Since targeting his head and neck had proved unsuccessful, Cara was aiming lower, following the adage that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. The lunch, with an accompanying written plea nestled among the dessert of pecan pralines, proved a washout as well. No contact. No “Thank you very much, the food was delicious.” No anything. Cara’s murderous thoughts were multiplying.
With Brooke badgering her relentlessly, Cara opted for another telephone call. She was informed “a check is in the mail.” Cara mouthed a silent expletive. McCauley could send over his entire fortune in an armored truck and it wouldn’t get Brooke off her back. He was missing the point here.
The check arrived—a substantial contribution—along with a terse, typed note that he simply wasn’t interested in taking part. Maybe the poor guy thought that if he put it in writing, the message would finally get through.
Cara suffered another twinge of conscience. She’d been so zealous carrying out Brooke’s mandate that she’d overlooked the fact she was practically harassing this man. Wyatt McCauley probably thought her and everyone associated with the auction a collection of crazies who couldn’t grasp the simple meaning of “no.” In fact, she’d begun questioning her own sanity for continuing this ridiculous campaign rather than pleading with Brooke to give up or assign the job to someone else. But no telling how a stressed-out Brooke would react to such a request.
Having tried everything she could think of short of plotting a kidnapping, Cara decided to seek out the lion in his lair. If she showed up in person she could appeal to his sensitive side—assuming that he had one—and perhaps persuade him to reconsider.
Wyatt’s lair was an office in downtown Austin, not far from the state capitol. As she drove by in her aging Volkswagen Jetta, Cara noticed the trees now in full bloom, the capitol grounds teeming with cameratoting tourists and nearby office workers out for a breath of fresh spring air.
She managed to find a parking space, deposited several coins in the meter, and started toward Wyatt’s building. On the way she spotted a florist on the corner. Flowers? What the heck, this was a go-for-broke mission. She entered the store.
“A dozen of the yellow roses, please...no, make that two dozen.” Brooke had told her to do whatever was necessary. Perhaps the flowers would help sway the man...or at least gain her entrance to his inner sanctum.
“Cara Breedon to see Mr. McCauley.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible, Ms. Breedon.” The woman, Frances Peters, Executive Assistant—according to the nameplate on the desk—was courteous and efficient, but offering no encouragement. Still, Cara could have sworn there was a hint of amusement in her expression as she eyed the cellophane-wrapped roses. “I believe Mr. McCauley has made—”
“Frances—oh, excuse me, I didn’t know you had someone with you.” He turned to Cara. “May I cut in a minute, miss?” Without waiting for assent, he turned back to the assistant. “I need the time difference between here and Melbourne.”
“I’ll look it up.” Frances Peters swiveled toward a bookcase and removed an almanac.
“Sorry,” he said, focusing his attention on Cara as Frances studied the almanac.
This was Wyatt McCauley. No wonder Brooke was in such a dither over the man. Cara had seen pictures of him in the business and society pages, but while the grainy photos had shown a handsome man, they’d failed to capture the essence. The nondescript eyes shown in the pictures were actually a heat-seeking brown, his dark hair as glossy as a raven’s wing, and the wide apologetic smile now directed her way seemed capable of illuminating a room, maybe a football field. McCauley might have made his mark in computers, but this was no stereotypical computer nerd.
He was coatless, starched white shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbow, navy pin-striped trousers and... well—what do you know?—her tie. Score one for her side. She knew she was staring—gawking, actually—but then, he was giving her the once-over, too.
No doubt less impressed than she. Wyatt McCauley was a ten, a ten plus, and she... six might be stretching it somewhat. Certainly Cara couldn’t compete in the McCauley league, not with the glamorous women he squired around.
Likely, Wyatt McCauley’s steady perusal of her was motivated by curiosity at discovering a woman in his waiting room clutching twenty-four roses to her bosom, or by the fact he simply had nothing better to do at the moment. It would be presumptuous of her to read any special interest into it.
“Sixteen hours difference, Mr. McCauley,” said Frances.
“Thanks. Again, sony for the interruption,” he said to Cara.
Her reveries now under control, Cara snapped to attention. She couldn’t believe she’d frittered away precious minutes in slack-jawed adulation instead of taking advantage of the perfect opportunity to pitch the auction. Fortunately it wasn’t too late to rectify her lapse.
She shoved the flowers toward him. “Actually, you weren’t interrupting. These are for you. I’m Cara Breedon.”
Obviously taken by surprise at having been waylaid by the very person who’d hounded him for weeks, Wyatt’s hands closed reflexively around the bouquet and he stared at it for a second.
“I’m sorry, Mr. McCauley,” Frances said. “I told her you weren’t available—”
“It’s okay.” Wyatt transferred the flowers to Frances. “Put these in some water. I suppose I can spare a few minutes,” he said resignedly. “Since Ms. Breedon’s gone to so much trouble.” He motioned Cara to join him in his office.
As she entered, she noticed the breathtaking view of Town Lake from his wall of windows, then the beautiful office itself. Functional—computer on the right side of his desk, multi-button phone on the left, open briefcase overflowing with documents resting on the credenza behind. And decorative—southwestern artwork displayed on two walls, a lifelike wood sculpture of cowboy boots standing in a corner, and a goldleaf framed photo of two smiling Irish setters next to the briefcase.
Closing the door, he commented, “Perhaps I should recruit you for my sales force. I doubt I’ve met anyone, male or female, with as much tenacity.”
“Somehow I suspect that wasn’t meant as a compliment. Please be assured I’m not trying to be annoying, Mr. McCauley,” Cara said in what she hoped was a soothing tone.
His cagey look said she didn’t have to try to be annoying, still he offered her a chair. Cara sat down and Wyatt propped a hip on the corner of his desk, one long leg straightened in front of him to bear his weight. The fact that he didn’t take a seat sent an unspoken reminder: Don’t squander another second.
“It’s just that Brooke Abbott and I strongly believe in the Rosemund Learning Center and what it’s doing with kids,” Cara began. “Because the Center receives no government funds, it’s totally dependent on the goodwill of people like yourself. The bachelor auction is the major fund-raiser.”
Wyatt reached across the desk, and retrieved a checkbook. “No argument here. I’ve read a lot about the organization and I agree it’s making a difference. I’ll be happy to—”
“You’ve already sent a check.”
“Obviously more is needed. Or you wouldn’t be here.” He pulled a pen from a gold pen and pencil set and started scribbling, signing his name with a flourish.
“I’m not here for another check,” Cara protested. “It’s the auction that’s on my agenda.”
He slapped his thigh in frustration. “What part of my refusal didn’t you understand, Ms. Breedon? Are you dense or just pathetically stubborn? Any idiot should have figured out by now that hell will freeze over before I go parading around in front of an audience of man-hungry women admiring my tush.”
“Admiring,” he’d said, as if it were a given. He was right, of course—everyone would be admiring. Undoubtedly he was used