Tempting the Billionaire (2 page)

“What experience do you have, Crickitt?” Shane asked, interrupting her thoughts.

She tipped her chin up at him. Was he serious? Either his half smile was sarcastic or genuinely curious. Hard to tell. The temptation was there to dismiss him as just another jerk in a club, but she couldn’t. There was an undeniable warmth in his dark eyes, a certain kindness in the way he leaned toward her when he talked, like he didn’t want to intimidate her.

Maybe that’s why she told him the truth.

“I’m great with people,” she answered.

“And scheduling?”

She considered telling him about the twenty in-home shows she held each and every month for the last seven years, but wasn’t sure he wouldn’t get the wrong idea about exactly what kind of
in-home shows
she’d be referring to. “Absolutely.”

“Prioritizing?”

Crickitt almost laughed. Prioritizing was a necessity in her business. She’d been responsible for mentoring and training others, as well as maintaining her personal sales and team. It’d taken her a while to master the art of putting her personal business first, but she’d done it. If she focused too much on others, her numbers soon started circling the drain, and that wasn’t good for any of them.

“Definitely,” she answered, pausing to consider the fire burning in her belly. How long had it been since she’d talked about her career with confidence? Too long, she realized. By now, her ex-husband would have cut her off midsentence to change the subject.

But Shane’s posture was open, receptive, and he faced her, his eyebrows raised as if anticipating what she might say next. So she continued. “I, um, I was responsible for a team of twenty-five salespeople while overseeing ten managers with teams of their own,” she finished.

She almost cringed at the callous description. Those “teams” and “managers” were more like family than co-workers. They’d slap her silly if they ever heard her referring to them with corporate lingo. But if she had to guess, Shane was a corporate man and Crickitt doubted he’d know the first thing about direct sales.

“You sound overqualified,” he said.

“That’s what I…wait, did you just s-say
over
qualified?” Crickitt stammered. She blinked up at him, shocked. She’d fully expected him to tell her to peddle her questionable work background elsewhere.

Shane reached into his pocket and offered a business card between two outstretched fingers. “Even so, I’d like to talk to you in more detail. Are you available for an interview on Monday?”

Crickitt stared at the card like it was a trick buzzer.

“I’m serious.” He dropped the card on the bar. “This isn’t typically how I find employees, but”—he shrugged—“I need a personal assistant. And someone with your background and experience is hard to come by.”

She blinked at him again. This had to be some elaborate scheme to get her to bed, right? Isn’t that what Sadie told her to expect from the men in these places?

“How about one o’clock, Monday afternoon? I have meetings in the morning, but I should be done by then. If the job’s not a good fit, at least you looked into it.”

Well. The only interview she’d managed to arrange since her self-inflicted unemployment was for a thirty-thousand-dollar salary and involved her working in a government office. And she’d lost that job to a kid ten years her junior. She’d be stupid to pass up the opportunity for an interview with this man. Even though part of her couldn’t imagine working for someone as put together as Shane. But he didn’t seem demanding, or overly confident, just…nice.

Which brought about another niggling thought. This was too easy. And if she’d learned a lesson from recent events, wasn’t it to be cautious when things were going suspiciously well? And this, she thought, glancing in his direction again, was going a little
too
well.

“What do you say?” he asked.

Then again, as her dwindling savings account constantly reminded her, she needed to find some sort of viable income. And soon. If the interview turned out to be a sham, the experience would still be worthwhile, she thought with knee-jerk optimism.

“One o’clock,” she heard herself say.

Shane extended his hand and she shook it, ignoring how seamlessly her palm fit against his and the warmth radiating up her arm even after he’d pulled away. He excused himself and made his way to the door. Crickitt watched his every long-legged step, musing how he was taller than Ronald and walked with infinitely more confidence.

A tall, confident man had approached
her
. And, okay, it may have been because she looked needy, but she couldn’t keep from being flattered that Shane had taken it upon himself to talk to her.

Lifting the business card between her thumb and fingers, she studied the front. The top read “August Industries, Leader in Business Strategies.” No name on the card, just an address and a phone number. She flipped it over. Blank.

Sadie returned as Crickitt hopped off her bar stool.

“Where’re you going?” Sadie asked with a breathless smile. Shane’s cousin stood at Sadie’s side, a matching grin on his tanned face. Crickitt regarded his surfer-dude style skeptically. Cute. A departure from Sadie’s usual type, but cute.

Of course, there was a good chance Sadie would never see Aiden again given her first-date-only rule. Crickitt looked down at the business card again, chewing her lip. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to see Shane again, either. She already felt as if she’d revealed too much about herself in their short conversation. Wasn’t it too soon for her to trust a man after the one she’d trusted implicitly had left her behind?

“What’s with the card? Did you get a date?” Sadie asked.

“No.” She laughed, her temporarily reclaimed confidence ebbing. She considered crumbling the card in her hand, dropping it onto the bar. The message would get back to Shane via his cousin, she was sure. Then she wouldn’t have to worry about standing him up or canceling the interview.

Chicken.

Despite the very tempting option to stay in her comfort zone, Crickitt decided maybe it was time to take a risk. Even a small one.

“Better,” she told Sadie, snapping up her purse. “A job.”

S
hane slowed his steps from run to walk before killing the power on his treadmill. He swiped a towel over his sweat-covered face and neck, his thoughts swimming in Gulf-Stream blue eyes, full lips, and a sea of soft curls. Since he’d returned home, he hadn’t been able to think of anything other than the chance meeting with Crickitt tonight.

He faced the floor-to-ceiling mirrors while catching his breath and almost didn’t recognize the guy smiling back at him. When was the last time he’d caught himself grinning about anything? He sank onto the weight bench and started unlacing his shoes, wondering at his newfound exhilaration. True, he’d been searching for an assistant, and had subsequently been drowning in paperwork, for the last month. Finding Myrna’s replacement would take a load off of his mind as well as his sagging in-box.

Then he thought of Crickitt’s startled expression from earlier and felt the smile spread across his face again. Watching her go from crying to confident had been the best reward of all.

The moment reminded him of the time he’d helped a struggling bookstore owner stay in business. She’d been overwhelmed with marketing, accounting, employee issues. He’d slid the pieces into place that allowed her to focus on her love, rare first editions, while the rest of her business hummed along silently in the background. It’s what he did best, and what clients paid him to do most.

Being able to share in that kind of success was the very reason he’d started August Industries and kept it going for the last decade. Feeling a similar emotion in reaction to a woman was…unnerving. He hadn’t made it this far by allowing himself to be distracted by a pretty face. And she
had
distracted him.

He hoped it wasn’t a mistake to offer her an interview.

Shane stood up and headed for the shower, grateful tomorrow was Sunday. Maybe he’d reward himself by sleeping in for a change. He flipped on the bathroom light, stopping short of going in when he caught sight of his mother’s picture hanging in the hallway. A sad smile touched his lips, and he forced himself to look, really look, at the image now nearly twenty years old.

She smiled back at him, her gold-brown eyes open and inviting. In the photo she’d been the age Shane was now. She’d die later that year, just shy of his fourteenth birthday. The faded image showed her pressing a piecrust into a pan, her red and white apron covered in flour. Seeing it made him wish his father hadn’t thrown away everything of hers after she’d passed away.

That sobering thought swept away whatever was left of his buoyant mood. His legs felt suddenly tired, his heart heavy as he spun the knobs on the large stone-walled shower.

He stepped beneath the spray considering the very real possibility Crickitt hadn’t been grateful for his butting in. She could have been lying about her work experience, or about her intentions of showing up for the interview. And while he’d like to think her tears were genuine, she could have played up the damsel in distress routine for attention. If she had, she’d be no different from a handful of other women who had done the same in his presence. In a way, that might be simpler. He could handle a woman who wanted something from him. One who was genuinely interested in him was unpredictable.

As the steaming water pounded against his taut neck muscles, he thought of how being prepared for the worst was wiser than being blindsided.

That was one lesson from his childhood he didn’t have to be taught twice.

F
rom the moment Crickitt had landed on the August Industries website and read their motto, she had known she was going to show up for the interview—even if it turned out to be a bust. In bold blue and silver lettering, the site proclaimed “Business owners, keep doing what you love. Leave the rest to us.”

The mission statement spoke to her heart. Crickitt loved entrepreneurship. Wanting to model her own career was the reason she’d gone into direct sales in the first place. No one needed to tell her she was good enough to run her own business, she
knew
. And she’d deflected her criticizers with her own hard-won confidence.

Seven years ago, Crickitt’s former business started in an unlikely place. Sadie held a Celebration home party and Crickitt had gone, expecting an evening of catching up over drinks and spending a chunk of her recent bonus check.

Then the woman representing Celebration swept in and extended a hand in introduction. She looked relaxed, successful, put together. Crickitt remembered glancing down at her own uninspired wardrobe and wondering if she had her own business whether she’d take the time to pick out coordinating jewelry or buy nicer shoes. Then later that evening the representative shared how much she earned, nearly four times Crickitt’s annual salary, and the fact that she made her own schedule, and Crickitt was sold. Shortly thereafter, she’d quit her corporate climb into the ether and joined the Celebration family.

For the last seven years, she’d worn her Entrepreneur Badge with pride.

Which might explain the morsel of contention as she walked into August Industries’ high-rise building Monday afternoon. She’d finally dredged up her fight, rallied her courage, and for what? An
interview
? After she’d clawed her way out of corporate America, now she was vying for an anonymous seat in a gray cubicle? She fervently hoped she wasn’t here because a good-looking guy had salved a gaping wound Saturday night. Wouldn’t that be lovely? Stumbling into a 401(k) because, in some capacity, a man had given her some attention.

Where was the part of her psyche that knew what she wanted, knew who she was? Was it dormant, or had she lost that in the divorce as well?

The elevator doors dinged open on the twelfth floor, and Crickitt stepped into what looked like a contemporary art museum. A woman with short black hair, wearing an A-line royal blue dress reminiscent of the days before computers, gave her a broad smile. Crickitt approached the modern glass desk, stopping short of touching the shining, fingerprint-free surface.

“Welcome to August Industries,” the woman greeted in a thick accent.

Russian? Swedish?

“I have an interview with, uh…Shane for the personal assistant position,” Crickitt said, praying the woman didn’t ask for his last name.

“Your résumé?” she asked pleasantly.

Crickitt dug through her plain canvas bag, lamenting never having purchased a posh leather briefcase. She handed over the single sheet of paper, smoothing a creased corner as she did. A button gapped at the front of her shirt and she straightened it, wishing she had gone to Nordstrom instead of Target. She felt like a Clampett in Beverly Hills.

The receptionist glanced over her résumé before studying the sleek white computer in front of her. “One o’clock?”

Crickitt nodded.

“Have a seat. He is running a few minutes behind,” she said, folding her hands neatly.

White and pale blue chairs formed an L-shape on the far wall. Crickitt took an empty seat next to a curved concrete statue of…something. She frowned up at the arced shape. Whatever it was, it was tall.

A woman in a creamy yellow suit sat in an adjacent chair flipping idly through a magazine. Crickitt twisted her mouth as she took in the matching butter-colored heels and handbag. Probably
not
purchased at a store with a bull’s-eye for a logo.

As if she felt eyes on her, the other woman looked up.

“I like your shoes,” Crickitt said.

She smiled. “Thank you.” A moment later, the receptionist called to her and she stood, dropping the magazine onto the table in front of them. “You should check this out,” she told Crickitt. “He’s pretty hot.” Then she sashayed away, leaving Crickitt frowning down at the periodical.

Forbes?
What hot guy decorated the interior of
Forbes
?

Crickitt reached for the periodical, flipping open the cover and thumbing through the pages. Not surprisingly, she found lengthy articles interspersed with photographs of men in suits. Most of them older, with paunchy bellies and little to no hair. Then she came to a two-page spread that put her face-to-face with the man from the club. Shane. Just recalling the way his hand fit against hers had her heart ka-thumping, her palms sweating.

Wow. “Hot” was the perfect description for him.

He stood in the center of a bare room, hands in his pockets, eyes focused off to the side. His thick dark hair was the right length to be professional, but long enough to tickle the collar of his suit. Black and white treated him well, enhancing the crinkles at the corners of his eyes and the shadow marking his angled jaw. His smile was wide and genuine, and she couldn’t help smiling back at the image.

Then she frowned. She remembered he’d been dressed nicely, had been pleasant and friendly. But she didn’t remember him being quite so…hot. Then again, she’d been distracted, which was a nice way to say she was a wreck, but still, how could she have missed
this
?

Shane hadn’t been a wreck. He was charming, in an odd way. His awkward conversation suggested he didn’t pick up girls in clubs often. She traced the smile lines around his mouth. He certainly didn’t need to.

Splashy bright orange type read:
Shane August and Everything After.
“Oh, my gosh,” Crickitt breathed, and not because she was impressed by the clever play on one of her favorite album titles.

Shane didn’t just
work for
August Industries. Shane
was
August Industries. She really should have shopped at Nordstrom.

“Crickitt, hi,” a deep male voice sounded over her shoulder, and Crickitt nearly leaped out of her poly-cotton-blend shirt. Shane smiled down at her, the same casual hands-in-his-pockets pose as in the article between them. He wore a white shirt and pressed dark suit, paired with a coral-and-cream-striped tie.

She stood, the magazine open in her hands, her face warming as she stared up at the billionaire in front of her.

“The Counting Crows,” he said, gesturing to the article.

She blinked at him. Really, how had she not noticed he was this attractive before? She was divorced, not blind. His eyes, which had looked brown in the muted club lighting, were actually warm amber with flashes of gold. And she found herself wanting to reach up and tousle his head full of thick, dark hair. Unconsciously, she curled her fingers, the magazine crinkling in her grip.

He smiled, parting perfectly contoured lips. “The article?” he said, snapping her out of her trance.

“Right! I know!” she said. “I have that CD.” Caught with the proverbial canary in her mouth, Crickitt closed the magazine and dropped it onto the table. Then leaned down, flipped it over, and patted it for good measure.

“Was my picture that bad?” he asked, quirking his mouth.

“What? No! No, not at all. It’s a great picture. I mean, you look really nice. Very handsome.” She pressed her lips together and willed herself to shut up.

“Well, thank you.” He pursed his lips, and she couldn’t keep from watching them as he spoke. “You’re not just saying that to butter me up before the interview, are you?”

“Hmm-mm,” she answered dreamily, eyes fixed on the sexy indentation of his upper lip. Then his words hit her and she blinked. The interview! Good Lord, she’d nearly forgotten why she was here. Which was to interview for a personal assistant position. For Shane August.

The president of August Industries.

Gulp
.

If she was nervous before, it was nothing compared to how she felt now. Like her adrenal glands were doing the cha-cha after a double espresso.

Shane gestured with her résumé to the short glass staircase ahead of them. Slicking her hands down her slacks, Crickitt slung her bag over one shoulder and headed up in front of him.

Here went nothing.