Armed With Steele (20 page)

“Right,” I croaked.

“Then you’re all set,” he said with a shrug from his free shoulder.

“Yeah, you’re probably right. But—”
Shut up, Jessica.

“But what?”

I grimaced. Damn him, distracting me with his touch and that spicy scent of his masculine deodorant. It definitely had me off my usual game of keeping close-lipped about my problems.

“What is it?” he asked as if I were a four-year-old afraid to confess stealing a cookie.

“I…I can’t figure out what to wear tomorrow. Grace always helped me with this kind of thing—she’s got a much better eye for fashion than I do. And without her…well, it’s got me all stressed out.”

Nate took a drink from his water. “Well, I can help you with that.”

I snorted. “
You
? Help me pick out what I’m going to
wear
tomorrow?” I chuckled. “That’s a good one.”

Nate retrieved his arm from my shoulders. “Hey, just because I’m a guy doesn’t mean I’m totally clueless when it comes to fashion. I grew up with an older sister, remember? Who do you think helped craft my keen fashion sense? Besides, you’ve got a one-on-one interview tomorrow. With a
man
. Who else could offer you better feedback than another guy?” He leaned back against the counter, a smug look on his face.

I shifted my gaze to the window, surprised that I was even considering his offer. But I hated the idea of trying to coordinate an outfit on my own for something as important as this. And that whole point about him being a guy and all did have some merit. “Fine. Let’s do this.”

Nate clapped his hands together. “Great. Now where’s your—”

“
Oh
, no,” I said. “I’ll bring ideas out to you. You’re not going anywhere
near
my room.”

He shrugged. Walked over to take a seat at the table. “Whatever makes you happy.”

“What would really make me happy—” I stopped.

He looked up, right eyebrow arched with interest. But he wasn’t going to hear what really would have made me happy. Because even I was caught off guard by those sudden, particular thoughts.

“Would be for you to just sit there and pretend you’re Michael Frankston. Now, suit with pants, or skirt?”

He rolled his eyes. “Skirt, duh.”

“Long or mid-length?”

“Something that’s going to show as much leg as possible.”

I snatched a hot pad off the counter and chucked it at him.

“What? I’m a guy. Given the option, I want more skin, not less!”

“Okay,
Charlie
.”

“No, Charlie would have suggested—” He stopped, shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. “Just…go with the mid-length skirt.”

“Alright. Stay.”

I scurried off to my room and dug through my walk-in closet to find the navy skirt that best fit his description. That in hand, I took a step back to look at the rest of my clothes.

“Now what?” I whispered, flipping through hanger after hanger of tops. I finally narrowed the selection down to two silk blouses: one a flowy, fuchsia scoop-neck tank that would look nice under my matching navy blazer, and the other a baby blue button-down. After another moment’s hesitation, I opted for the blue one—its neckline didn’t plunge nearly as much.

I slid into the outfit, then popped into the adjoining bathroom to check my look. I gasped. The clothes looked fine, but my hair was still an absolute disaster. Apparently slobber and hairspray didn’t mix well. I tried to work a brush through it, but it was no use. My ’do was done.

“Oh, to hell with it.” I twisted my hair up and clipped it into place. Then I dabbed on some powder to smooth out my complexion, located my navy pumps, and hurried back toward the kitchen.

Nate was in mid-sip of his water when I reentered the room. He froze for a second, then swallowed loudly and set his glass down on the table.

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. “Not what you had in mind?”

“Well,” he said, and rose slowly out of his chair. He cleared his throat and walked over to me, circled once, then stopped. “It
needs
something.”

“I told you I needed Grace’s help for this kind of stuff.”

He continued to study me, then held one finger up, and took a step closer. Reached his hands out toward my neck.

I stood still, thinking that he was going to fix my collar. Instead, I felt his fingers at the top of my blouse. Felt the silky fabric part a little further open above my chest. And a little more.

“Ah,” he said, eyes on my neckline. “Much better.”

He remained directly in front of me, and my heart began hammering to the beat of a drum I’d forsaken months ago. Was this how partners were supposed to act? To feel?

Nate’s eyes flickered to mine. He leaned in close. Closer.

My lips parted in anticipation.

He lowered his face beside mine. But instead of moving toward my lips, his warm breath trailed along my jaw line and moved to my ear. A shiver rippled through me.

“You dress like this tomorrow,” he said, his voice low and deep. “And Mr. Frankston won’t have any choice but to hire you.”

His lips grazed my ear, and I closed my eyes. But instead of a kiss, I felt him pull back. My eyes fluttered open to find Nate back at the table, downing the last of his glass of water. He walked it to the counter, then gave me a light punch in the upper arm as he made his way to the back door. “Knock ’em dead tomorrow, baby.”

And with that, he was gone. Left me standing in the middle of the kitchen gaping at the back door, heart beating a million miles a minute, and every sexually-related neuron in my body on red alert.

Curse you, Nathan Steele.

Chapter 15

I walked into the lobby at Maxwell Office Solutions the next morning and did my best not to let knocking knees sabotage my journey to the receptionist’s desk. Molly Gillenwater, a.k.a. The Ice Queen, looked up, nail file poised above a set of razor-sharp burgundy nails.

“May I help you?”

Breathe, Jessica. Breathe.
“Um, yes. I’m here for my nine o’clock interview with Michael Frankston. I’m…Jessica Hartley?”

She cast me a wary eye, then adjusted her bifocals and looked down her short, pudgy nose to a list on her desk. One of her long, pointed nails skated across the page, then nearly impaled my name when she found it.

“You’re early, Miss Hartley,” she said, as if being punctual was a crime. Though, it couldn’t have been nearly as big a crime as her choice of hair color—my parents’ 1970’s kitchen counters weren’t
that
orange. “Why don’t you take a seat, over there.” She pointed her weapon-laden index finger to a cluster of chairs nearby. “And I’ll let Mr. Frankston know you are here.”

I did my best impression of polite, then walked over and took a seat across the lobby. With my back to her, I took a series of deep breaths and told myself I didn’t need the paper bag in my purse. Yet.

Once I got my breathing under control once more, I allowed my eyes to scan the room. The furniture was simple, yet modern, done all in earth tones as if to make up for the cold exterior facade. Any other visitor might have even felt calmed by the room’s simple atmosphere.

But not me, not today. Never had I felt so much pressure going into an interview, or needed a job so badly.

I
had
to get this job if I wanted to clear Grace’s name and find the maniac who’d tried to end her life. And once they’d been found, Nate and Charlie could take it from there.

Ten minutes ticked by, and anticipation began to gnaw away at whatever nerves I had left. A trickle of sweat zig-zagged down my back, forcing me to slide out of my overcoat—the last thing I needed to worry about was interview BO. I grabbed a nearby magazine, some business journal I never in a million years would have selected as a leisurely read, and began fanning myself.

Keep it together, Jessica. Remember, it’s not about you.

It is not about you. It’s not about—

“Miss Hartley? Mr. Frankston will see you now.”

* * * *

“Damn, why won’t he
answer
?”

I chucked my cell phone back into my purse and focused on the road. I’d done it. I’d survived an hour alone with Michael Frankston.

The
Michael Frankston.

I shook my head. Grace’s descriptions of her boss had never done the man justice. Michael Frankston wasn’t just handsome; he was a freaking demi-god. Coupled with perfect manners and 100% professionalism. Maybe Nate was right about his cousin—maybe some of her accusations really were bogus. A company with someone like Frankston sharing the helm couldn’t possibly be guilty of sexual harassment, could they?

That thought ate away at the one frayed nerve I had left. With each passing mile, I began to take in less and less air with each breath. There was no use fighting it—the paper bag in my purse was going to have to come out.

So I looked for a good place to pull over. Breathing into a paper bag wasn’t something I wanted to do while driving—I’d gotten some funny looks from passing motorists the last time I did. An empty lot came into view, so I pulled in there, parked my car, and rolled the window down to get some fresh air. Michael Frankston’s voice echoed in my head as I searched through my purse.

So, Miss Hartley, it says here that you have a degree in computer science. May I ask why you’re applying for this position, when you are clearly over qualified for the job?

It’d been the hardest question of the interview. I’d fumbled through it as best I could, stressing my sincere desire to get my foot in the door at Maxwell and learn from one of the best companies in the country. I just wasn’t cut out to spend eight hours a day writing software programs.

Lies, lies and more lies. When would it end?

And where was that
damn
bag?

“I see you survived?”

I whipped my head around to see Nate leaning on my doorframe, brown paper bag in hand. I snatched it from him, shook it open, and plastered it to my face. A few breaths later, the ring of fuzz around my vision began to fade.

“How did you know?”

“You’ve got your necklace on. I wanted to make sure it was working. And to see how things went.”

“I tried to call you,” I panted. “Pulled over when…” I stopped and glanced around. “You won’t get in trouble for being here, will you?”

Nate scoffed. “No way. I’m helping a distressed motorist.”

“Ah, so that’s where our tax dollars go.”

He slid his shades down and narrowed his brilliant blues. “You don’t give a damn about our taxes.”

“No, not really. But it sounded good,” I said with a grin.

“So? How did it go?”

I lowered the bag and took a full, deep breath. “I don’t know. I tried to play up my youth and appearance per your, um, implied suggestions last night. So I walked in, trying to be all smooth and runway-like. But that failed to catch Frankston’s eye, so I changed tactics. But seeing as I don’t have a whole lot in the way of
this
…” I waved a hand before my B-sized chest. “Shifting around in my seat during the interview garnered zero looks at these. I even
accidentally
dropped my pen at one point, to really offer him a view. But damn if he didn’t look away like a true gentleman. So when Frankston finally asked if there was something wrong with my chair, I gave up on the whole
look at me
idea.”

Nate lowered his head, shoulders shaking in silent laughter.

“I spent the rest of the interview focused on giving the best answers possible to each and every question, but didn’t have a good handle on how it was going overall. So when he posed the ‘Tell me why I should hire you instead of the other twenty applicants’ question, I gambled a bit.”

The look on Nate’s face instantly sobered. “You gambled how?”

“I told him the truth.”

Nate’s jaw dropped open.

“I said he should give me the job because I’m the woman who’s going to get the job done, and get it done right. Told him he could hire any pretty face off the street, but only
this
pretty face is attached to a head full of brains.”