Amelia pulled the smartphone she used for work from her pants pocket. “He wants to see you at your earliest convenience.” She tapped on the screen with a stylus she’d retrieved from behind her ear. “Your schedule is packed, but I could bump one of your other appointments so you can see him later this afternoon or perhaps first thing tomorrow.”
Sage held up a finger. “I haven’t decided if I’m meeting with him at all.”
The younger woman looked up from the phone. “You’re joking, right?”
“You, better than anyone, know I rarely joke.”
“Aren’t you curious? I can hardly wait to find out what he wants.”
Sage fixed her assistant with her most intimidating, no-nonsense glare. “You’ll have to wait because you’re leaving for your accounting class right now.”
Grumbling, the young woman reluctantly did as she was told.
Sage had no idea why Cole Sinclair had called. But unlike Amelia, she didn’t indulge in far-fetched fantasies. Sage lived in the real world.
And in the real world, when rich people wanted to talk business, they wanted to trick poor people out of something valuable.
Money might not buy happiness, but Cole knew enough of it would buy just about everything else.
It was the reason he walked the short blocks from the Espresso building to the downtown restaurant he’d selected for his meeting with Sage Matthews, confident he’d be the new owner of Stiletto Cosmetics when he returned.
Cole was also intrigued.
The woman had actually put him off for over a week. A humorless chuckle pushed through his lips, leaving a vapor trail as his warm breath hit the January air.
No one put him on the back burner. Not anymore, Cole thought. When he snapped his fingers, people jumped. Especially women.
Another side effect of deep pockets.
So either Ms. Matthews had somehow missed the articles written about him by reporters obsessed with his bank balance, or she was one of the few people who simply didn’t care.
A blast of heat hit him as he pulled open the restaurant door and strode inside. Immediately, he saw a woman with her back to him talking to the hostess.
Her big, bold hair and long, shapely legs left no doubt about her identity. Shiny, patent leather boots hugged her calves, and she wore a red wool coat with a thigh-grazing hemline just shy of indecent.
Cole felt the corner of his mouth tic upward into a reluctant smile as his stepfather’s words popped into his head: not a thing here that would put a frown on a man’s face.
He overheard the hostess, who hadn’t seen him come in. “Mr. Sinclair hasn’t arrived yet, but let me take your coat, and I’ll show you to the table he reserved in our private dining room.”
“No, thanks.” Cole watched Sage Matthews consult a plain wristwatch with a worn, black strap, a feminine version of his own. “We’re supposed to meet here in five minutes. If he’s not on time, I’m leaving.”
“Mr. Sinclair is always punctual,” the hostess offered.
The woman in the short coat and high-heeled boots bobbed her head in a curt nod. “If he wants to see me, he’d better be.”
Cole cleared his throat, the gesture commanding the attention of both women. “I’m here—” he glanced at his own Timex and then pointedly at Ms. Matthews “—with four minutes to spare.”
She met his gaze, not a trace of sheepishness at being overheard in her expression. If anything, challenge flickered in her chocolate-brown eyes. “Good. Time is money, Mr. Sinclair. Mine is valuable.”
Cole blinked. The statement was something he’d usually say, and she’d delivered it just like he would have—blunt and to the point. “Well, let’s not waste either of ours standing here,” he said.
Within minutes, the hostess had taken their coats, and escorted them through the bustling dining room to a staircase leading to the private room he liked to use when conducting business outside the Espresso building. As they walked Cole couldn’t help notice the statuesque woman with the riot of kinky curls move through the upscale restaurant as if she owned it, garnering appreciative glances from every man in the room.
Including him.
However, this lunch had an agenda and nothing would distract him from it. Not even a sweet pair of legs, showcased by a minidress and fantasy-inducing shiny stiletto boots.
A waiter appeared with menus immediately after they were seated. He took their drink orders and disappeared to retrieve them.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Ms. Matthews.” Cole didn’t bother opening the menu. The entrées were the standard fare of most upscale restaurants. A minuscule serving of meat or fish smothered in creams and vegetables pureed beyond recognition and served on a plate that appeared destined for an art museum rather than someone’s stomach.
However, this restaurant was currently the hot ticket in town for fine dining, and it made the right impression at lunch and dinner business meetings in an industry where image was everything.
Cole’s personal preference would have been to conduct business over real food—a burger, barbecue sandwich or a slice of pizza. One of which he’d probably grab afterward to celebrate his having reached a verbal agreement with Ms. Matthews.
He glanced across the table at his lunch companion, who was perusing the menu. Again, she surprised him. Most people would have rushed to fill the silence with small talk by now.
His gaze dropped to her lips, painted the same bold, sassy red as her dress. The firm line she held them in didn’t distract from their fullness.
She looked up, and her eyes locked with his. Caught staring, Cole didn’t divert his bold appraisal.
“I was checking out your lipstick shade,” he said, making it clear both to her, and to himself, that any interest in her mouth was purely professional.
“It’s one of Stiletto’s bestsellers.” She lifted a perfectly arched brow. “It’s called Badass.”
Cole licked his own lips, his mouth suddenly dry. I’ll just bet you are.
The errant thought popped into his head so quickly, he feared he’d said it aloud. Her impassive expression assured him he hadn’t, and he exhaled in relief.
The waiter reappeared with their drinks. Cole used the moments it took for them to order two of the chef’s specialties to give himself a mental knock upside the head.
Stay on task, man, he silently warned. This is a business meeting, not a date. He reached for his water glass and took a long sip. No more getting sidetracked by shiny stiletto boots or impossibly red lips.
“Now how about you tell me what’s on your mind, Mr. Sinclair?”
Cole swallowed, the question immediately shutting down illicit images of her full red lips pressed against his and those badass boot-encased legs wrapped firmly around his waist.
“Excuse me?” The words came out like a frog’s croak.
“Since we’ve established neither of us likes to waste time,” she said. “I assumed we could skip the preliminaries and get right to the reason for my being here.”
An odd sense of déjà vu passed over him. How many times had he said the exact same thing? Plenty, Cole silently answered his own question.
If he didn’t know better,