we want. They aren’t perfect by any means, but their ideas have potential. One of them is better than the others.”
“Who?” Sage asked Linc.
Linc shook his head. “Listen to their pitches and make up your own mind.”
Beck glanced at his watch. “When are we due to start?”
“Fifteen minutes,” Jaeger replied.
“Good, I have time to change. Where’s Amy?” Beck asked, standing up, his coffee cup in his hand.
“She should be out in the reception area meeting and greeting the company representatives,” Linc replied.
Beck nodded. “I just need to say hi to her and I’ll see you back here in fifteen.”
“Beckett,” Linc said as he reached the conference door. Beck heard the note of concern in Linc’s voice and turned around to look at his brother.
“Yeah?”
“Remember that we’re making the right choice for the company. That might not be the right choice for you.”
Beck looked from Linc to Jaeger and to Sage’s worried eyes. “What the hell do you mean by that?” he demanded.
“You’ll see.”
Beck heard Linc’s ominous words and felt a shiver run up his spine. He looked down the hall to the bank of elevators and wondered why he had the instinctive urge to run.
* * *
What in the name of all that was holy was she doing here?
Saving her business, Cady reminded herself. No more, no less. Sitting on one of the low, tangerine-colored ottomans in the reception area of Ballantyne and Company, she placed her hands under her thighs and ordered her knees to stop knocking. God, there was Gayle from Jenkins and Pale, Ballantyne’s long-term PR partner. And was she talking to Matthew from Anchor and Chain Consulting? They were at the top of the PR food chain. She was plankton. Or the stuff plankton ate.
Cady fixed her eyes on the large, abstract painting on the wall behind the receptionist’s head and begged her queasy stomach to settle down. Yes, baby, it’s been a hell of a week, but I had no choice. If we want to eat and have a roof over our heads, I have to work and not sleep, as I so want to do.
Ten days ago, after her disastrous meeting with Tom, she’d doubted she could pull herself out of this hole. Accepting that her baby’s father was a cyanide pill, she’d headed back to the office that night, knowing that she had plans to make. When dawn broke that Saturday morning, she realized that she had three months to turn her business around. If she didn’t she would be single, pregnant and broke.
Not knowing how to do that, she’d fallen asleep on the sofa in her office and was jerked awake later that morning by the ping of her computer, informing her of a new email. Congenitally unable to ignore a communication, whether it was an email, a text message or a smoke signal, Cady opened the email from [email protected].
Ballantyne International is seeking to appoint a specialist PR agency to work with us to reinvent our century-old brand. We require a passionate and creative firm/individual to develop and install a range of external communications and media activities.
The brief attached sets out our objectives and requirements, together with a range of background information on Ballantyne International. Interested agencies are asked to respond in full by 9:00 a.m. Monday January 3 at the latest.
Somehow, somewhere, the PR person at Ballantyne’s had heard of her and she was invited to the party. Late, but still invited.
Given the choice, she would’ve avoided doing work for Beck’s company but she didn’t have that luxury. Winning this project would keep Collins Consulting afloat. Sure, she was a minnow competing with the sharks and she didn’t have that much of a chance, but if she didn’t submit a proposal she didn’t have a chance at all.
Basically, it was a choice between telling her parents she was pregnant, single and could support herself and her child or that she was pregnant, single and could they help her out until she found a job?
Yeah, when she broke it down like that, it was no contest.
But first, she needed to face Beck.
At the thought of him, she resisted the urge to grab her laptop and run. She had no other option. She had a business to save, a baby to raise, money to earn. Unlike Beck, she didn’t have endless family money and hefty trusts as a backup plan.
Not fair, she chided herself. Beck never used his position as a Ballantyne heir as an excuse not to achieve. If anything, it spurred him on to prove to the world that he would be successful whether he was a Ballantyne or not. Even though the Ballantynes were practically American royalty, Ivy League schools didn’t hand out MBAs just because you were rich.
But she didn’t want to be fair. Beck’s actions in Thailand, his playing loose and fast with her feelings and her love, had devastated her. And she wished more than anything there was something she could do to never lay eyes on him again.
“Cady?”
At the sound of her name Cady looked up and saw Amy standing over her. Amy? Beck’s Amy?
“Hi. I’m glad you made it through the selection process.” Amy smiled at her, effortlessly confident.
Cady quickly realized Amy must have sent her the pitch documents and the brief; the timing made sense since she’d given her card to Julia Parker on Friday night and she received the email on Saturday morning. Well, the how made sense but not the why.
“You emailed me,” Cady said as she stood up. “Why?”
“Take a walk with me,” Amy suggested and Cady fell into step with her as she proceeded down the hallway that led to the glass-walled offices of Ballantyne International.
Amy stopped under another large, expensive art piece. “Linc asked me to contact a range of PR firms, both big and small, to bid for this job. Julia said that you did good work for Trott’s, so I gave you a chance to pitch, just like I gave seven other companies the same chance. Linc liked your ideas and you’re one of the final four.”
“So this has nothing to do with you feeling guilty about taking my place with Beck?”
Cady felt like a twit the second her words left her mouth, and Amy’s laughter deepened her embarrassment. God, she sounded like a sulky teenager.
When she stopped laughing at her, Amy said, “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard for a long, long time.”
“Hey, Ames.”
Oh, damn. She recognized that voice; she heard it in her dreams often enough. Dark as sin, rich as butter, warm as hot chocolate after playing in the snow.
Cady looked over Amy’s shoulder and watched him walk down the hall toward them, dressed in battered jeans, boots and a navy, long-sleeved T-shirt the exact color of his eyes. The shirt was tight across his chest, skimming his muscled stomach. Blond stubble covered his cheeks, and his wavy hair brushed his collar. He looked rough and hot and fifty times better-looking than the Greek god she’d traveled with so many years ago.
His hair was a lot shorter than she remembered; the man bun was gone and so was the heavy beard. His eyes, a brilliant dark blue, seemed harder and his face thinner. His mouth, that clever mouth that had once dropped hot kisses all over her body, was a slash in his face. He looked hard and tough and every inch the smart, determined, sometimes ruthless businessman he was reputed to be. He looked like he could handle any and all trouble that came his way.
Her knees buckled and air rushed out of her lungs as she remembered those brawny arms around her, the way he used to easily lift her off her feet to kiss him. Cady tasted him on her tongue, could feel his heat, and smell his citrus and cedar scent. She was back in Thailand, the air was muggy, the sky was blue and she was turned on.
Breath short, mouth dry, panties damp...so