Читать книгу Once Upon A Mattress - Kathleen O'Reilly, Kathleen O'Reilly - Страница 8

BEN MACALLISTER STUDIED her from across the conference room table. “Bad breakup?”

“I beg your pardon?” she replied, lifting her head.

Hilary Sinclair wasn’t the sort of woman that men would notice at first glance. At first glance, a man might overlook her—dismiss her even. The second time, Ben had noticed the “I’m bookish” stiffness—the social difficulty that came from being highly intelligent.

The third glance turned his head and made him wonder why the world didn’t pay more attention to Hilary Sinclair. He settled back in his chair, the old wood squeaking under his weight. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you’re very hostile toward younger men and you certainly aren’t happy.”

Ben was new to his father’s company—MacAllister Beds—but Hilary was even newer. Ten days ago she’d come on board, and it was only in the past week that he’d begun to analyze her.

“You’ve sat around and contemplated what you’ve assumed is the absolute misery of my love life, and you’ve divined all this in the short time since I’ve started?” she asked, leveling her green gaze at him as if he was the scourge of the earth, which in a perverse way proved his theory.

“I’m intelligent, not completely understanding of the workings of the female mind, but I think that’s an impossibility. So, to answer your question, yes.”

“A woman must have a man to be happy. Is that what you think?” Her eyes flashed and came alive. He liked it when she was angry.

“No, but it doesn’t hurt.”

She arched a dark brow, not quite as well as he could, but the intent was there. “You’re absolutely right. And if you must know, I castrated him.” Then she took a sip from her Starbucks coffee cup, two drops leaking onto her shirt. She didn’t even notice, just put down her cup and stared determinedly at the blank sheet of paper in front of her.

He didn’t believe her for a moment, but protective male instincts made him press his legs together.

The conference room was quiet, the rain drumming on the old roof of the warehouse. He’d shown up early, to be prompt for what might be an important meeting, but also because he knew she’d be early, too.

Oddly enough, he found himself compelled to talk to her, compelled to garner her attention. “You know, I think I watched a movie about you on Lifetime.”

She lifted her head again. “Very funny. If you don’t mind, I don’t think the workplace is the proper forum for a conversation on my personal life.”

Ben shrugged. “I was curious, that was all.”

She tapped her pen on the long wooden table, not meeting his eyes. “Why did your father invite you to the product launch meeting? I wasn’t aware that the Director of Security would be involved.”

Ben winced, and he was sure she noticed. “With Sylvia’s broken leg, I think my dad wants everyone to pitch in and help cover for her. Even Security,” he added, more sarcastically than necessary, which ruined any effort at a nice recovery.

Director of Security, my ass. Being offered the gimme position had been a low blow, but he could prove to his father that he’d underestimated him.

He’d come back to Dallas to help his family out, thought that maybe he could make a difference. MacAllister Beds had never been Ben’s idea of excitement, but this time he was determined to sweat it out. He’d never cared much about the company; his family was the reason he was here instead of completing number thirty-seven on his “list of things to do before I die.”

“So you’re going to work on the product launch?” she asked, either overlooking his sarcasm or else not noticing it. He’d bet good money it was the latter.

“If I’m needed, sure.” The new Dreamscape line was scheduled for product launch at the ISPA trade show in Las Vegas three months from now. Ben had hoped to be a part of the project.

She nodded coolly and stared back at the paper, dismissing him.

But he wasn’t ready to be dismissed. Yet. “The new mattress is ready to go?”

“Certainly,” she said.

He wanted to ask more questions, ask how many lines were on that yellow legal page, ask her if she hated all men, or should he take it personally. Before he could annoy her further, his father walked in, and that was Ben’s cue to sit back and watch. Ben took out his notes for the meeting, not sure what he’d be doing, but he still wanted to be prepared.

Ben’s father was the undisputed head and Ben’s brother, Allen, was the heir apparent to MacAllister Beds.

MacAllister Beds, the last bed you’ll ever buy.

Too bad MacAllister marriages didn’t last as long as their mattresses.

Ben clenched his folder a little tighter.

Martin MacAllister sat down at the end of the conference table, situating his big frame into the old chair. His brown hair—the same light shade as Ben’s—had just now started to turn gray, but his dark eyes were full of humor and youth. He settled back, sighing in relief when he finally got comfortable.

Allen trundled in, late as usual, then sat down at their father’s right hand.

Martin MacAllister put on the bifocals that Ben knew he hated and looked at his meeting agenda. “Ben, glad you could join us. Got big plans today?”

“I thought I’d write some new security procedures,” he answered, almost as a joke.

“Procedures, huh? Good, good. Let’s get started, shall we?”

And for the next forty-five minutes, Ben might as well have been wallpaper. His father asked Hilary all sorts of questions about the launch, what time the press conference was scheduled, what media contacts they had, shipping timetables and meeting plans.

And absolutely nothing about security at all.

Ben carefully took his notes and folded them into a paper airplane.

He could be in Colorado right now, breathing fresh mountain air at the J&D ranch, number thirty-seven on his list of things to do before he died. But he’d put that off, because he thought it was important to be here—for the company, for his family.

He almost laughed.

While the others were occupied doing real work, he got up and walked to the windows. For a while he simply stared out of the diamond panes at the modern gray lines and squares that made up the skyline of downtown Dallas. He was slowly going out of his mind.

The constant drumming of the rain on the roof should have been relaxing, but instead his knee got stiff. The same knee he’d broken when he was working as a ski instructor in the Alps.

Absently he rubbed the stubborn ligament. He had thought coming back home would be the right thing to do. Helping out his mother and father, easing their burden while they went through such a painful divorce. Only, apparently, no one else thought it was a painful divorce.

For once he’d thought he could come back and help, take the painful job and try to pick up the pieces. But everyone in his family seemed smiling and cheerful, as if nothing had happened.

Everyone except Ben.

MARTIN MACALLISTER SAT DOWN in the chair across from his son, his glasses slipping on his nose. “You wanted to see me, Ben?”

His father didn’t look distressed; on the contrary, he looked more relaxed than he had been in years. Ben rubbed the ache at his temples and settled back behind his desk, remembering his purpose. “Yes. I want to do more with the product launch. Maybe I could coordinate, or manage, or just help.”

Martin frowned, which was a bad sign. “You do?”

“Well, yes,” Ben answered.

The room was silent, only the whirring of the air conditioner and then finally a long, painful squeak as his father shifted in the heavy chair. “I’m sorry. Sure, we’ll think of something. Glad you called me in here. I’ve been meaning to ask your advice.”

At last. Ben nearly sighed in relief. Instead he put on his serious I’m-listening face. “Yes?”

“You remember that fall you went to Alaska as a fishing guide? I’ve been thinking about going up there. Just me and the halibut, alone in the great outdoors.”

Running away. His father wanted to run away. Classic. “It’s a lot of fun, Dad, and I know that with what you’re going through now—”

“What?”

“The divorce.”

“Oh, no. I’m fine. Got a lunch date with your mom on Wednesday. We need to put the house on the market.”

What?

Ben struggled for calm. No, for today, he would be productive, happy, at peace. According to his sister-inlaw, Dr. Tracy MacAllister—the Love Doctor—he should put his anger behind him. Not that he put much stock in her advice. You’d think she could have stopped her in-laws’ divorce if she wasn’t such a quack.

Ben’s voice sounded completely normal when he asked why.

“It’s too big for just your mother and I’m going to get a Winnebago.”

Ben closed his eyes. The company had been in Dallas for eighty-three years. Three generations of MacAllisters and no telling how many mattresses had been passed through these walls. And now his father wanted to buy a motor home. “What about the company?”

“I’ve got some ideas.”

Ideas. Ben knew lots about ideas. Ideas were dangerous. Ben opened his eyes, but the pain still throbbed in his head. “What sort of ideas, Dad?”

“Nothing for you to worry about. Imagine this instead. In a couple of years, we’ll be out shooting wild game in Africa together. Bang…bang.” Martin’s watch alarm sounded. “Whoops. Got a meeting with Hilary to go over a couple more details on the new line. Great lady. Lots of potential. See ya, son.” He stopped in the doorway. “And remember, if you need anything, just ask. We’re all here for you.” Then his father disappeared.

Ben stared, wondering who the man was that had just left. Wild game in Africa? Hell, his father fainted at the sight of blood.

He paced around his small office, hands locked behind his back. So what was he supposed to do? If his father thought he wasn’t capable of helping out, his father was wrong.

No, he’d do this Director of Security thing, even if it killed him.

It was only a first step, and not a big one at that. Time to return to the family. Not that anyone seemed to notice that he’d been missing, of course.

Ben went back to the safety of his desk and popped two aspirin. Where to start?

He took the folder from the top of his desk and read the computer printout of the staff’s Internet access reports. There seemed to be widespread page views of Playboy on the fourth floor, and there was some dating instruction viewage on the third floor. Ben laughed. He should check into that. It wasn’t like security at Fort Knox, but there just wasn’t a lot going on.

The aspirin started kicking in, and he felt strong enough to tackle the more mundane part of the job. He tugged open his desk drawer and pulled out a book. Hacking Exposed: Network Security Secrets & Solutions.

He opened the book to the first page. Chapter 1. Casing the Establishment.

By page fifteen, he was ready for an afternoon nap. He locked his hands behind his head and eased back in his chair, studying the walls. Maybe he could patch up the spidery cracks that ran near the ceiling, then at least he’d have something to do.

He’d worked for a roofer in St. Thomas one year. Item number four—one summer in the Caribbean. Check. Ah, that had been the perfect place. While hammering away at the flat roofs of the villas, he’d had a hard time looking away from the crystal blue waters that sparkled as far as the eye could see.

Not like Dallas, where the five-day forecast this week was rain, rain, and more rain.

He shouldn’t be daydreaming. He should check out that Internet site. He clicked on his mouse and pulled up the page.

Top ten pickup lines. Ben started to laugh as he read.

“Hey, baby, do you believe in love at first sight, or do you want me to walk in again?”

Gag. Too clichéd. He could do better than that. He thought for a minute.

“Do I have a chance in hell with you? Don’t tell me if I don’t because I just gotta try,” he said to himself.

He never heard the person entering his office; he just had the feeling someone was behind him.

Ben clicked on the word-processing icon, but it was too late. He looked behind him.

Busted.

By Hilary Sinclair.

She smiled tightly, her lips curving in a smug manner.

Ben was quick—threw himself into things right from the start—but when she looked at him as if he didn’t belong here, it really ticked him off. One thing about Miss Sinclair, she knew mattresses. One thing about Ben, he didn’t.

To make matters worse, she wore this dark shade of lipstick that should have looked goth, but instead it looked inviting.

“May I help you,” he asked, not thinking about her mouth.

“Busy, Mr. MacAllister? Didn’t want to interrupt.”

Ben started typing away in the word processor. “Clearing my train of thought. Humor is an excellent stimulus when your cerebral cortex is overutilized.”

She pursed her midnight-dark mouth and her eyes narrowed. “Is that true?”

“No.”

Her green eyes narrowed even further. They were cat eyes, tilted at the corner, and now they were mere slits. “Your father asked that you help out with the travel arrangements for the team. I’ve put together everyone’s itineraries, and their airline requests.”

Ben’s headache returned. Travel agent was not on his list of things to do.

She tossed her long dark hair back from her face. She had the kind of hair that kinked in the wet weather, and now that he thought about it, it’d pretty much perpetually kinked since the first day she started at MacAllister Beds. That’s what ten days of solid rain did to hair.

Why did he let her get under his skin? Ben’s emotional Richter scale was usually on low to very low, but she spiked the needle, both in a figurative and literal sense.

Perhaps charm and a little bit of ignorance were in order. He could do both well. “Do we know what hotel to book?”

“The show is at the Paris Las Vegas. We’ll do the press conference there, as well.”

Ben jotted it down on his notepad. “Airline?”

“Iberia.”

He looked up. She didn’t crack a mandible muscle. Ben stood his ground. For a long time she stared him down. What she didn’t know was that he’d spent six months as a bouncer during his Stanford years. And that gave him the upper hand. Finally she broke. “That was a joke,” she mumbled.

“Yes, I’m sure it was. Airline?”

“Whatever’s cheapest. We’ll be flying out on Sunday evening, although Allen has asked for a Saturday flight because he wants to gamble. Your father wants to rent a motorcycle and ride around Vegas while he’s there, and I’ll be happy with whatever arrangements you make.”

“Window or aisle?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Would you and Allen like a window or the aisle?”

“Aisle.”

“Special dietary needs.” He quirked a brow, a blatant show-off gesture.

“I’d like a plate without processed meat.”

“Vegetarian?”

“No, thank you. Vegetables don’t agree with me.”

“Perhaps I could pack a peanut butter and jelly sandwich? It might be gentler on your system.”

She took a deep breath, her rumpled blouse rising and falling. In, out, in, out. His eyes followed her breathing, and damned if he wasn’t getting hard.

“Sarcasm is unbecoming in a professional environment,” she said, and he wondered if she’d think hard-ons were unbecoming.

Instead, he cleared this throat. “And I thought I was being considerate.”

“Shall I assume this task is not beyond your capabilities and that you can work it into your—” she shot a glance at his monitor “—busy schedule?”

Her voice was full of rebuke, as if she were a schoolteacher correcting a wayward student. Ben had never indulged in schoolteacher fantasies, but images popped into his brain—images that could get him in trouble with Hilary Sinclair.

For a moment he contemplated her prickliness. She wasn’t his type, not to imply that he limited himself to a type, but she had something that appealed to him. Here was someone clearly in need of a life adjustment. She didn’t smile enough, didn’t look happy at all. He’d never seen a woman more in need of rescuing than Hilary Sinclair.

And Ben, who’d never rescued anything in his life, was captivated.

Life was too short to ignore such heaven-sent opportunities. “I like your blouse, Miss Sinclair,” he said.

Finally, success. He was rewarded with a deep flush. Deep and decadent. In quite a disordered manner, the rigid Miss Sinclair pulled a tin from her pocket and popped an Altoids in her mouth, and then, remembering her manners, put the box on his desk.

Ben didn’t look at the tiny mints; instead he was fascinated by her curves. She had been all tight lines, straight back, narrow eyes, but now, as if by magic, her cheeks were rounded, almost plump, her eyes wide and liquid. She had the guilty look of a woman who’d been caught in the wrong bed.

Ben idly traced the rim of the desk with his index finger, imagining what lay underneath that rumpled white blouse. There was nothing like crossing the line to make things interesting. His smile grew wider, his hard-on harder.

“I need to leave,” she said, turning tail to run.

He watched the crinkled skirt as she rushed out the door.

“Oh, Miss Sinclair?”

She turned and leaned against his door frame, panic in those wonderful cat’s eyes. “What?”

“You forgot your mints.”