Problem was…he wasn’t entirely sure how to do that.
Gray wasn’t about to pay double the properties’ worth just to appease an older man’s ego. But neither was he willing to give up the deal. He needed a way to read these people quickly and determine their weak point. Trouble was, he didn’t have the faintest clue how.
He tried once again to reach them with logic. “Mr. Blackwell, I’d like to reiterate that Brayburn is, of course, still interested, but we have to be realistic—”
“Who is that?” Alistair interrupted.
Gray stifled his annoyance and followed Alistair’s gaze through the glass wall of his office.
Ah. Sophie.
Leave it to his little pain-in-the-ass assistant to distract his most pivotal, prospective clients at the most inopportune time. Not that she meant to, of course. But then, that seemed to be Sophie’s MO. Making a mess of his life just by breathing.
Alistair was gaping, and even Peter seemed a little dazzled. Gray narrowed his eyes and tried to view Sophie objectively. As if she hadn’t made it her life’s purpose to get under his skin.
He scowled. Her long blonde hair fell in loose waves down her back, reminding him uncomfortably of the sex-kitten look she’d been sporting in Las Vegas. The memory of how her hair had smelled when he’d practically groped her during the ladder debacle made him even more uncomfortable.
He shifted in his seat.
Jesus.
Whether it was in an elevator, or her parents’ bathroom or his own damn office, he couldn’t seem to keep his damn hands off her.
Sophie Dalton is not for you, he reminded himself for the hundredth time.
Sure, she sent him a couple hot gazes and let her voice go all breathy when he got too close. But that’s what women like Sophie did. They teased. They played.
And then they left.
He gritted his teeth and turned his attention to the Blackwells, but they were still captivated by the little blonde in the other room.
“That would be my assistant,” Gray said, in delayed response to Alistair’s question.
Peter reluctantly drew his eyes back to Gray, but Alistair continued to stare at Sophie’s backside, all but salivating. Gray’s annoyance with the man skyrocketed. “I’m assuming we can get back to business, unless there was something you needed, Mr. Blackwell?”
Alistair jumped, and Gray suspected that his father had just delivered a quick kick to his shin.
Gray tried to pick up where they left off. “So, as I was saying, while I can appreciate the value of the land, the value of the resorts themselves is unfortunately not up to Brayburn standards—”
Once again, he’d lost the attention of the two men he was trying so hard to impress.
“Excuse me, Mr. Wyatt?”
Shit. Sophie stood in the doorway and the effect of tumbling golden hair, ocean-blue eyes, and matching little outfit was even more distracting close-up than it had been from through the glass wall.
The Blackwells were enchanted.
Gray gave in to a sigh. “Yes, Ms. Dalton?”
“I just wanted to see if I could get you gentlemen a coffee-and-pastry tray, sir, if you haven’t already eaten.”
Gray had already had coffee and his usual breakfast of spinach and egg-white omelet at home, but he supposed there was no way he’d regain the men’s attention until they’d had a close-up view. God, he missed his old assistant. Mary had been short, stout, and irritable. Gray wouldn’t have had to deal with her distracting his most important clients.
“Thank you, Ms. Dalton, some coffee would be great.”
“Coming right up. I’m sorry I didn’t offer sooner. I didn’t realize you had a meeting this morning.”
Of course she didn’t. Probably because he intentionally hadn’t put it on the calendar she had access to. He’d hoped to spare the Blackwells the experience of Early Morning Sophie. The woman was pure menace before ten a.m. And after ten, for that matter.
So pretty much she was a nightmare around the clock. Always singing, smiling, dancing.
Yesterday she’d actually tried to sign him up for a book club.
Book club.
Today, however, her special brand of Sophie charm was working in his favor. The Blackwells couldn’t get enough. Hell, neither could he.
Three pairs of male eyes watched as she trotted out of his office to fetch coffee, tight butt practically begging for male attention.
Twenty minutes later, Gray was no closer to making headway on the acquisition on this increasingly unappealing resort chain when Sophie returned with a carefully prepared tray. She must have sensed the importance of the meeting, because the tray looked like it belonged in Versailles, circa 1683.