“In being your assistant?”
“More like codirector. It wouldn’t pay much. Probably my salary split in half. But it’s a start, right?”
“I don’t think I’m qualified. I don’t even have a résumé. Yet. But—”
“You’re plenty qualified. You practically raked in the funding for all of last year on your own just by tapping your trusty acquaintance list. All the board needs is my recommendation and you’re in. Plus, you’ll have me to show you the ropes. Eventually, who knows? Maybe you can take over and I can bow out.”
“Just like that?” It was true that I’d used my community contacts, numerous thanks to Patrick’s job in real estate, to drum up a lot of interest and money for the cause. I was a pretty good communicator, and a real people person. I was perfect for the job.
“Just like that. Consider yourself hired. I mean, as soon as I run it by the board and all.”
It couldn’t hurt that I was on a first-name basis with most of the board. The job was mine!
“Leslie, you’re incredible!” A weight lifted right off my chest. Really, it was amazing news. I didn’t have to look for a job. I didn’t need a résumé. No longer would I have to cry about being widowed and beg for mercy just to get an entry-level position doing who knew what? I was spared! “Thank you. Thanks so much.”
“Yeah, just come in on Monday dressed for work and we’ll get you started.”
“Monday? So soon?”
“I’ll get the board together and put it to a vote, but yeah. Pretty much. It may not be official right away, but close enough. The sooner you take over half my duties, the sooner I can scale back.”
“Okay. I’ll see you Monday.”
I turned, lost in thought, lost in excitement, lost in the process of deciding what to wear…and lost my footing. I felt my ankle twist at an awkward angle. I felt my body going down. I felt an unbelievable wrench of white-hot pain shooting through my leg. And then I didn’t feel a thing.
I must have blacked out a minute. When I opened my eyes, I was staring into the most incredible leaf-green gaze I’d ever seen. I was—off the ground, being held by a pair of incredibly strong arms.
“Let’s get you to my car, shall we?”
Foreign accent? British? French? I couldn’t make it out. The throbbing of my ankle distracted me. But nothing could take my mind off the fact that I was in the arms of a handsome stranger, being carted off to his car. Which, hello (to steal one of Leslie’s trademark phrases), was an enormous black Town Car, complete with a driver who came around to open the passenger-side rear door.
No doubt about it. I was still out cold, probably sprawled on the ground in an ungainly heap while caught up in this beautiful dream.
Chapter Three
I blinked and opened my eyes. A blond, broad-shouldered god held me in his arms, seemingly unconcerned with wrinkling his perfectly tailored suit.
Who was he? How did he catch me just in time? But if this wasn’t a dream, why couldn’t I think straight? Concussion? Did I hit my head when I went down?
The god settled me into the rich leather of his car seats. I took a second to assess him from shoes up. Nice shoes, expensive-looking, probably Italian. Black trousers. Armani? Overall, a very nice package.
He laughed.
Tell me I hadn’t said it out loud.
“I think I dropped it,” I said quickly to cover. “My package.”
“She’s delirious. She didn’t have any packages,” Leslie said, suddenly appearing at my side. Or had she always been there, and I just didn’t notice? Who would, with Daniel Craig standing next to her? Or was he more David Beckham? “Just her Coach bag.”
She handed it to the god, who placed it on the seat beside me.
I glanced again. Oh yes, definitely a longer-haired David Beckham. Probably between thirty and thirty-five. Tall, blond, and built, with green eyes that sent an instant charge right through me.
“I think she’ll be all right,” the Beckham-god said. “As far as her head goes, I didn’t see her strike it on anything. Now, the ankle, that’s another story.”
He leaned down to inspect the ankle up close.
“Ow!” I couldn’t help shrieking when his fingers caressed my delicate skin, and unfortunately, it wasn’t out of excitement. It hurt.
“It may be broken.” He made his skilled assessment after trying to gently move it from side to side. I bit my lip to keep from crying out.
“Broken?” I feared pain. I feared disability. But more than anything, I feared my ankle becoming an ugly swollen mound right under Beckham’s touch.
He unbuckled the ankle strap of my shoe and slid it off.
“Precautionary,” he said, with a wink that made me melt into the seat.
“Thank you.” I tried not to wince as my newly freed foot went limp along with my backbone as I melted at the romance of it all. He’d carried me. All the way to his car.
“Nick Angelos,” he said by way of introduction.
Leslie, belatedly realizing she’d been lax in introductions, jumped in. “Mr. Angelos, one of our corporate donors, has graciously offered land and supplies for new buildings. Including this one, in fact.”
Nick nodded. Angelos. My own personal angel. “I happened by to check on progress, to see if Leslie needed anything else. I’d just stepped out of the car when I saw you going down.”
My head swooned. The thought of “Nick Angelos” in the same sentence as “going down” sent an instant erotic shock right through me.
“I can’t imagine how bad it would be if you hadn’t caught her,” Leslie said, her cheeks coloring. “You moved so fast. As if you had wings on your feet.”
“Unfortunately, it looks bad enough as it is,” he said.
I followed Nick’s concerned gaze back to my own ankle. It had indeed swollen, and some highly unattractive purple bruises colored the inflamed skin. Yuck. How embarrassing. I made a move to cover it, but recoiled in pain. I couldn’t contain the yelp that shot to my lips from the effort.
“These damn shoes.” The voice came in the form of a snarl from behind Nick. Josh Brandon stepped forward, bent to fetch my shoe, and held it up. “Wearing these around a construction site is suicide.”
“As usual, Mr. Brandon, thanks for your concern.” I was reminded of the thorough dressing-down I received from attempting to use the electric sander without protective eyewear on a past volunteer endeavor.
“Well, I’m foreman here and from now on, I establish a rule. No walking around a site without proper footwear.”
“My footwear is very proper,” I said, defensive. “The perfect match for my suit, and quite in style for the season.”
“I mean, appropriate.” His full lip rose in a sneer, lending his stark blue eyes an air of menace. “Appropriate footwear. Work boots, with steel-reinforced toes. No heels, no soft Italian leather.”
He lowered his eyes to Nick Angelos’s feet and lifted them to meet my gaze again. “Next time you show up without steel-toed Timberlands, you’ll be banned from walking around the site.”
Nick snorted. Clearly, he wasn’t going to let Josh Brandon tell him what to do. Unfortunately, I couldn’t afford to flout the rules if I planned to accept employment.
“May I have a look?”