He nodded slowly. She had him there. “You’re right. I don’t.”
A spark of something that looked very much like outrage flashed in her eyes. “Then why on earth are you so intent on winning it?”
He drew in a deep breath. He couldn’t tell her that. He couldn’t even articulate his reasons in words to himself. He knew the feelings involved. Oh brother, did he ever know them. But that wasn’t something he could communicate to her. He wouldn’t know where to begin.
He knew it had something to do with proving himself to his father. And it had a lot to do with wanting to make sure Ned Varner didn’t get the contract. But there was more there. Maybe someday he’d be able to articulate it.
“My reasons don’t matter,” he said at last, trying to sound crisp and logical. “What I want to do is prove I can do it if I put my mind to it.”
“And then you’ll walk off and leave the rest of us to pick up the pieces?”
“No.” He frowned, realizing she was dealing with much more than what she was actually expressing in words. There was too much emotion in her voice for this just to be about the Heartland Project. “I’ll set up a team and give it a vision. I would never abandon a project like that. The groundwork will be laid. I’ll do it right.”
There were bright red spots on her cheeks. She rose stiffly. “Talk to me again when you’re serious,” she said.
“I’m very serious,” he responded. But she walked away.
He frowned, somewhat baffled by her behavior. She was upset and he wasn’t completely sure why. Oh, he had some idea that it had something to do with him and her lack of faith in his staying power. But that fear wasn’t based on anything real. She would see that soon, and her misgivings would pass. He really did need her for this project.
Pushing that concern away, he went back to work on some other things he’d been assigned, and a few items he’d taken up on his own. After all, if he was to make an impression in this job, he had to go way beyond the bottom line expectations. Way beyond. Otherwise, what was he here for?
An hour later he was agonizing over a flow chart when he felt something. The hair prickled on the back of his neck. He definitely had the sense of being watched. Maybe Darcy had undergone a change of heart and was hesitating just outside the room.
Turning quickly, he looked up at the wide French doors, expecting to see her there. Instead he found two sets of blue eyes gazing down at him, plus the dark brown eyes of the dog.
“Hi guys,” he said, waving at them.
The only one who responded was the dog, who wagged his tail enthusiastically. The boys didn’t move a muscle. He stopped waving. Par for the course. Dogs always did like him. He seemed to be striking out with little boys however.
Suddenly Darcy appeared. He stopped dead and stared at her. She was wearing tight blue jeans and a black V-neck shirt that plunged to reveal a lot of nice cleavage. Her hair was loose and flying about her face. She looked deliciously sexy. Staring at her, he felt an odd quivering inside. As though she’d read his mind, she threw him a glance so piercing, it might have turned a lesser man to stone. Then she herded the boys and dog away from the window. He watched for a few more minutes, but only the dog came back.
Suddenly he felt a little lonely. It was almost time to call it a day. He contemplated throwing in the towel for now and going in to the main house to join them, but then he remembered that he hadn’t been invited to do that. It might be prudent to wait until he was asked. So he got back to work. He had to do something to pass the time, after all.
Half an hour later he looked up and the boys were at the door again. That made him smile, even though their faces were still stuck on deadpan. They were obviously checking him out. And good for them. He had to admit, they were a pair of darn fine-looking kids—even if he did say so himself.
“Good genes,” he muttered to himself proudly. He waved at them. They stared. He sighed.
“Where’s the dog?” he called to them.
But they didn’t answer. And when he looked up again, they were gone.
It was almost an hour later when Darcy came to ask him if he would like to join her for something to eat.
“I’ve put the boys to bed,” she told him. “So they won’t bother you.”
“They don’t bother me.” He gazed at her steadily. “Darcy, I like kids. Don’t pretend I’m a monster.”
She finally smiled. “Good,” she said. “Now come on before the stroganoff gets cold.”
He loved stroganoff. She’d set places at the kitchen table. Red napkins. Blue plates. He was gratified when she brought out a bottle of white wine and poured two glasses. At least she was going to let this seem like a real meal and not a grudge feeding of necessity. She was still wearing the tight pants and the low-cut shirt and he was feeling definitely warm and toasty all around. He raised his glass.
“To women who brighten our lives,” he said.
“To men who bully and manipulate,” she countered, clinking before he had a chance to draw away.
“That was sneaky,” he protested, but he didn’t pursue it. Things seemed to be going well right now. No reason to rock the boat.
The food was great, from the creamy stroganoff on pasta to the leafy green salad and the cherry cobbler for dessert. They chatted inconsequentially, falling back into the pattern of banter threaded through more serious conversation they had developed in Paris. By the end of the meal, Darcy was laughing and looking as relaxed and happy as he’d ever seen her. And he was burning to take her in his arms.
But he couldn’t do that. Not only would it complicate matters, it would probably result in her kicking him out on his ear, and he didn’t relish sleeping in his car tonight.
He stayed in the kitchen and helped her with the dishes and they talked about ACW, and then about what he’d been doing all these years, staying so far away from Texas.
“Tell me about your work overseas these last few years,” she said, handing him a stack of plates to put away in an upper cabinet.
“What about it?” He reached high and confidently slid the plates into place for her.
She leaned against the counter, watching him. “What is it that draws you so strongly to it? How did you get this way?”
He put away his drying towel, then leaned against the counter facing her. “You know that I joined the Army after my freshman year of college,” he said.
She frowned. “I thought you had a degree.”
“I got that later with the Army’s help,” he said. “I was in Special Forces for eight years. By then I was ready for a change, so I got out and joined a firm that does security work all over the world.”
She nodded. “Okay, I knew that. My impression is that you were doing pretty much the same thing you’d done in the Army, only getting paid better.”
He grinned. “That was just about it.”
“So would you call what you do being a mercenary?” she asked tentatively, as though she was afraid he might take offense at the term. And in truth, he did.
“A mercenary?” he repeated, distorting the word a bit. “No. Being a mercenary has ugly connotations, like being a gun for hire. That isn’t what we do at all. We’re more like …” He thought for a moment, then went on. “Well, like a civilian rescue service. In many countries there is a huge gulf between the very rich and the rest of the population. There are all kinds of outlaws who think the rich are like fat, vulnerable piggy banks, and kidnapping is the way to open the vaults. It’s practically a major industry in some countries. Family members are always being kidnapped and held for ransom.” He gave her his quirky smile.