Her box bumped into something. She halted, uncertain of what that something might be.
“Come on, now. Exactly what are you doing in our garbage?”
The close proximity of the voice made it clear she’d bumped into him. She chanced a peek upward. The giant-size box was taller than the man, so she couldn’t see his face and he couldn’t see hers.
“Stop playing games, damn it. What the hell are you doing with our garbage?”
But she didn’t need to see him to understand he was more than suspicious. “It’s not garbage,” she replied, hoping to placate him. “It’s a box.” Moving like a hermit crab, she set off in the general direction of her car once more. “For a playhouse.”
There was a moment of silence.
She bumped into something again.
Him. He’d moved to block her way, she realized, as the box was whisked over her head, leaving her blinking in the now-brighter light. Though she resisted the urge to cover herself, she had to look up—it was instinctive—and then she jumped back and looked away. That was instinctive, too. Like the sun, blond-haired, brown-eyed Trent Crosby was dazzling.
There was no chance she was carrying his child, she decided, his lean features and rangy body already forever etched in her mind. He had a confident, very male brand of beauty that oozed power and wealth. He couldn’t be the father of her baby, absolutely not, because such a thing went against the laws of the universe. They were from two different worlds. The last time she’d tried bridging such a gap, she’d found herself taking a shortcut to humiliation and heartache.
“A playhouse, you say.” He repeated her words in a flat, cool voice.
Rebecca could only nod, hyperconscious of everything that was wrong with her, from her muddy scrubs to the way her brown hair frizzed when there was rain in the air. She reached up both palms to slick back the inevitable, messy tendrils that were surely springing at her temples, smoothing them toward the efficient twist she wore during work hours.
“You’ll have to come up with something better than that. You get a playhouse at a toy store, not a Dumpster, sweetheart. I can guess what you’re really after.”
Her head jerked up. “Huh?”
In a light charcoal suit, white shirt and true-blue tie, Trent Crosby was staring down at her through narrowed eyes. “Our history—both past and very recent—has made us careful, honey. And ruthless. You won’t find our company secrets in these garbage bins, but regardless, we prosecute wanna-be corporate spies, even little cuddly ones like you.”
“What?”
He smiled at her, a cold display of perfect white teeth that sent shivers running for cover down her back. “And if you’re not off my property in thirty seconds, I’ll be happy to haul you into the security office for an after-hours strip search.”
She didn’t need ten seconds to be back in her car and accelerating out of the parking lot. A glance in her rearview mirror confirmed what she could feel in the second flurry of shivers rolling down her spine. He was watching her leave, his crossed arms shouting out his satisfaction.
“Believe me, Eisenhower,” she whispered. “He can’t be your daddy.” Because the heat of humiliation on her cheeks told her Trent Crosby was from a different world, all right. The Planet of the Jerks.
At 4:00 p.m. the next day, Trent Crosby departed the executive conference room of Crosby Systems, his mind teeming with the details of the new contract he’d sewn up that afternoon. He decided to draft a memo on it to the Research and Development Department before leaving for the day. Between the memo and the reports stacked up on his desk for review, he’d be in his chair well past midnight. The thought made him almost cheerful.
He was more comfortable at Crosby Systems than in the morgue he called home.
Half a hall-length from his office, his assistant waylaid him, snatching the coffee mug out of his hand and tsking. “Nuh-uh-uh. Remember how even bossier and more bad-tempered we get on too much caffeine? We can’t have another five-pot day.”
Ah. An impending skirmish with the battle-ax who ruled the top floor. Damn, Trent thought, things kept getting better. He drew in a deep, threatening breath and glowered down at her. “We aren’t having a five-pot day. I am. You drink that disgusting green tea.”
“I’m going to live forever on that green tea,” Claudine retorted.
“Then I’m praying for my own early grave.” He made a grab for his cup, but she whisked it behind her back. Strong-arming her was tempting, but Trent was wary of that determined glitter in her eye, even if she was on the upside of sixty.
Even after ten years of her working for him, she could still scare the hell out of him.
“I said no more coffee,” Claudine declared again. “We don’t want you polishing that nasty mean streak of yours on the pretty young woman who just arrived.”
“Nasty mean streak? Don’t blame that on the coffee, you old biddy. It comes from putting up with you.” Then he frowned. “Wait a minute. What pretty young woman?”
“The one in your office. And don’t ask me what she wants. She said her business is personal.” Claudine reached up to straighten his tie.
He batted her hand away, wondering who had personal business with him. He, as a rule, didn’t get personal with people.
His assistant stretched toward his tie again, and again he evaded her fussing. “Leave me be, you old bag. Which reminds me, aren’t you past our mandatory retirement age yet?”
She snorted. “I’ll be here, still cleaning up your messes when you retire. Now get into your office and find out why a nice woman would have personal dealings with a temperamental dictator like you.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Harridan.”
She mimicked his glare. “Tyrant.”
“Fishwife.”
“Martinet.”
Then they smiled at each other and set off in opposite directions.
Trent was still smiling when he pushed open the door to his office. But the smile died as the “nice” and “pretty” woman in one of his visitors’ chairs jumped to her feet and swung around to face him. It was the box lady.
“You,” he said.
The first thing out of her mouth was something he already knew. “I’m not a corporate spy.”
Of course she wasn’t, he acknowledged, letting out an inward sigh. But he’d been grinding his teeth through a brutal headache yesterday when he’d glimpsed someone skulking around the Dumpsters and he’d flashed on the ugly explanation. Claudine accused him of cynicism.
The way he figured it, expecting the worst of people ensured he was never disappointed.
“I know you’re not a spy,” Trent admitted to the young woman. “As you were scuttling to your car, I realized you couldn’t be.”
She blinked. “What cleared it up for you?”
The little thing had big brown eyes, the long-lashed kind that made him think of Disney characters or his sisters’ baby dolls. “The scrubs. Maybe if they were that sick, surgical green, but ones like yours…” He gestured, indicating the loose-fitting pants and smock that enveloped her. Today they were lemon-yellow and printed with cross-eyed clown fish. “Not spy wear.”
She didn’t respond, only continued standing there, staring at him with…anticipation? Expectation? Trent stared back, cursing Claudine for denying him his jolt of caffeine. He needed something to pop out the apology