“Oh, Rand…Why did you do this to me?”
She stared out the window for a very long time, watching the people pass by on the street one story below, glad of the reflective glass that didn’t allow anyone outside to see her standing there. Then sighing, she glanced over at her bookshelf and reached up to take down the double folding picture frame she kept on the top shelf. On the right, Randall J. Konstantine, Jr., Army Ranger, stood at attention in his dress uniform, proudly sporting the Special Forces and Ranger tabs on his sleeve and the colorful “fruit salad”—as he’d always called his ribbons—on his broad chest. He’d been headed back to Afghanistan for his second deployment, this time as a Staff Sergeant. She remembered how proud he’d been—how proud of him she’d been. On the left, was a group shot of SSG Konstantine, Jr., laughing and fooling around with some of his platoon buddies following a football scrimmage in Kabul. Two days later, he’d been killed by a sniper when he’d pushed his commanding officer out of the line of fire. Captain Green had sent her this picture with his condolences—and the promise to help in any way he could. Captain Green and his wife, Carol, had come through, taking care of all the arrangements for Rand’s burial at Arlington National Cemetery. Carol had stood with Kitty on that cold, blustery day Rand had been buried. Her father hadn’t bothered to attend.
“I lost my son a long time ago, when he walked out on me,” Randall, Sr., had said, when she’d asked him to go with her to Washington.
It was the last time Kitty had asked him for anything, and she’d left the building ten minutes later, gotten into her car, and driven straight through to Washington. She hadn’t cared that her father might fire her over her absence from the office. They hadn’t spoken about Rand since, though her father never hesitated to remind her that she wasn’t the son he had always expected to follow in his footsteps at the Konstantine Talent Agency.
She sighed. And maybe I won’t be here much longer, she thought, if I can’t get that stubborn, pig-headed Bartholomew Saint to cooperate.
She’d known from the beginning this would be a problem. Melinda Darling—now Melinda Darling Saint—had brought the band of four brothers to Kitty’s attention over a year ago, and it had taken only a minute with the CD Mel’d brought in to convince Kitty they had a winner. Unfortunately, it was Bartholomew Saint who’d done all the negotiating, and they’d gone around and around about the limits the Saints put on their performance venues, until Kitty had at times wanted to pull her hair out.
What made things worse was the absolutely ridiculous—and incredibly foolhardy—attraction she’d felt for Bartholomew Saint from the moment they’d met. She’d never before been attracted to big, powerful men, but there was just something about Bart Saint that drew her to him. He was in his mid-thirties, she guessed, by the fine lines at the corners of his eyes. His hair was dark, wavy, and thick—like all the Saint men—and his eyes…
She sighed. They all had those deep golden eyes, too—a family trait, according to Mel. All Kitty knew was Bart’s eyes seemed to be able to see right through her, all the way to her deepest, darkest secrets. Not that she had that many, but most of them these days had to do with her feelings about one Bartholomew Saint.
The intercom sounded, and Kitty reached over to touch the switch.
“Yes?”
“Bartholomew Saint is here to see you, Ms. Konstantine.”
She closed her eyes tightly, willing the threatening headache to go away.
“Of course he is. Send him in, please.”
Kitty closed the folding-frame of photos and set it down carefully before coming around and leaning back on the edge of her desk, crossing her arms protectively. She took a very deep breath, let it out very slowly, and prayed her heart would settle down, before she made a complete fool out of herself.
42
“Mr. Saint,” her assistant said unnecessarily when she opened the door.
“Thank you, Tina. Please hold all my calls.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The slender young black woman backed out of the room but not before shooting an appreciative glance at Bart.
Don’t bother, sweetie, Kitty thought. He’s so out of both our leagues.
It had always been difficult for her to remain aloof from this giant of a man. Like his nephews, Bartholomew Saint, at well over six feet, dwarfed her five-foot-eight, and his broad shoulders seemed to block out the light. He had a hint of a five-o’clock shadow even though it was only three-o’clock in the afternoon. Unlike the younger Saint men, there was something entirely formidable about this one. His very presence unnerved her on a good day. Today was not a good day.
“So,” she said, attempting to take control from the start. “Have you finally decided to be sensible and accept the offer from Opryland?”