Think About Love (10 page)

Cal put Sam's computer case on the old oak desk beside the front door, rubbed his shoes on the welcome mat, and headed for the kitchen.

He needed to handle her very carefully, he decided as he stared at the contents of the refrigerator. Sam was a woman who planned everything, and she'd already made her plan, one that didn't include Tremaine's.

White wine, an almost full bottle in the door. Would she sit with him after they ate, a glass of wine in her hand? Unlikely, he decided as he pulled a package of chicken breasts out of the fridge, then turned on the electric grill beside the coffeepot.

Potatoes in the pantry. He scrubbed them, pricked holes in through the skins with a fork, set the microwave for six minutes to give them a head start. Then he pulled some spices out of the rack on the windowsill and shook a variety of herbs onto the chicken before he put two breasts on the grill. Both Cal and his sister had learned to cook by the time they were ten, and he went about making dinner without much thought.

For years, his sister had been laying traps for him, invitations to dinners where he'd find himself sitting across from a variety of her friends and acquaintances. Adrienne had been persistent, tossing a variety of women in his path. He'd dated a few, but there'd never been enough spark, enough fire to stop him canceling a date and saying goodbye when the latest project heated up.

And despite Adrienne's matchmaking urges—strange in a woman who declared she'd probably never marry—and his mother's campaign for a grandchild, he'd never considered marriage with any of those women.

He found a can of asparagus tips in the pantry, slipped them into a bowl ready for the microwave when the potatoes finished. A week ago, he would have said that he couldn't imagine proposing to any woman. But neither had he imagined Sam would announce she was leaving.

Whatever it took, he needed to keep her at Tremaine's
.

It was ninety percent business. If any one of those women he'd dated had been as talented as Sam, he might have thought about marriage.

Pull the other one, Calin Tremaine. You've been fighting fantasies of tangling up the sheets with her for eighteen months. Now she's leaving, and if it were just business, you'd give her the consulting contract, get her to find her own replacement, and get on with business.

He didn't want a replacement. He trusted her, and damn it, he wanted to know that when he felt discouraged or worried, he could walk into her office, interrupt her with some unnecessary question, and soak up whatever it was about her that always made him feel no mountain was too high, no challenge too great.

With Sam at his side, he could do anything.

The microwave dinged and he pulled the potatoes out, slipped them into the oven. He heard a footstep outside on the veranda and hurried to open the door for her. Samantha Jones might not know it yet, but she wasn't going anywhere.

"Come in," he said softly, and for just a second he saw awareness flash in her eyes, and he fought the urge to yank her into his arms. Then, suddenly, she was the cool, contained Sam he'd come to expect.

He closed the door behind her, kept his voice low so as not to disturb the baby whose head was nestled against her breast. "She's sleeping. Where's her bed?"

"In the back." She pointed with a gesture of her head, avoiding his eyes. "I can—"

"I'll get the bedroom door," he murmured, his own heart hammering so loudly that he was amazed she couldn't hear it as he walked with her through the arch and down the hall into the back of the house.

In the bedroom, he pulled back the small blanket in the crib. She bent and gently placed the baby on the mattress. Cal lowered the blanket over the baby, and Sam's hand adjusted the edge over the infant's small shoulder, her face open and so tender he had to fight an overwhelming urge to take her into his arms and show her another kind of tenderness.

"She's out for the count," he murmured.

"She hardly slept at all last night."

He took Sam's hand, felt a jolt of something pass through her body, but she didn't pull away until he'd led her back to the kitchen.

"Dinner will be ready in ten minutes," he said.

When she pulled her hand away, she got to the far side of the kitchen before she stopped, standing under the archway to the living room. If it weren't for the fact that she was rubbing her hand, the one he'd held, he might have been fooled by the coolness in her eyes.

"Thank you," she said, remote voice matching her eyes. "If you'll go sit in the living room, I'll make coffee."

He ignored her attempt to take over the kitchen. "I think we've both had more than enough coffee at the open house. I'll pour us some wine." He pulled out the bottle of white wine, opened a cupboard, found a massive selection of teas. Herbal teas, black teas, varieties he'd never imagined existed.

He closed the door, opened another. Plates, bowls.

"Here," she said, opening the next cupboard and taking out two thin-stemmed glasses.

He poured the wine, concentrating on the level of the liquid in the glasses, aware of the soft sound of her breathing, the scent of her shampoo... almonds. He corked the wine, followed her into the living room. She didn't stop walking until she got to the window, then turned, placing her back to the view.

Careful, he thought, be very careful. She would flee in an instant if she knew the thoughts in his mind. "You said you'd help find your own replacement?"

She nodded, her eyes meeting his. "Yes, of course I will."

He wanted to shake her, but he needed to suppress his anger. It would weaken his position. He thought of the Lloyd deal, of meeting with Jake Lloyd in New York knowing that other firms, bigger firms had tried to get a contract and failed. Yet Cal had felt confident, certain he could demonstrate the benefits, using Jake's own paranoia to make his case.

A piece of cake compared with this.

"So..." He made his voice thoughtful, saw her eyes narrow and wondered if she could see through to his anger. "What sort of person are we looking for? Where will we find this person?"

"You'll need more than one person." She was more comfortable now, talking business. He saw her body relax as she spoke, and she lifted the wineglass to her lips, sipping unconsciously. "My job has grown into a collection of different jobs—some finance, some human resources, some planning, a little marketing. Eighteen months ago, you needed one person to look after the top level of all those functions, but now it's different. Human resources is shaping up very nicely with Jason Prendall in charge, but with your projected rate of growth over the next year or so, you're going to need an experienced negotiator in finance."

"Stacey," he suggested, knowing their accountant was no negotiator, wondering why he'd never understood that Sam's quiet enthusiasm showed only the tip of her own passionate fires. On some level, he realized, he'd known and had responded with fantasies of another kind of passion.

She was saying, "...not going to be able to move up to more responsibilities. You need a CFO, someone from one of the big companies, experienced in negotiations. We brought in Oscar to help out with the Lloyd contract, but you're going to need someone of your own."

How could he have been so stupid as not to know how much he wanted her? Why had it taken the threat of her leaving?

"You need to start searching for that CFO now, and for someone to head up the technical sales force, an expert in the kind of technical presales research you do yourself. You won't be able to handle it all now, so you need someone you can trust. Your job's going to change, Cal. You'll need to spend more time liaising with these new people or look at someone as vice president."

"Vice president?"

"For the moment, you should hire someone to replace me, someone you can groom for vice president. You'll need to be sure. Compatibility's a big issue."

"I know who I want."

She frowned. "We can start—"

"You're my vice president."

"I told you. I can't."

He crossed the carpet and took the wineglass from her hand. He set it and his own glass on the windowsill before he took her shoulders in his hands. He felt her jerk in surprise, and his gaze got caught in her startled wide eyes, her parted lips. "Cal..."

Her eyes looked exactly like those of the deer he'd seen last night. "Vice president, Sam. You make your own hours, oversee the search for the executives we're going to need, delegate. If you need more people, hire them. You're not leaving."

The light from the lamp behind the sofa caught in her eyes, showing golden flecks in the deep brown. "Cal, there are other people, very talented people who could do my job standing on one leg."

"No, there aren't." He took her hand because he needed to feel her pulse beating under his fingers. "Before you came, Tremaine's was growing fast, the details spinning out of control. No one but you could have persuaded me to give up control. After Barry defected, I swore I'd never trust anyone with that much control again. Without you, Sam, I'd still be trying to do it all, working on an ulcer and a heart attack. You taught me to delegate, taught me to trust you."

She wouldn't meet his eyes. "You've still got a bit to learn about delegating."
 

"I need you, Sam. Tremaine's needs you. But I need to know you won't change your mind, decide to quit again in six months time."

He felt her hand stiffen but didn't release it.

"Kippy has to come first."

He knew he was gambling, but he wasn't going to let her walk away. "You're going to be Kippy's mother," he said slowly, "but she'll have no father. Is that what you want for her, to grow up without a father?"

She jerked her hand free, then crammed both hands in the pockets of her suit jacket. "Lots of well-adjusted kids live in single-parent families."

"It doesn't matter that she has no father?"

"Of course it matters!" Her eyes were suddenly hot, militant, her body transformed in a heartbeat, and he fought his own response to the heat.
 

He turned away and paced to the varnished dining room table. "You could give her a father," he said.

"What the hell are you talking about?"
 

He wondered how long it would have taken him to discover Sam's passionate side if she hadn't threatened to leave, wondered why it was so damned arousing to find so much heat under such a calm surface.

"I think you're a woman who would never let her orphaned niece down. I think you're a gifted executive. You have a magic way of getting people, business, everything sorted out, and neither Kippy nor I can afford to lose you. Have you thought what will happen if this social worker decides that Kippy would be better off without you?"

Her eyes widened in shock. "That's not going to happen. She disapproves of me right now, but I'll win her over. Even if I don't, she's got no cause. I'll get permanent custody of Kippy."

"You might have a better chance if you were married."

"Dorothy's a widow. She didn't have a problem getting custody last winter."

"When your sister died?"

"Yes." She blinked tears back. "I'll get custody, and I'm not getting married just to give Kippy a father."

"What if there were other reasons?"

"What reasons?"

"Marry me." He saw her shock and knew he'd better talk fast, before she got her breath back and threw him out. "You'd get a stable, conventional family to present to the court, a father for Kippy."

"That's insane." He heard her swallow. "I don't need—why would you—"

"Because I'd get you as vice president, completely committed to Tremaine's. I'll settle a block of shares on you—twice what we agreed on previously."

"This is a business deal?"

"Yes," he said. "It's good business."

Chapter Six

A business deal.

"You're crazy, Cal."

In the kitchen, a bell rang.

"That's the chicken," he said. "Why don't you change into something more comfortable while I get the food on the table."

Something more comfortable. He didn't mean that the way it sounded; of course he didn't. "What kind of business deal? It's crazy, Cal. You can't be serious."

"Crazy?" His eyes had that light in them, like those mornings when he stormed into her office, interrupting her routine to tell her about a new idea, a new way to make computers dance to his vision. "Sam, this is probably the best business decision I've made since the day I hired you."

"I don't think we should—"

"We'll work out the details after supper. When you go home after work, do you usually eat dinner in your suit?"

"No, I—"

"Then change. We'll eat; then we'll work out the details."

"And will I get to finish my sentences?" she snapped.

"Change first," he said and turned his back and walked into Dorothy's kitchen.

Cal, dishing up dinner in her grandmother's house. The world had gone mad, but wearing a business suit wasn't doing anything to keep control of this conversation, so she may as well be comfortable.

She hadn't realized how hungry she was until ten minutes later when she sat down to the smells of fried chicken, baked potato, and tender asparagus tips.