'm considered to be pretty astute.”

Her head tilted to the side, as if she were waiting for him to prove it.

He shrugged. “I know you graduated at the top of your class, with highest honors, from NYU's master's program in conservation. That's a damn good indicator of interest and aptitude. I know your professors liked you and thought you had talent and a willingness to work. I also understand you interned under Micheline Talbot and Peter Falcheck on some very complicated, high-profile projects.”

Her eyes skipped away to the front door of her building. She was no doubt eager to put those keys in her hand to good use. “How did you find out all that?”

“The head of your former department holds the Walker Chair in Art History. He was amazingly forthcoming.” Her lips pursed. “Anyway, I took that track record, thought about the way you looked at my ancestor, and came to the conclusion that as someone early on in her career, you might appreciate a shot at the big leagues. That's pretty sound reasoning, don't you think?”

The strand of hair was back in her face again, blowing into her eye. She pushed it away, obviously aggravated.

“Listen, Mr. Walker, your new acquisition is an extraordinary piece of history. One wrong decision or badly executed maneuver and the loss would be monumental.”

“Scared?” he taunted mildly. As she stiffened, he smiled. He was more than willing to use her pride to his advantage.

“Of course I'm not scared. But you need someone—”

“So if you're qualified, interested, and able, that means only one thing.”

“What's that?”

“You have another reason for turning me down. What could it be? I wonder.”

“I don't like you,” she blurted. As soon as the words came out, her cheeks reddened even more. “What I mean is—”

He laughed. “You don't know me well enough to dislike me.”

“I'm not so sure about that,” she muttered. “I don't tolerate playboys all that well.”

His smile faded. “What makes you think I'm a playboy?”

“I'm also considered pretty astute,” she said, lifting her chin. “And I'm a very good reader.”

As she eyed him with another challenge, he was less than amused. Living down his past had been getting on his nerves lately.

“But I haven't done anything to offend you personally, have I?” he drawled. “Haven't propositioned you for sex. Haven't touched you in an inappropriate manner.”

He'd made love to her in his sleep, sure. But that didn't count.

When she remained silent, he smiled grimly. “Maybe the problem is that
you're
attracted to
me.
”

Her mouth opened in a rush of indignation. “I don't think so.”

“You mean I shouldn't assume you're just playing hard to get with all this latent hostility?”

She shook her head in disbelief. “You know, I'll bet you assume anyone in a skirt is attracted to you. Which is the hallmark of a playboy, I might add.”

He gave her a level stare. “Well, now that I know what you think of me, I'm going to give you a little something to chew on. I think you're looking for excuses not to take this job and it would be a shame to turn down something so important on the basis of fear, don't you think?” He took out his business card and pressed it into her hand. “This could make your career, and you know it. Call me tomorrow with your answer.”

“I gave you my answer.”

“Think about it.”

“I have.”

“Well, think about it some more,” he shot back.

As she glared up at him, he could tell she was framing another argumentative response and thought, if she wanted to keep going, he was more than willing to indulge her.

For some reason, the heated exchange made him think of Blair. When he got wound up, she tended to become easygoing, moving like water over his sharp edges. This woman, on the other hand, was meeting him head-on. Facing her determination, feeling the strength inside of her, he felt very much alive.

Abruptly, he grinned. “You know something? I like you.”

“No, you don't,” she said quickly, her eyes widening.

“Yes. I do.”

Another gust of wind shot down the street and that length of hair flipped back into her face. Without thinking, he reached out and tucked the strand behind her ear.

The simple gesture brought their volley to a halt.

She jerked her head away, but his hand went with her, following the silky waves of red down to her shoulder.

He looked into her eyes. They were glowing with alarm and something else. Something heated. He had a passing notion that he should be very careful around her, but then her lips parted and he lost his train of thought. The lower one was fuller and he felt an urgent need to test its softness with the pad of his thumb. With his own mouth.

Abruptly, he realized he'd leaned forward, as if he was going to kiss her.

Jack quickly stepped back and pushed a hand through his hair, thinking she seemed as dazed as he was.

Pointing at his card, which she was gripping tightly, he said, “Call me tomorrow.”

And then he left before she could give the thing back to him, walking briskly down to his limousine. As soon as he got inside the car, he glanced at the seedy building. The front door was just shutting.

He let out a curse.

Any more clear thinking like that and he was going to end up in some serious trouble. He'd come here to talk about a job. Not to cheat on his fiancée.

“Let's go, Franky—we're late.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Walker.”

The limousine surged ahead.

He had just twenty minutes before he was supposed to meet Blair and that new client of hers at the ballet, and now he had even more reason not to look forward to the evening. He didn't like having to sit still for so long and the dancing never really held his attention. He was looking at a good two hours with nothing to do but mull over what had just happened on Callie Burke's doorstep.

He shook his head, telling himself he shouldn't make a big deal out of it.

Besides, he had a feeling he'd won. His instincts told him she was going to call tomorrow and say she would do the work. In the end, her ambition and her attachment to the painting would win out over her suspicions of him. And courtesy of her commitment, he would be giving someone a leg up, something his father had maintained was completely outside of his character. He'd also have taken care of Grace's request.

So he was doing the right thing. In spite of that flash of insanity back there.

Jack relaxed and leaned back against the leather seat. He told himself the only thing he had to worry about tonight was how to feign interest in a bunch of men with stuffing down the front of their tights.

 

As Jack Walker's limousine drove away, Callie stood in the lobby of her building, aware that she was trembling. She told herself that whatever was going through her body was not attraction. It just couldn't be.

People shivered in the cold, she thought. That had to be it.

Oh, hell, who was she kidding.

She glanced at his card. Jackson W. Walker, CEO, The Walker Fund. There was a Boston address underneath his name and title.

Even the paper was expensive, she thought, testing its creamy stiffness.

Although she could still remember how good his cologne had smelled, it was hard to believe that he'd come looking for her. She couldn't have been more surprised if Bill Gates had been standing in front of her building, and it had taken all of her self-control to walk up to him.