blowing trumpet and trombone. Fairy lights glittered in swaths along the wrought-iron ribs of the ceiling, and palm trees stood at intervals along the walls, with the windows opened to the night air. It felt like something out of the twenties, when mad young things danced the Charleston and the world held every possibility.
Maybe his world held possibility, too, Mitch thought as he whirled Eve into a spin and then took her in his arms. And he didn’t mean for business, either. Tonight he was an ordinary man dancing with a desirable woman, and he would leave business out of it and enjoy every second.
“So how long are you going to make me wait?” she asked.
The green silk of her dress moved gently under the hand he had flattened on the small of her back. Besides the heat of her body, he felt the movement of toned, controlled muscles and the beginnings of the curves of her hips.
“Wait?” He’d oblige her in the nearest closet, if she wanted.
“For CWB’s counteroffer. Didn’t you come here to talk business?”
Oh. He’d forgotten all about CWB.
“No. I came to contribute to Atlanta Reads. And to ask you to dance.”
“One out of two isn’t bad,” she murmured. He spun her into another turn and whirled her back. “Not that I believe either one.”
“Literacy’s a good cause,” he said. “My pet charity is Music on the Street.”
“Mmm, that’s three honest things. Tell me about it.”
“It’s a grassroots organization that teaches innercity kids an instrument. They play in a band that gives concerts on basketball courts, in gyms, wherever they can get space. We fund the instruments and the teachers, because the schools can’t.”
She leaned back to look into his eyes, and his thinking ran aground on that clear green gaze.
“What’s your instrument?”
He nodded toward the band. “Trumpet. Or it used to be. I’ve been racking up so many frequent flyer miles I’m way out of practice.”
“Security would probably confiscate your horn as a dangerous weapon, anyway,” she said with a twinkle. The music segued into a slower number and instead of thanking him and leading the way off the dance floor, she fit her body closer against his. He slid his arm farther around her waist and tucked the hand he held against his shoulder.
Whatever witty and self-deprecating comment he’d been about to make fizzled away into soundlessness. All he could think about was how good she felt in his arms—how warm and silky her skin, how intoxicating her scent. The weight of her breasts against his chest and the brush of her thighs as they moved together across the dance floor were making him crazy.
Making his body temperature rise.
And that wasn’t all.
“Mr. Hayes, I’m shocked,” she whispered, her lips close to his ear.
He had two choices. He could make a break for the door and hope he could bribe his way onto the next flight to New York, or he could brazen it out and hope the sense of humor she displayed on TV was real and not put on for the camera.
“I am, too,” he whispered back. “Usually I’m much better behaved than this. But then, I’ve never danced with you before. Now I know I have limits.”
She giggled, tried to choke it back, then seemed to give up. She threw back her head in an honest-to-God laugh. Both arms crept up around his neck.
“I meant I was shocked you weren’t going to counteroffer.” Her voice wobbled with laughter.
Oh, no. Could he just go into cardiac arrest right here and now? Maybe if he went out on a stretcher she’d look at him with pity instead of…what was this?
Her face was alight with humor, not malice or derision. And in her eyes he saw appreciation and a lowering of her guard.
“Mitchell Hayes, you win the prize.”
“And what would that be?” he asked, trying to keep his head up in a sea of embarrassed misery.
“You’ve told me five honest things in the space of half an hour. That’s more than I’ve been able to squeeze out of half the guests we have on the show—and a lot more than I usually get out of the men I’ve dated.”
He huffed a breath of laughter and tried not to think about the way her arms were looped around his neck, bringing that delectable body even more flush against him. “So what’s the prize?”
“We’re going to start over. You don’t scout for a major television network, you never came to my office. I’ve just met you and learned that you’re from New Mexico, you love your family, and you play the trumpet and want kids to enjoy music the way you do.”
“You left out the fifth thing.” What was it his dad used to say? In for a penny, in for a pound.
She shrugged, and flashed that enchanting triangular smile. “Your body’s very honest, too,” she said. “I like that in a man.”
JENNA HAMILTON read the brief one more time in the cab: Skinner v. Best, Kurtz, Crawford, Reavis, Haas. The rolling in her stomach was due less to reading while in motion than to the simple fact that this was the biggest, most public case she’d ever had to handle.
And she wasn’t sure she could do it.
No, no. Scratch that. She’d learn as she went, and get the best advice she could find. She’d already read every scrap of case law in the online library—and she’d branch out to libraries in other states if that’s what it took to win this case.
As the station’s corporate lawyer, and a junior lawyer at Andersen Nadeau who had her eye on a partnership some day, this was her chance to shine. Eve and the others expected her to pull it off, and she wouldn’t disappoint them if she could possibly help it.
The cab pulled up outside the offices of Kregel, Fitch and Devine, which had once been a brick warehouse but was now part of the trendy Decatur district. She paid the driver and took comfort in the knowledge that she knew the details of Liza Skinner’s suit inside out and backwards. Not only that, the file rested in her Kate Spade tote. If there was ever a secret weapon designed to give a woman confidence, it was that.
When the receptionist caught sight of it a moment later, she straightened and announced her right away. The butterflies in Jenna’s stomach settled down. Maybe it was a sign of things to come. She took a firmer grip on the handles and followed the young woman into a spacious office that had enough of the warehouse’s bricks and pipes left showing to give it an edgy, industrial look while screeching “major interior designer” at every turn.
A tall man crossed the room, his hand outstretched.
Nice suit, was her first thought.
Nice hands, was her second, as Kevin Wade shook hers.
“Thanks for coming, Ms. Hamilton,” he said, his voice a smooth bass that tickled something deep inside her. “My client and I appreciate your willingness to be flexible.”
His café-au-lait skin was just a shade lighter than hers, and his brown eyes held a male appreciation that made her body sit up and take notice. No, that wasn’t it. Her spine was straight to give the impression of control, not because it would throw her breasts into prominence. Nuh-uh.
“We might be at this for a while,” she replied, “so please call me Jenna.”
“And I’m Kevin to my friends.”
She didn’t bother to point out that friends was the last thing they were—or were likely to become. Too bad. But with this much money at stake, it was far more likely they’d wind up on either side of a courtroom, each doing their best to grind the other into defeat.
Instead of seating himself in the power position behind the desk, he waved her over