arched a brow. “So that you can report back to my father?”
James leaned back in his chair. “If you were afraid of that, why did you ask to meet me?”
She shook her head. “You said before that you were willing to keep my business private. Does that still stand?”
“Of course.”
She nodded. “Do you know how difficult it is to be watched all the time?”
“No,” he admitted.
“It’s hard. People think that money brings freedom, but my father taught me early on that nothing comes without strings, and that money he signed over to me comes with so many strings attached.”
“Only if you let it,” he said. “It’s in your name. You can do what you want with it.”
Not exactly the advice Mr. Baxter wants me to give.
“I’m willing to bet that my father wants you to keep an eye on me,” she said.
James didn’t flinch, but he didn’t answer, either. They sat in silence, and he wondered if Isabel would say more. Her dark hair fell past her shoulders, and for a moment, her reserve slipped and he saw conflicted emotions in those big, dark eyes. Men had always fallen for Isabel, and it wasn’t only her beauty that drew them to her. She was gentler than she liked to let on, and he felt himself softening toward her despite his best intentions. She was like Helen of Troy—men would go to war for her. Andrew had gone to war early because of her...not quite the same thing, but a woman like Isabel could stir a man’s heart and shove him into battle. The end result for Andrew had been the same.
“I’ve decided to open a chocolate shop,” she said finally, breaking the silence. “That’s why I’m renting the old bakery.”
James pulled his mind back to the job at hand. George had given him a brief description of Isabel’s business ventures so far. Did she have what it took to start up a new business like this?
“I didn’t know you made chocolate,” James said.
“I imagine there is a lot you don’t know about me,” she said, a smile flickering across her lips. For a moment, he thought she might be flirting, but just as quickly, the playfulness evaporated. “And I have no idea what my father will say about it.”
“You should ask him,” he said. He’d much rather that father and daughter hashed this one out alone.
“I will.” She nodded. “Eventually. I don’t really want to listen to his depressing lectures right now.”
George’s lectures could be a bit tedious—James knew this firsthand—but the man did have a great deal of business experience that his daughter could benefit from.
“So you don’t think he’ll approve...” he guessed.
Isabel sucked in a slow breath and held it. “He liked my chocolatier classes because he saw it as a hobby. I let him believe that. It was easier. He was more supportive that way.”
“What did he want you to do instead?” James asked. “You’re his only child, right? The logical one to take over the business eventually.”
He was fishing here—he knew his boss’s opinions about his daughter’s business abilities, but maybe she didn’t.
“I’ll pry the reins out of his cold, dead fingers. He’s never been one to actually think about his own mortality. As far as my dad’s concerned, he’ll live forever.”
James smiled at her imagery, then took a sip of his coffee. “So in the meantime, you open your own business.”
“You make it sound like I’m killing time until my dad dies,” she retorted. “First of all, he’ll live to be ninety-five, and probably have another wife after Britney. And secondly, this isn’t a hobby. I intend to prove to him that I can start a business, build it and make it flourish. I’m going to come out of this with a profit. He did it with Baxter Land Holdings, and so can I.”
“Fair enough.” He eyed her with grudging respect.
“So I have one more question,” she said. “Is there any legal reason why I couldn’t use the Baxter name for my business?”
“No legal reason,” he said. “As long as the company name is different from your father’s.”
“I’m calling it Baxter’s Chocolates,” she said. “And my father is going to hate that.”
James was inclined to agree. “So why not call it something else?”
“Because I don’t want to. My father is a Baxter and so am I. I’m no less a Baxter because I’m a woman, and I have every right to use my own name.”
James laughed softly. “Miss Baxter, you are a force to be reckoned with.”
For the first time, a smile lit Isabel’s eyes. “I certainly hope so.”
“So here is the issue.” James pushed his coffee cup aside. “Your father would like me to give you legal advice about using your money. Do you want it?”
She was silent for a moment, then she shrugged. “James, I’d be an idiot to turn down legal advice when I’m starting up a business. As long as you don’t try to talk me out of my dream, I’m grateful for all the advice I can get.”
“Great.” He smiled. “You have my number. Contact me anytime.”
She gathered her purse and folded the lease. Then she held out her hand and shook his firmly. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Isabel walked briskly out of the café, every eye following her. She either didn’t notice, or was accustomed to ignoring the attention.
Her father hadn’t given her enough credit, but neither had James, for that matter. He knew it went against his better instincts, but he was curious to see what Isabel did with herself now that she was back in town. Would she stay? Would she prove her father wrong and actually make some money off this venture?
He wasn’t the type of man who wished anybody ill, but he didn’t trust her, either. While beauty was a great factor in her ability to manipulate men, so was pity. The minute she discovered that she had a whole new kind of power, she’d be back to her old tricks. She just hadn’t figured that out yet. His bet wasn’t on Isabel having changed.
FAMILY SUNDAY DINNERS had been of paramount importance when Isabel’s mother was alive. Her fight with breast cancer had been fierce, but after she passed away, George Baxter had insisted on continuing the tradition, claiming she would have wanted it that way. After Isabel left for college and George married the young second Mrs. Baxter, family dinners evaporated along with half the furniture and the painted portrait of his first wife. So when her father called on Sunday morning, asking if she’d come for a family dinner, Isabel felt torn between nostalgia and misgiving.
Isabel stood in her miniscule kitchen, eating a bowl of strawberry yogurt with chopped banana. It was a favorite snack.
“Family dinner?” she asked incredulously, her cell phone pinched between her shoulder and cheek. “Do we still do that?”
“Yes, we still do that,” he retorted. “Be here at six. On the dot.”
“And Britney is okay with it?” she asked, entertaining some images of her young stepmother pouting through the whole thing. She licked off her spoon and gave her yogurt another stir.
“She’s fine. She likes the idea now that she’s pregnant.”
Isabel resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Okay. I’ll be there. Should I bring anything?”
“Like what?” he