Risky Business

The reminder is purposeful, a trigger point to further test his reaction. He grits his teeth but dips his chin. I’m getting to him, I can tell. But damn if his gruff grumpiness isn’t getting to me in unexpected ways too. He’s like a tiger, sexier even as he looks more dangerous and unpredictable.

I uncross and cross my legs the other way, and his eyes drop to my calves before flicking back to my eyes. The unprofessional side of me notes it, and that he sees me as a potential conquest, a woman, not just a PR consultant. But I stay focused on my mission.

“Time is priority. We need to address this, now.”

Ben claps his hands, a small smile starting to bloom on his face. “Excellent. Ms. Rice, Carson can see you to his office and the two of you can get to work fixing this.”

Knowing when we’ve been dismissed, I stand with a reassuring smile. Sensing the same, Carson does too, though he gives his father a harsh sideways glance that says this is hardly over between father and son. I wonder what he’d say if I weren’t here?

I follow Carson out of the office door and through the outer office area, where Boston gives me a thumbs-up as we pass, either in a ‘good job’ motion or a ‘good luck’, I’m not sure which. But given Carson’s reaction to my presence, I’ll take either.

As Carson leads me down the hall, I take stock of him. He’s tall, a few inches over six feet, with dark hair that’s in finger-tousled waves, likely from his running his hands through it in stress, his broad shoulders framing a strong back that tapers to a black leather belted waist, and his slacks hug his ass as he walks. Again, he’s an attractive man.

How can I use that to our advantage?

My brain stays mostly in PR mode, even as I personally assess Carson’s sex appeal. As a woman, I can feel my body reacting, the warmth in my belly, the tightness in my chest. But the only thing I’m here to focus on is how to use his looks as a weapon to help in this situation, and definitely not the yummy set of slack-clad cinnamon buns tempting me to give him a good smack.

He opens a door with his name on the gold-plated plaque. I step past him, but I swear I hear him take a deep breath. Is he sniffing me? Or taking one of those calming breaths to keep from ripping into me? Either is unacceptable and counter to my goal.

Our goal.

In his office, I see a desk with two chairs in front and also a couch area off to the side.

I choose to take a seat on the couch, not wanting to be on literal opposite sides of the desk when I need Carson Steen to work with me. For his own good, because I saw the way his father looked at him when he said something. Carson may not know it, but he’s playing with very, very little rope before his father decides that the company comes before DNA.

Carson grabs one of the chairs from his desk and turns it around to sit across from me, less intimate than sharing the couch but allowing me to read his face directly. And at least there’s no monolith to corporate authority desk in between us. “Mr. Steen—”

He holds up a hand. “You can save the lecture. Dad’s already handled that, and I’m not listening to it again.” Carson’s frustration looks remarkably similar to his father’s at this moment, and I suspect if he had glasses and were about twenty pounds heavier, he’d be rubbing the bridge of his nose too because he closes his eyes and sighs. “I don’t need to hear that I fucked up.”

“Good. Because that’s not what I’m here for,” I reassure him. “I’m here to help you find a way out of the predicament you’re in. Actually, it’s a good thing that you said that, because we’re only able to move forward if we start from a common ground.”

“So we agree it’s a fucking mess,” he scoffs bitterly.

I nod. “It is, but now let’s not waste time. Let’s instead start with the basics. Tell me about you. Not the Wikipedia page notes or the press release blurb from the Americana Land website. I need to know the nitty, gritty stuff you don’t tell anyone.”

Carson’s mouth twists into a sexy scowl, and for a moment I think he’s flirting with me. But the fire in his eyes makes me unsure. “Want my deepest, darkest secrets, do you?” he taunts, one dark brow lifting in challenge as he glares at me icily. “No drink or dinner first?”

“Want and need are different things, Mr. Steen. It’s not that I want to know the things you hide, it’s that I need to so I can effectively circumvent any potential pitfalls for our PR recovery operation,” I explain, pivoting quickly to try and keep this man on my side. It’s not purely professional interest, I have to admit inside myself. I’m quite interested in whatever deep, dark secrets Carson Steen holds. Maybe they’ll help me stop noting the nuances of his expressions . . . anger . . . disappointment . . . interest . . . attraction?