Glancing at it, Jacqueline frowned. “ At least two weeks. You know I like to have visual aids when I’m thinking on a project.”
“I’m going to talk to Annalisa, find out who’s been in your office during that time.” That shouldn’t be a tough task. Jacqueline’s office was accessible only by keycard, with any guests escorted in. Even the maintenance and cleaning staff came in during the morning, after Annalisa was already at her desk to supervise.
“The landscaping contract,” Jacqueline said without warning. “Sailor Bishop. He’s the only new contact I’ve had in here during the time since the concept’s been up on the easel.”
ísa bristled. “No,” she said. “He’s got no reason to mess up his relationship with us.” More, he was a man with a strong code of honesty and honor—but she knew better than to base her argument on that.
Emotion never won with Jacqueline.
Tamping down her instinctive anger on his behalf, ísa responded with cold, hard logic. “Whatever the reporter paid for this piece of information,” she pointed out, “it’ll have been peanuts in comparison to what Sailor will earn out of the Fast Organic stores in publicity alone.”
Jacqueline gave her a piercing look. “I fell for pretty eyes once,” she said. “Clive was very good at telling me what I wanted to hear.”
27
Fur-Lined Handcuffs and an Executive Desk (Oh My)
FOLDING HER ARMS, íSA HELD firm; she might have doubts about what she was doing with Sailor on a personal basis, but she had zero doubts about his integrity. “Do you know anybody at the paper you could call?”
“It’s that asshole Jim Mason at the helm,” Jacqueline responded. “He hates me because I wouldn’t sleep with him.” A snort. “As if Jacqueline Rain needs to sleep with a third-rate editor to get good press.”
Nope, no options there then.
“Leave this problem with me,” ísa said. “And Mother”—ísa paused until Jacqueline looked up—“don’t do anything against Sailor Bishop in the interim.”
“This is my company.”
“It is. But if you want me to take the reins on projects and issues, then you take your hands off them. I will not have my decisions second-guessed and micromanaged.”
Jacqueline’s lips curved. “Too sensitive, but also brilliant. You really are a chip off the old block. Have at it, ísa. Succeed or fail, it’s on your shoulders.” Her next words were quiet. “Did you know your father used to read poetry?”
ísa froze with her hand on the doorknob.
Glancing over her shoulder, she said, “What?” She’d never seen her father with a book of poetry in hand. But then, she’d seen little of her father while growing up and even less after he’d handed her over to Jacqueline when ísa was thirteen. Not because Jacqueline particularly wanted custody, but because Stefán’s own mother had passed away, leaving no one who could look after ísa.
Old grief made ísa’s heart ache as she stood there, waiting for her mother’s response. Amma Kaja had thrown ísa her first ever birthday party when ísa was nine. She’d invited all the children in the remote but painfully beautiful Icelandic village where she lived and where Stefán had dumped ísa after Jacqueline signed over custody—which Stefán had demanded in a fit of divorce-induced madness.
ísa still missed her amma. It was why she’d never made any effort to rid herself of the accent that touched her words to this day. It was her way of honoring the gentle woman who’d given life to the language ísa had first learned from tutors—because Stefán had been adamant his New Zealand-born child speak the language of his birth.
“When we first met,” Jacqueline continued, “Stefán wanted to be a poet.” A shake of her head. “Can you imagine? He came to his senses soon enough—after he found out how much poets earn. But even then, he used to write me poetry…” Jacqueline’s gaze turned distant. “For a while anyway. Then life and business took over. And there was no more time for poetry.”
Jacqueline’s next look was sharp. “It never lasts, ísa. The passion, the smiles from the pretty eyes, the endless time to love.” Her words were crisp and pragmatic rather than harsh. “Don’t make the same mistakes I did—choose a man like Oliver, a man who is comfortable and kind and who’ll love you into old age. Passion is not a good indicator of success in a relationship.”
* * *
íSA REFUSED TO BE HAUNTED by Jacqueline’s words. Her mother might be right, but ísa was already well aware she was making a dangerous mistake with Sailor. She might as well dive all the way into the fire if she was going to emerge crisped on the other side anyway. Which was why she picked up the phone and called him.
“Hello, spitfire.” The deep tones of his voice were a caress. “Late dinner okay for you? I’m hoping to work till last light.”
“Jacqueline just handed me another project, so I’ll be here late too.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “Come by my office after you’re done. I’ll order in.”
It was only after hanging up that she realized it was already happening. Work, stealing away their time for each other. But ísa wasn’t going to just give up and accept it as inevitable. She was going to fight.
The only question was if Sailor would fight with her.
That question haunted her when she let him through the locked front door of the HQ. Still in his work clothes, streaks of dirt on the khaki of his shorts, he made her heart beat faster just with his mere presence.
Yes, she had it bad for Sailor Bishop.
Frowning at seeing the dim lighting downstairs, he said, “You the only one in here?”
“It’s perfectly safe. My car’s right outside.” She nodded at his right arm. “Why are you carrying a picnic blanket?”
Bending his head, he kissed her breathless before saying, “For our indoor picnic, of course.”
Her silly heart, it gave a huge sigh. “Come on, the food’s already here.”
He ran his hand over the curve of her hip and ass and playfully distracted her the whole way up. ísa was giggling like a schoolgirl by the time they entered her office. Sailor grinned at seeing the cactus she kept on her desk, the second one he’d sent her. But he was absolutely delighted by the soft, warm cookies she’d paid extra to have delivered.
“You know how to romance a man,” he said with a nuzzle to her neck after inhaling an entire cookie. “Sorry I’m so dirty.” He dropped the picnic blanket to the floor. “Couldn’t wait to see you.”
ísa buried her face in his neck, drew in the earthy scent of him, and tried not to listen to the panicky voice inside her that said time was running out too fast. “I’m not complaining.”
Hands on her hips, he hitched her up onto her desk. “Sit here, Miss Trouble.” With that stern statement, he moved aside the visitor chair, then flicked out the tartan blanket, the colors blue and black. “I forgot this in back of my truck after our last family barbeque.”