“Roger’s back,” the woman said into the phone. “Yes, I’ll let him know.” She didn’t hang up as she handed the man a stack of pink message notes. “Ginny wants to meet with you in a half hour—”
“Hour and a half, at the earliest.”
The receptionist didn’t miss a beat as she spoke into the phone. “It’ll be an hour and a half, Ginny. He knows it’s urgent.” She hung up the phone and passed him two large manila envelopes.
“Jesus,” he moaned. “I was only gone an hour.”
“It was a busy hour,” the receptionist returned.
Amber had to choke back her laugh as she stretched up to reach a planter hanging from the ceiling. Boy, did she remember those days! There was a time she couldn’t take a lunch break without returning to messages, mail and a group of anxious people pacing in the waiting room. She would have guessed that Mr. Martell thrived on the stress until he set down his pile of mail and took a deep calming breath. A big inhale that expanded his chest and filled out his expensive suit, before a slow exhale. And then, damn, a killer smile as he focused on the receptionist.
“So, Claire, how’s it going with the new boyfriend? Did he like that wine I recommended?”
The receptionist blinked as if she were stunned by the question, but she recovered fast enough. Then she flashed her own dimples. “Wine, no. Restaurant, yes. He’s taking me there tomorrow night.”
“Make sure he pays. You’re too beautiful to tolerate anything less than royal treatment.” Then he paused, abruptly frowning. “Wait a minute. I promised you a dinner there, didn’t I? For coming in on Saturday last month to help me with that grant application.”
The receptionist bit her lip. “I didn’t mind, you know.”
“Yeah, but Tommy did, didn’t he?”
The girl shrugged. “Tommy has to learn to make sacrifices for my career.”
Roger flashed her another quick but devastatingly handsome smile. “That he does. You’re an up-and-comer, to be sure. But since I promised you a dinner, I mean to pay up.” He pulled out his BlackBerry and hit a quick number. Twenty seconds later, he was speaking to the maitre d’. A minute after that, he snapped the phone shut with a grin. “You’re all set. Best table in the house, complimentary champagne and dinner is on me. They already have my credit card, and they’ll just add on the tip.”
Amber was stunned enough to peer around the fern, her estimation of the man upping by a thousand percent. Corporate promises like “I’ll buy you dinner sometime” happened all the time. But no one ever paid up. Except for this guy. Not surprisingly, the receptionist was equally surprised.
“Really, Roger, that’s not necessary.”
He shrugged, the motion tightening as he caught sight of an engineer barreling down the hallway at him. “Of course it is, Claire. I promised, and you earned it. Just make sure to toast me at least once.”
“You’re the best, Roger,” the woman breathed. And then they were out of time as the engineer made it to the front desk.
“Roger!” the man barked as he waved a stack of printouts in the air. “Have you seen these specs? Do you know what this is going to cost?”
“Calm down,” Roger returned and they began to move together down the hallway. Amber watched him go, appreciating the way his tailored suit accented his lean body.
“God, I love a man in a good suit,” she breathed, her voice low enough that only the receptionist could hear.
“Yeah, me, too,” responded Claire in an equally quiet tone. “Too bad he’s gay.”
Amber snapped her head around. “What?” No way was that guy gay. He exuded too much testosterone.
“Yup, queer as folk.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“It’s true.”
“Why? Just because he dresses nice?”
“It’s more than that!” Claire returned. She glanced down the hallway where Roger and the engineer were talking, still in view, but thankfully out of earshot. “Every woman in this company has made a run at him, me included. We’ve got all types here—brainy, busty, blonde and brunette. We’ve even got classy and the not-so-classy.”
“He never took a bite?”
“Not even a nibble.”
Amber shook her head. “That just means he knows better than to play where he works.”
“Yeah, but he goes to all these chichi parties, always with gorgeous women.”
“So?”
“So one of us always makes a point to find out afterward. You know, are they dating, what’s going on, and—”
“And they always say they’re friends.” Amber released a low laugh. “Honey, that doesn’t mean he’s gay. Just selective.” And probably very discreet.
“Trust me,” returned Claire, her voice confident. “No man is that virtuous. Unless he’s gay.”
Amber shook her head. “Let me give you a hint,” she said. “That man right there is a player, high-end executive type. Quiet. Discreet. But hot as they come.”
They both turned together to ogle him some more. He was still in deep discussion just down the hallway. The engineer was getting emotional, waving his printouts, gesturing wildly and pointing at a room marked Lab. In contrast, Roger listened seriously, his body taut, but his expression calm. And when the engineer finished speaking, Roger simply shook his head. Not surprisingly, the engineer got more frantic while Roger became more still. In the end, the engineer stormed off in a huff which left Roger time to look up and flash both Amber and Claire a rueful smile before moving down the hall.
Claire huffed. “Definitely gay.”
“Discreet, type A and hetero through and through.” Amber leaned back against the counter and sighed as a wave of memories hit. “Trust me on this. I know his type.”
Claire gave her an arch look, making sure to scan her shapeless sundress and cheap sandals. “I’m sure you think—”
“You think I grew up wearing flip-flops and a tank? I spent my youth dating guys like that. My father was an executive just like him. And my mother runs the cardiology ward at a top hospital. I was surrounded by the type.”
“And then?” Claire asked, obviously wondering how she’d gone from the silver spoon life to filling in as the plant girl.
Amber shrugged. “I burned out on the politics. I couldn’t get anything done except for what they wanted, so I went rogue. Doesn’t mean I don’t remember though. And let me tell you—sex with the alpha dog?” She sighed. “That’s one hot ride.”
Claire frowned, but then her eyes abruptly widened. “Wait a moment. I know you! Mary told me all about you.”
Amber winced. “Don’t believe everything Mary says.”
“No! She told me you’d be filling in. You’re that doctor! You run a free clinic out in that artsy area of Chicago. What’s it called?”
“Cherry Hills, not that there are any cherries or hills anywhere near. And it’s really not that artsy.” More like converted warehouses. The neighborhood artistes gloried in their studio lofts, but the population included more reformed drug addicts and single mothers than wannabe Picassos. Like her, everyone in Cherry Hills was just at the edge of poverty,