Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
T roy put his fingers to his lips. He could still taste her. So sweet beyond the whipped cream and cheesecake. It was her. Every kiss with her would be sweet. He wanted to hold her in his arms, mold her body to his, let her feel exactly what she did to him.
He wanted to taste her everywhere.
Aching to grab her hand before she got away, he wanted to ask, Are you going to tell me that wasn’t the best kiss of your entire life? Because it certainly was for me .
Even as he watched her walk away, the words reverberated in his head as if he’d said them aloud.
And yet he held back. Michaela Killian was a hard sell. But no, that made her sound like a stubborn supplier giving him a rough time. Michaela simply had a hard shell. But he was also certain she would be so soft on the inside.
The yacht was now coming about in a wide arc.
The truth was obvious. If he pushed Michaela too hard, she’d run away. Just as she had today. Even if they were on a yacht, and he could easily find her.
He could make her admit how perfect that kiss had been. The most amazing of his life.
But his gut told him how badly that would go. The more he pushed, the more roadblocks she’d throw up in his face.
This was only their second date—even if she wouldn’t admit that either the dinner after the book signing or this cruise was a date—and there would be more. More non -dates, if that’s what she wanted to call them.
He would make certain of it.
Troy had followed her to her car, tried to give her the rest of the cheesecakes. “I’m sure your mother would enjoy them.”
That made Michaela want to smack something. Her mother the traitor.
Stuck in commuter traffic because the cruise had lasted longer than she’d intended, she fumed all the way home. Commute time through the city started even earlier than on the Peninsula.
When she got home, her mother was working her needlepoint on the couch, but Michaela was sure that was a gleam in her eye.
“How was the date, dear?”
Michaela answered in clipped tones, “It wasn’t a date. It was a sales trip. Troy Harrington wanted to see the yacht and take a cruise. And,” she snapped, “he bought the boat. It’s a great commission for me.”
She suddenly hated that she’d snapped at her mother.
She never did that. Flo was her rock. They’d made their way out of Modesto together.
If she thought about it, they’d grown up together, because her mother had been so young when Michaela was born.
But she had to be firm. “Please don’t tell Troy anything else about me, even my favorite foods. ”
Flo laughed. “But wasn’t a picnic on a boat so romantic?”
Now she understood that gleam in her mother’s eyes. It wasn’t just a twinkle of stars. It was a riot of hearts.
Be firm, Michaela. “My dealings with him are just business. They’re not dates.”
Now all the damned hearts seemed to be flying right out of her mother’s eyes. She didn’t believe Michaela.
Under any other circumstances, with any other man, she would have told Flo about that kiss. How sensual it had been, how spicy-sweet he’d tasted. She couldn’t even say the wine had gone to her head, because it hadn’t.
But with all those hearts and butterflies flying around the room, she couldn’t tell her mother a thing.
And tonight, she would dream about that kiss.
Troy couldn’t be sure if yesterday’s cruise had been a success or not.
There’d been that exquisite kiss, but then Michaela immediately claimed it was a mistake. And she’d had the captain head back to the marina.
That kiss. He’d relived it in his dreams last night—the taste of her, the feel of her skin beneath his palms, the delicious scent of her arousal.
Oh yeah, that kiss had been a total success. But getting her to see they needed to be together? Not so much. Maybe the cruise and picnic had been a complete failure.
He stared out the window of his San Jose office.
The location of the high-rise was one of the reasons he’d chosen Los Gatos as his home.
While some thought San Jose was just a suburb of San Francisco, they were wrong.
It was the hub of Silicon Valley, and close to Morgan Hill and Gilroy, where many companies were fleeing the high cost of rent and construction in the rest of the Bay Area.
He watched as a helicopter carefully placed a massive new air conditioning unit on a building a stone’s throw from his. The task was accomplished with precision, every calculation accurate.
If only he could be as accurate in determining how to get Michaela to see him as more than just a billionaire.
His desk phone buzzed.
He’d chosen not to have an expensive office filled with expensive furniture.
But he did enjoy the creature comforts of a well-stocked sideboard, including a refrigerator and a top-of-the-line espresso machine.
Instead of stopping by Santa Cruz 9 every day for his specialty coffee, he could have made it here in his office.
But once he’d seen Michaela—though he hadn’t known her name at the time—the espresso machine had been gathering dust.
He leaned over the desk to push the intercom button. “Yes, Betsy?”
“The-there…” Betsy stammered. In her late forties, Betsy was a consummate professional. She never stammered, no matter what or who showed up at his door.
Suddenly, he knew exactly who would incite stammering in his usually unflappable administrative aide. He pushed the intercom button once more. “Send him in.”
Betsy stammered again. “It… it’s…” She seemed to suck air, the sound of it rushing over the intercom. “He’s not alone.”
Good Lord. Who the hell could be with Fernsby?
When his office door opened, his first thought was, Un-freaking-believable . Fernsby flourished a hand for Susan Spencer and Flo Killian to precede him into the office.
“Nice digs,” Flo said.
“Great view,” Susan added.
He had to admit the sight sometimes struck him dumb, especially as the sun set over the city.
His desk was ordinary oak, stained a dark shade, and only four chairs sat around the conference table.
But the sofa was comfortable. He occasionally slept on it when he’d been working late, if he hadn’t already fallen asleep at his desk.
His computer, to which he’d attached two monitors, was state of the art.
But he didn’t have any Van Gogh paintings hanging on the walls or Ming vases in the corner.
He should have offered them coffee, but he didn’t want to let them get a toehold in his domain.
“I can do this myself,” he said, harsh emphasis in his voice. He knew exactly what this little conclave was all about.
Flo arched an eyebrow. She wore leggings with patches of colorful material on them. Her tunic blouse, matching the material on her leggings, fell in flowing folds past her hips. Flo would have made everything herself, and she looked both elegant and relaxed.
But they weren’t here to talk about clothing.
“Judging by my daughter’s state when she returned from your cruise yesterday,” Flo said sweetly, “you clearly can’t do it yourself.”
The moment she said it was the moment he accepted that she was right. That kiss had been amazing, glorious even. But Michaela had jumped right back into her chainmail armor and felt farther away from him than ever.
Faced with Flo, Susan, and Fernsby, admitting that felt like some sort of surrender. But if he didn’t admit defeat, he feared that any relationship with Michaela was screwed beyond all recognition. FUBARed, in military parlance.
Though he avoided scuffing his shoes on the carpet like a little kid, he managed to say, “All right, fine, I need your help.” Then he added, “Please.”
Flo glanced at Fernsby, who raised one eyebrow. “Please, dear lady, I believe you would best handle this conversation.”
Fernsby deferring? Unthinkable. Yet Troy had seen him defer to Susan Spencer too. That lovely woman nodded, then, unbelievably, she hip-bumped Flo.
Michaela’s mother crossed her arms over her chest. “Michaela came home from the cruise a little miffed with me because I shared all her favorite things. That said, I’m still one hundred percent on board with this.
You two seem like a perfect match, or I wouldn’t be here.
I knew it from the moment I saw you at the gallery. ”
He couldn’t be sure, but he thought she fluttered her eyelashes at him.
“My daughter has never dated a man I thought was good enough for her.” She paused. And then she hit him with it. Hit them all with it. “Until you.” Her eyes, so like Michaela’s, suddenly blazed with a vibrant emerald light. “Don’t prove me wrong.”
Flo Killian was a mama bear who would do anything for her daughter. If he even thought about hurting Michaela, Flo’s backlash would not be good.
Luckily, he had no intention of hurting Michaela.
Susan, another mama bear, suddenly wrapped him in a sweet-smelling hug. Releasing him, she said to Flo, “He’s a doll, and he’ll treat Michaela with kid gloves. Better than she’s ever been treated before.” She smiled at Flo. “At least by someone who isn’t her wonderful mother.”
Fernsby simply couldn’t be left out. “I’ve kept a close watch over all the Harringtons for the past decade and a half. I’ve taught them everything they know. And I would never stand for any shenanigans.”
Troy couldn’t help himself. He laughed. Then he couldn’t stop, bending double until he could finally catch his breath again and manage, “There have been more shenanigans than I could ever list, Fernsby.” He pointed a finger.
“And you know it.” With a smile for Flo, he said, “I am a good guy, I promise. But I’ve got to admit there have been shenanigans. ”
Flo patted his arm. “Wonderful. That means you’ve already sown your wild oats.”
Troy decided not to say exactly how many wild oats he’d sown. But he’d always treated everyone he’d sown them with respectfully.
Finally, Fernsby got down to the reason for their visit. “Please tell us, sir, did you discover the perfect date that will bowl over dear Michaela?”