Chapter 2
Ellen really didn’t want to be here.
She sat on the hard black leather couch, her skirt pulled determinedly below her knees, and tried not to let the receptionist see that her toe was tapping the air with impatience. She had far too much to do today to spend it on a sales call.
The receptionist was almost exactly what Ellen would have expected of a company run by a man with a reputation like Kane Fielding’s. She was beautifully dressed and coiffed, with perfect nails painted a professional pink, and lipstick to match. The only surprising thing about her was that she was in her sixties, not a barely-out-of-college girl like the ones Fielding was always seen with. This woman had greeted Ellen perfectly politely and asked if she could get her a drink before Ellen had even sat down. Ellen had said no, just as politely, and then glowered at her from the couch, disliking her even more because there was nothing to dislike.
Ellen had to be here, because whatever her opinion of its owner, Fielding Paper was one of the largest companies in Boston, and the Rosette hotel wanted to have exclusive rights to Fielding conferences. So when her friend Lucía Jimenez, the conferences’ manager at Fielding, had called to suggest she come in “for a couple of minutes” to leave a brochure, Ellen couldn’t say no. But she’d been here for fifteen minutes already; the morning was ticking by, and she had a gala for fifteen hundred people to organize that would influence the rest of her career.
After another five minutes, the receptionist (Gloria, according to her nameplate) apologized to Ellen for the wait. Ellen wondered what would happen if she threw her shoe at the woman.
“That’s quite all right,” she said instead.
“I just love your accent,” said Gloria. “You’re English?”
“Yes.” The accent was an advantage in her work, one she hadn’t had back in London. “But I’ve been here for about four years now.”
“Well, you still sound pure English to me.”
Too bloody right. Ellen wasn’t about to mess with a good sales tool. She gave Gloria a small smile and tried not to sigh with impatience.
The heavy glass entrance doors opened, and the atmosphere seemed to sharpen. A tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair that brushed his shirt collar backed into the room, carrying a black overnight bag. He wore a dark, rumpled suit and had a wool coat in his other hand. He turned to face the receptionist, his back still to Ellen. Gloria came around her desk to meet him.
“Hi, Gloria,” the man said, dropping his coat on the floor and putting out his arm.
“Kane, you poor thing!” the receptionist replied, tucking herself under the arm for a hug. “You look pooped. When did you get back? You should have gone straight home!”
For a second it looked as though she was holding him up. His shoulders were hunched; he dropped the bag without looking to see where it fell.
“Just thought I’d check in,” he said.
“You smell like a forest,” Gloria said, wrinkling her nose.
His laugh was cracked and harsh. “Yeah, after a wildfire.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Guess I need a shower. I slept hard in Chicago last night. Had to hustle to make my flight this morning.”
“So go home,” Gloria insisted. She untucked herself and shook the arm that had hugged her. “You drove from Chicago to Grand Rapids and back again in one day? No wonder you overslept.”
Ellen couldn’t stop staring. This woman was acting like his governess, not his employee. What kind of company was this? And was this really the great, all-powerful, crooks-a-finger-and-gets-any-woman-he-wants Kane Fielding? He looked almost normal, standing there, silently asking for a little sympathy before getting back to real life. He still had his back to Ellen, so she couldn’t see the famous smile or the dark, deep-set eyes; she only saw the hunched shoulders and heard the exhaustion in his voice.
“I will, I will,” he was promising. “I just want to give Leo a debriefing.” He hugged Gloria again quickly, let her go, and began to walk to the inner doors.
Ellen watched him turn to face her, and freeze. For a second, the dark eyes still held worry and strain. But then that hundred-kilowatt smile spread over his face. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I would never have turned my back on you if I’d known you were there. Kane Fielding.” He held out his hand.
Heck. She felt the pink begin to creep into her cheeks. Not that she followed the tabloids or anything—okay, she did, but only when she was getting pedicures, so it didn’t count—but he was even finer in real life. Ellen had automatically stood when he came over, and even though she was taller than many men she knew, she had to look up to meet his dark-brown eyes. His hair looked just messy enough to be messed up some more. His broad shoulders fit the line of his suit exactly. But what was really undoing her was the way he’d talked to Gloria: the warmth, the fatigue in his voice, and the tension that still lingered around his eyes. Wasn’t he invincible? And didn’t he treat women like Kleenex? Use once and discard?
She had to be imagining it. He represented everything she hated about men. Her surreptitious perusal of the tabloids proved it. “Ellen Hunter, from the Rosette,” she said stiffly, and shook his hand.
A ping went up her arm. Her breath caught in her throat. What was that? If she didn’t know better, she would have said it was arousal. But no, it was probably fear. That was a feeling she knew well. She dropped his hand and gripped her portfolio case more tightly. She’d gotten used to the occasional wash of fear threatening to overtake her whenever a man stood too close or made his interest clear. She was good at swallowing it, ignoring it, telling herself she’d never be afraid again. And she wasn’t, until the next time.
“The hotel?” he said. “One of the best in town. Impressive.” He was standing a perfectly respectable distance away, and his smile, while wide, was professional. He didn’t look anywhere but at her face. But a wicked glint in his eyes showed he wasn’t just talking about the hotel.
This was the kind of attention she hated. She knew she was attractive in a standard kind of way: thin, blond, blue-eyed, et cetera, but she couldn’t stand it when men noticed her. She tended to dress conservatively for that reason, keeping her hair pulled back, wearing boxy jackets and skirts that her friend Penny had called “Sister Mary Margaret length.” She still got more attention than she wanted, but she couldn’t do much about it, other than use the ice-queen role she easily slipped into these days.
“We think so,” she answered firmly. “That’s what I’m here to talk to your conferences’ manager about, anyway.”
As if summoned by her title, Lucía appeared, pushing through the inner glass doors in a hurry, her thick dark curls spilling down her back. “I’m so sorry,” she was saying before she’d even focused on Ellen. “This conference call—” Then she noticed Fielding. “Kane!” she exclaimed, and Ellen watched, fascinated, as Lucía’s harassed frown turned to a sweet smile. “We didn’t think you’d come in today.”
“Just checking in,” he said again.
