Читать книгу Boss Meets Her Match - Janet Nye Lee - Страница 13

CHAPTER FIVE

MATT SLOWED HIS pace as he approached the building. Glancing in a store window, he ran a hand down his beard and checked his hair. He was actually a little nervous. He’d made a bad impression that he really wanted to change. Deep breath. She’s just a person. Apologize. Mean it and move on. He grinned as he walked the few feet to the door of Reyes Financial Management. He had a suspicion that Lena Reyes was far more than just anything.

A pretty blonde sat at the receptionist’s desk as he entered. She looked up and smiled. Her polite business expression didn’t change, but her eyes moved over him and her smile widened. “Mr. Matthews?”

“That’s me. You can call me Matt.”

She stood and swept her hand in a graceful motion toward a leather sofa against the exposed brick wall. “Please, have a seat. I’ll let Ms. Reyes know you’re here.” She stepped through the doorway to the back of the office and paused. “May I bring you anything? Coffee, water?”

“No, I’m good.”

He sat and looked around. Broad Street was a pricey location. The reception area was small but tastefully decorated. His experienced eye noted the antique reception desk. The leather sofa was butter soft. Dark wood end tables held an array of local magazines. The floors were the original pine, probably two hundred years old and the brick wall behind him looked to be made of hand-kilned brick.

The blonde was back. “Ms. Reyes is ready for you.”

“Okay.” Question was, he thought as he followed the blonde, was he ready for her?

Lena stood as he entered her office. It was a bit more spacious than the reception area, but just as richly decorated. “Thank you, Chloe,” she said. “Sit down.”

He sat in the chair across from her and smiled. “I really want to apologize for the other night. Really. I had no idea.”

Her cheeks flushed but the expression on her face remained cool. “I’ve asked my assistant to sit in with us.” She picked up the phone. “Mose, we’re ready.”

He sat back. Okay. Definitely not forgiven. Let it go. Get this money stuff over with. He reached into his messenger bag and pulled out a file, setting it on the desk. “I had the accountant who is handling this for me send the information.” He put the file on the desk.

“Good. You’re here. Let’s get started,” Lena said when a striking African American woman walked in and took the chair next to him. She smiled. “I’m Mose. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Matt,” he said, shaking her offered hand.

Lena pulled the file to her and opened it. Matt watched her face as she flipped through the papers. He was sure she was unaware of how readable her face was. Little nods, quick quirks of the lips, fleeting frowns. It was her eyes that held his attention though. Nearly black, keenly focused and simply gorgeous. He wanted to paint those eyes.

“Good,” she said, looking up. She handed the file to Mose, who took it and began riffling through the pages. “Mr. Matthews, what is your financial goal?”

Mr. Matthews. Inwardly, he groaned. He dropped his voice a few octaves and put on a snooty country club voice. “Well, Ms. Reyes, the thing is, you make me feel like my father when you call me Mr. Matthews and I’d really prefer not to feel like my father.”

Mose snickered but Lena’s face did not change. “Your goals then, Matt?”

He leaned forward. Give it up, man. Stick to business. “Okay. You can see my grandmother left me a sizable trust fund. I won’t have access to that for another four years, but I’d really like to put it somewhere and let it grow. My immediate goal is to take the money I’m making now selling art and grow that now. Quickly but safely. I want to open a nonprofit to provide art therapy for kids who need it but can’t afford it.”

Wait. What was that? A flicker of warmth in those black eyes?

“Art therapy,” Mose said. “What is that?”

He turned to her. “Basically what it says. It’s a form of therapy using art instead of talking or what have you. Works really great for kids who may not have the vocabulary to say how they feel about things, but they can draw pictures and talk about the things in the pictures.”

“Is that what you do now?”

“Yes. I do it part-time at the Children’s Hospital. And teach private art lessons also. But I really want to take advantage of my sudden popularity as an artist before it goes away to get some capital and connections to help make my nonprofit a reality.”

He looked back at Lena. There was a definite thaw in her expression. “Sorry,” he said with a sheepish grin. “Get me talking about it and I’ll go on all day.”

A smile curved Lena’s lips and now he really wanted to paint her. Gorgeous and complex and shut up, man, she’s handling your money. “I can see you are very passionate about it.”

As she began listing options for him, he felt his eyes glaze over. He held up a hand. “Listen. I’ll be honest. I’m an artist. I don’t know anything about money or markets. I trust you. Do your magic.”

The ice was back. “I don’t like to do business like that, Mr. Matthews. I want my clients to know exactly what I am doing and why.”

“That’s fine. Keep me in the loop. But just do what you think is best.”

* * *

“OH. MY. GOD.”

Lena looked up as Chloe appeared in her doorway after seeing Matt out. “What?”

“What?” Chloe and Mose asked in shocked unison.

Fanning her face with her hand, Chloe leaned against the doorjamb. “Seriously, Lena. That was about the hottest chunk of man I have ever seen in real life with my own two eyes.”

Mose made a sound. “For a white boy, he’s all right.”

Lena closed Matt’s file and handed it to Mose. “Wipe the drool off your chins and get to work, ladies.”

“Don’t even start with me, Ms. Frosty Cakes. I know you. You were checking him out. Hell, I’m gay and I was checking him out.”

“Get out of my office. Both of you. Degenerates. We don’t drool on our clients.”

Chloe shoulder-bumped Mose as she reached the door. “Because our clients are all ninety-year-old farts.”

Lena smiled as they left. She’d tried to hide it but those blue eyes had about undone her. The long dark blond hair, the slightly too-long beard, neatly trimmed over his cheeks and longer at the chin was a look she was sure only he could make look so sexy. And when those luscious lips parted in that grin of his, she’d about lost her ability to count to ten much less evaluate his portfolio.

“Basta.”

She logged on to her computer and began going through her emails. Frat boy. Trust-fund brat. Probably a man whore. Bad boy. She repeated the litany over and over in her mind. In English. In Spanish. Still, the memory of those eyes looking directly into hers would not go away. Nor the feeling of breathless heat she’d experienced. The look on his face when he talked about helping kids. Melt.

Yeah, well, get over it. Ain’t gonna happen. Serious men only need apply. Like Eduardo. Serious. With a job. Ready for a commitment. A cold jab of fear in the gut made her press her lips together. What about you? Are you ready for a commitment?

Shaking the thought from her head, she turned back to the computer. Numbers. Numbers made sense. The give and take of the market place made sense. It was all just a shell game. Moving money here. Buying stock here. Selling it there. No messy emotion. No baffling personalities. Just numbers.

* * *

SATURDAY MORNING, SHE rolled out of bed with a groan and, not bothering with a shower, put on her running clothes and shoes. Sweeping her hair up into a high ponytail, she stepped out the rear entrance of her condominium. Perfect day for a run. Sixty-five and sunny. She stretched for a few minutes, and then headed out on her normal three-mile route. Along Waterfront Park to Adgers Wharf, East Bay to the Battery, Murray to South Battery back to East Bay, where she reversed her course. She started out and made it all the way to the High Battery before she needed to start her mental narrative of “Pizza and wine, pizza and wine, pizza and wine.” She’d inherited her mother’s and aunt’s tendency for a big butt and running was the only thing that kept it in check.

Mentally adding another two hundred calories burned from dodging tourists, she reached the stairs to the Low Battery and pressed on. The throngs of tourists thinned out dramatically once she’d passed White Point Garden and left her obligated only to lift a hand or grunt out a greeting to fellow runners as she passed. And she had a date. With Eduardo. Tonight. Just do it. Suck it up. One night. Then maybe la familia will leave you alone. The thought made her kick up her pace. Was there anything more excruciating than dating at her age?

The food. Just think of the food. She turned down South Battery with the menu of Halls Chophouse on her mind. An hour or so of awkward small talk is a fair price to pay for some of the best food in Charleston, right? You can do this. She huffed out a sigh. Flipped a middle finger at a dude who called out “Qué pasa, chica” as she ran past him. What to wear? You’re gonna have to shave if you want to wear a dress.

The “to shave or not to shave” debate got her back to Waterfront Park. She slowed to a walk as she approached the pineapple-shaped water fountain at the center of the park, cooling down and getting her breath back. Nope. If she was going to be forced on a date, she was going to pull out all her weapons. And her legs were killer.

“Hello, Ms. Reyes.”

She turned at the sound of the voice. And froze. Great. Here you are dripping sweat and probably smelling like a dead goat in the sun and there is Mr. Hot-Frat-Boy. She stopped and put her hands on her hips. Dear, sweet baby Jesus in the manger. He was splayed out on a blanket in the grass, propped up on his elbows. The paint-smeared T-shirt he wore rode up just enough for her to get a glimpse of hard abs and a little dark blond fuzz. There was an honest-to-God palette on the blanket beside him and an easel holding a canvas. Bad-boy grin was on full power.

She took a few steps in his direction. “Mr. Matthews.”

He pulled himself up to sit cross-legged on the blanket. “Matt, please. I beg of you. Mr. Matthews makes me feel like I should get a haircut and put on a suit or something. Beautiful day, don’t you think?”

She stopped at the edge of the blanket. She didn’t get him. Everything about him screamed entitled, rich white boy but he didn’t show it. At all. “Yes,” she said, sarcasm dripping from each word. “It is quite a lovely day, Mr. Matthews.”

He grinned and her stomach went quivery. A frown creased her face. Do that again, gut, and no dessert for you tonight.

“Come on, I’m sorry for the other night. Really, I am. Why won’t you accept my apology? I’d like to be friends.”

She looked at the painting. Unlike the large, minimalist paintings she’d seen at the Gallery, this was much more to her taste. A softer Jonathan Green–style of the fountain and the trees with their trails of Spanish moss swaying in the breeze.

“Whatcha think?” he asked.

“I like this better than the other stuff.”

“Why won’t you accept my apology?”

She looked back at him and crossed her arms. “Because you don’t get it.”

He held his hands out, palms up. “Then tell me what I don’t get.”

She pressed her lips together for a moment. Think, Magdalena, think. He is a client. “What you did was wrong. Not because I turned out to be who I am but because it’s wrong to pull that on anyone. Any woman would have been embarrassed. You are apologizing to me because you need me to handle your money. You need to be looking at why you wanted to embarrass a woman like that.”

She waited as he stared up at her. Here it comes. It was just a joke. I didn’t mean it like that. You’re overreacting. He got to his feet with one graceful motion.

“Crap. I never saw it like that. You’re right.” He ran a hand down his beard. “Now I feel like shit.”

She managed to hide how stunned she was. He was taking responsibility? He was being enlightened? Wow. Okay. Don’t gloat. Be nice. “Now,” she said, holding out a hand, “I’ll accept your apology, Matt.”

He took her hand and held it between both his. “Thank you for telling me that. I do try not to be an asshole most of the time.”

She slipped her hand away from his before she couldn’t hide the rush of heat she was feeling. “We’re all just humans, doing the best we can in the moment.”

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she said with a vague gesture at her sweaty self. “I need to finish my cooldown.”

* * *

MATT WATCHED LENA walk away. The grin came back. He could think of a couple of things he’d like to do with her in the moment. He liked that she’d made him work for his apology. Liked that she’d surprised him with her blunt assessment of his behavior. Fawning sorority girls had never been his type. He’d always preferred brains over beauty. But Magdalena Reyes seemed to possess ample amounts of both. The bits of fire and steel he saw in her only intrigued him further.

He carefully cleaned his brush and bent to pick up his palette. He normally didn’t paint in public, preferring to paint from photographs when doing landscapes, but the day was so perfect. Much different from Chevy Chase where October meant winter was on the way. Charleston was near perfection in October.

As he put a few finishing touches on the painting, he kept glancing up, watching Lena’s progress along the path. Two buildings past the fountain and the City Gallery, she turned into one of the many condominiums that lined the park. Expensive real estate. Must be true what Dr. Rutledge said. She spun money out of straw.

“Pack it up,” he muttered under his breath. “She’s about ten miles outta your league, man.”

He broke down the easel and cleaned off the palette. Sitting back down on the blanket, he cleaned the brushes. Those things were not cheap and he needed them to last as long as possible. After packing everything away for the long walk back home, he lay back down on the blanket to enjoy a bit more of the day and to let the canvas dry. His phone rang and he fished it out of his back pocket.

His mother. This couldn’t be good.

“Hey, Mom, what’s up?” he answered. Knowing she hated Mom and preferred Mother. Capital M.

The brief moment of silence was to chasten him for his word choice. “Nothing,” her frosty voice finally replied, “is ‘up,’ Charles. I am phoning to let you know that your father and I will be visiting Charleston in a few weeks. Your father has a business meeting. We will see you for dinner.”

He let his own silence play out. She knew he hated being called Charles. He also hated the way she told him he’d have dinner with them rather than asking. Nothing new, but he’d hoped that since he was over thirty years old now, she’d treat him somewhat like an adult. He sighed. Such was the life of the black sheep. If only he’d become a lawyer. Interned for some powerful senator who owed his father a favor, then moved on to a lucrative lobbying position, scamming people for the sake of a billionaire or two, then his parents might not treat him like a dirty secret.

“Sure, that’d be great. Just let me know the night so I can clear any plans I might have.”

“Your sister is having another baby.”

Ah. Moving right on to major disappointment number two. His two sisters were popping out the grandbabies left and right, but he, the only son, the only carrier of the Matthews family name, had thus far failed to produce a Charles Beaumont Matthews the Sixth.

“Awesome. Which one?”

“Susannah. She’s due in April.”

“Tell her and Biff I sent my congratulations.”

“His name is Bill.”

“Is Biff Charlotte’s husband? I get them mixed up.”

“You are being unpleasant. Goodbye.”

“Bye, Mom,” he said as she ended the call.

It wasn’t that he didn’t love his family. He just didn’t like them very much. Boring. Predictable. And so many damned rules.

He stood to gather his things when the phone rang again. He almost didn’t look, sure it was his father calling to yell at him for upsetting his mother. And his mother merely annoyed him. His father could push buttons that made him want to punch walls. But it was Eliot Rutledge. This was random.

“Dr. Rutledge, how are you?”

“Eliot, please, son. How many times do I have to ask?”

“Enough to overcome the ruthless teachings of several deportment for proper gentlemen classes, sir.”

Eliot laughed. “Yes. I have a daughter who was politely asked to leave several of those.”

“How may I help you?”

“I have an idea. Now, I understand you have a lot going on with your job at the hospital and your art career beginning to take off, so tell me no if you need to.”

“Okay. Go ahead.”

Like he was going to tell his benefactor no. He just hoped it wouldn’t be too onerous.

“I do some volunteer work at the St. Toribio Mission out on John’s Island. Are you familiar with it?”

“Vaguely. They work with the migrant workers?”

“Yes. Primarily, but the doors are open to anyone needing help. I was thinking about creating an art-therapy program for the children. I see them there while their parents are getting medical or legal help and they have nothing to do but sit and wait. I thought an art room with supplies would be helpful.”

Matt nodded. “Actually, sir, that sounds like an amazing idea. I’m sure it would help them quite a bit. What are you thinking? Weekly sessions or just get it set up?”

“For now, getting it set up. We have plenty of volunteers who could watch the kids and keep the room and supplies in order.”

“Okay. I’m in. Just let me know when and where.”

“Very good. Thank you. I’ll be back in touch.”

Matt ended the call with a smile on his face. At least someone appreciated his art and his desire to use it to help others.