“Talk to me about negative calories,” Eddie challenged. “Describe an optimal cardio-strength training balance for burning fat and building lean muscle.”
“Just because I don’t speak Muscle & Fitness, doesn’t mean I don’t know how to—”
Eddie’s phone buzzed. He held up a finger to silence her, and spoke into the speaker. “Give me good news, Lisa.”
“I’ve got Mr. McLean on the line.”
“Put him through, and take an extra half hour for lunch.”
“I’m taking an extra hour. Seems I scored a prime table at Toscanova. Since it’s going on your Amex, I’ll bring you a panini. Line one.”
Eddie rolled his eyes, and tapped the line. “Luke, my man. Thanks for getting in touch so quickly.”
“Your assistant said it was an emergency.”
The deep, slightly impatient response vibrated with an edge of authority that did funny things to her insides—the kind of things that had her recrossing her legs and pressing her thighs together. She had a little weakness for growly voices. And authority.
“It is,” Eddie said. “I need you to take on a full-time client, for the next six weeks—”
“Impossible.”
“Nothing’s impossible.”
“This is. I don’t take on private clients anymore. Even if I did, I can’t do this one. I’m leaving at the end of the week for my first real vacation in three years. I can refer you to a couple of qualified consultants who might be able to help.”
“I don’t need a referral. I need you. You’re the best.”
A cynical laugh sent something hot and restless fluttering low in Quinn’s abdomen. “Kissing ass won’t change anything.”
“I’m just stating a fact,” Eddie replied smoothly. “Want to know another fact? Everything’s negotiable. What will it take t
o make this happen? Name your price. Name the place. My only requirement is that it be absolutely private and totally confidential.”
“You can’t put a price on mental health. I need a vacation. For the past three years I’ve been one hundred percent focused on building my business. The facility, the staff, and the referral network—”
“Mortgage, insurance, salaries…all this requires cash, does it not?”
“I’m comfortable with my burn rate,” the low voice replied, with a calm that backed up the confidence of the statement. “Call Rick Samson, or Julianna Pierce.”
“He’s a glorified rep counter, and she’s insane. Come on, Luke. Remember having an hour of need? This is mine.”
A long silence followed. Quinn found herself holding her breath. Half of her hoped he’d refuse. No, correction, all of her hoped he’d refuse. She didn’t want to put herself in the hands of some arrogant stranger who clearly didn’t want the gig.
“Dammit, Eddie.”
Those clipped words came out lower. Harsher. The little hairs on her arm stood at attention.
“Sorry, man. I wouldn’t play the ‘you owe me’ card if this wasn’t important. I’m at your mercy.”
Her imagination cracked under the pressure, and sought its own escape by conjuring up an image of her strapped to some complicated piece of gym equipment, her muscles straining and immobilized, and that gruff voice telling her she was at his mercy.
A frustrated groan came from the other end of the line. Her hard-up hormones created an entirely different scenario for the thigh-tightening sound. He followed it up with a reluctant, “What’s the goal?”
Eddie pumped a fist in victory. “You’ll do it?”
“I’m not committing to anything, yet. First, I have to understand what it is, and if I think I can get it done. Then, you still have to agree to my terms.”
“My client needs to get chiseled like a slab of granite. No bulking, just cut, cut, cut. Define and tone”—Eddie glanced her way again—“everything, in six weeks.”