of here before their hairy filth spreads into the rest of the house.”
“Oh, I don’t think that will be much of a problem,” Royce said pleasantly. “The animals will be confined to the cellar. Ms. Michaels will, of course, be allowed access at any time she deems necessary to feed them and care for their needs.”
It took a moment for Laura to decipher the significance of what had just been said.
Marta, however, reacted instantaneously. “It’s unconscionable to permit these vile creatures to remain inside your living quarters. They may be diseased, infested with parasites. It’s an abomination.”
“I suspect we’ll manage to muddle through this crisis without creating a global plague.” Royce stepped to the oak tasting table and poured two glasses of juice, handing one to Jamie, who snatched it with such excited haste that the sticky liquid sloshed on Laura’s clothing.
“What of my duties?” Marta asked. “I cannot perform my work efficiently if I am constantly interrupted.”
A covert glance confirmed the older woman’s obvious revulsion as juice ran down the toddler’s chin to soak into his tiny striped T-shirt. Obviously this was not a woman who tolerated untidiness in any form.
Royce didn’t seem particularly perturbed either by the messy process of quenching a toddler’s thirst or the potential interruption in Marta’s duties. “Then I suggest,” he told her mildly, “that you supply Ms. Michaels with a key so she may come and go without disturbing you.”
Marta went absolutely white. “You can’t be serious.”
He gave her a quiet look that rocked her back a step. “Have you known me to joke?”
Deflated, the woman merely shook her head.
“Excellent.” He turned to Laura, regarding her with a casual dispassion that didn’t quite match the probing intensity of his eyes. “I trust the arrangements meet your approval, Ms. Michaels?”
It took a moment to locate her voice, a moment during which Laura steadied the toddler’s grasp as he greedily gulped his juice. “Your offer is exceptionally generous,” she said finally. “I’m deeply grateful.”
“Then it’s settled.” With a brusque nod, he spun on his heel, ascended the curving stairs and disappeared with the incensed Marta right on his heels.
Laura could hardly believe her good fortune. A man who supposedly abhorred cats had just offered her not only the unfettered use of his wine cellar as a feline nursery, but was also allowing her free access to provide the care Maggie and her kittens would require.
Spirits soaring, Laura was convinced that the spate of bad luck that had so relentlessly plagued her was finally at an end.
In truth, it was just beginning.
The group of tailored financiers gathered in the leather-bound study, droning on about cash-flow projections and capital investment forecasts.
Royce tried to concentrate on the figures. Decisions made here would affect lives, thousands of lives.
Despite outward success, the market share of Burton Technologies was slipping. Research and development was stagnant. They desperately needed an infusion of cash. Investment capital. Lots of it.
This was a business discussion of tremendous importance. And all he could think about was the color of Laura Michaels’s eyes.
They were green. Not loden, not olive, not even the hue of warm grass in springtime. Rather, they were a multihued tapestry of every verdant tint and tone that nature could supply.
In the bright foyer light they had seemed almost transparent, the pale shade of cymbidium orchid leaves brightened with sparkling emerald. In the amber illumination of the cellar, they’d taken on the golden glow of a summer pond at sunset.
More than the color of those haunting eyes, Royce had been affected by their clarity. The lush young woman with the haunting smile had hidden nothing, exposed all.
He was fairly certain she was unaware that her emotions were so blatantly revealed. He also doubted she realized that her habit of scraping her lower lip with her teeth while trying to construct an evasively truthful reply was quite revealing to a man who’d created a career out discerning information that others wished to hide.
The child was interesting, too. Obviously well-loved and carefully nurtured, judging by his bright-eyed curiosity. Dark eyes, too. Deep brown, coffee-colored, closer to Royce’s own eye color than to that of his mother’s.
The boy’s fear of loud voices was telling as well. He wondered about it, didn’t care for the speculation crowding his thoughts. His own father had been a controlled man, neither outgoing nor withdrawn. He’d been brilliant, of course. Royce had loved him, admired him, had been desperate to please him.
He’d never succeeded in pleasing him, but might have done so eventually if he hadn’t died so young, leaving Royce’s mother to work herself into an early grave trying to support herself and her son. Having found himself alone at a relatively early age, he’d learned to rely on self-approval for motivation.
For the most part that had been enough.
A familiar voice broke into his thoughts. “What is that abominable sound?” Dave Henderson was asking. “You’d better have a service call on the air-conditioning, Royce. It sounds as if one of the unit bearings has blown.”
Blinking, Royce considered the sound in question, a series of thin squeaks emanating from the air ducts.
Mewing kittens, he decided, and was besieged by fresh annoyance at the intrusion.
He couldn’t fathom why he’d allowed the irksome animals to stay. It was foolish, and Royce Burton was not a man who accepted foolishness, not even from himself.
“The presentation needs work,” Royce announced, anxious to redirect attention back to the problem at hand. “You’ve shown how the infusion of investment capital will assist our expansion efforts without offering a reciprocal incentive.”
Henderson blinked, swallowed, touched his tie. “I know. That’s rather a problem, since there doesn’t appear to be any. We need them. They don’t need us.”
Royce understood that Henderson was referring to the Belgian directors of Marchandt Limited, the most prestigious investment firm in Europe. “Then we’ll have to develop a reason for them to need us.”
“There is one option.…” Henderson’s voice trailed off as he feigned flipping through a thick document, spiral-bound and bristling with sticky yellow notes. “We could, ah, offer to transfer our research and development division to Brussels. Economic incentive to their personal turf, so to speak.”
The suggestion came as no surprise to Royce. He doubted any of his staff could conceive of an option he hadn’t already considered, and discarded. “We’d lose thousands of local jobs.”
“An unfortunate side effect,” Henderson agreed.
Steepling his fingers, Royce spoke quietly. “Mill Creek is a small town. An economic blow like that could destroy its economy.”
“There would be a significant economic effect, to be sure. However, Mill Creek existed before Burton Technologies chose it to be the homesite, and would still exist if we moved the entire complex somewhere else.” Henderson sighed, rubbed his forehead. “Hell, I don’t like the idea, either, but if there’s any other option I haven’t thought of it.”
Neither had Royce. “Then keep thinking.”
“But—”
“That option is unacceptable. Come up with another.” Royce stood. Six stiff-suited executives lurched to their feet in unison. “We have six weeks before the Marchandt directors arrive. I expect all the loose ends to be tied up before then and a suitable quid pro quo available for negotiation. Marta will show you out.”
With