Losing Control
Cole rattled off the name of a vintage that Marco’s widening eyes hinted was exceptional. A moment later, the curtain was drawn and they were once again completely alone.
Enjoying the atmosphere despite herself, Taryn shifted in the chair, which was more comfortable than her sofa. “I wasn’t expecting this.”
“You’d prefer an all-you-can-eat salad bar?”
With delicious aromas filling the air, her taste buds had already decided. She opened the menu. “Here will do nicely.”
And every one of those dishes listed without prices sounded divine. Still, she would keep in the forefront of her mind that this was not an occasion to forget herself. In fact, she might as well put this idle time to good use.
Having chosen her meal, she set her menu aside and extracted her laptop from her carryall. With a grunt of disapproval, Cole sat back.
“We won’t do that now.”
“I’d rather get to it before you have a drink or two.”
“I can assure you a couple of glasses of wine won’t affect my judgment.” His lips twitched. “You, of course, may be a different matter.”
“I’m not a giggler, Mr. Hunter.”
His frown returned. “And ditch the Mr. this and manners that. My name’s Cole. You call my father Guthrie, don’t you?”
“That’s different. We’re on friendly terms.”
“Really? Did he take you out to dinner?”
She almost gasped. She knew what he was implying. “Of course not.”
“Maybe you took him.”
She slanted her head. “You won’t put me off—Cole. If you want me gone from Hunters, you’ll have to drag me out, kicking and screaming.”
“Is that what happened at your last job?”
On the tabletop her fists curled. What would she bet he already knew?
At that moment, Marco arrived to serve wine and take orders, giving Taryn time enough to sort out her answer—and her temper. With Marco having left through the curtains again, she admitted, “I was let go from my last position.”
Wineglass midway to his mouth, Cole stopped. “Didn’t get along with your boss?”
“We got along great.”
“Ah.” He sipped, swallowed. “I see.”
She burned to set him straight, and in the bluntest of terms, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
“Upper management made the decision,” she said. “My direct boss was always good to me. Very much a father figure.”
“Seems you’re partial to them. Don’t you have one of your own?”
“A father?” Taking a long cool sip of water, she swallowed past the pit in her throat. “As a matter of fact, I don’t.”
Cole’s shoulders seemed to lock before he set down his wineglass and said in a lower tone, “We were talking about your previous employ.”
She explained about ending up the scapegoat for leaked information regarding those series ideas. Her plan had been to keep her story brief but Cole had a question for everything. He was quite the interrogator. Thorough and emotionless, as Roman had warned. Finally satisfied on that particular subject, he nodded.
“But you’ve landed on your feet,” he offered, finger-combing back a dark lock blown over his brow by a harbor breeze.
“Seems that will depend on you.”
“Or, rather, what you’ve got for me.”
At that moment, their meals arrived and Cole took the liberty of refilling her wineglass. She hadn’t realized she’d almost drained it.
“But I’m too damn hungry to focus,” he said, setting the wine back down. “Let’s eat.”
While they enjoyed their meals, small talk was difficult to avoid—general topics at first … the state of the industry, current affairs. When he asked, she let him know that Guthrie’s personal assistant had rung to apologize that regrettably he wouldn’t have time to welcome her into their fold properly that day. Then conversation swerved toward lighter subject matter about schools and interests growing up. Cole had served in the Navy Cadets with a friend who owned his own security firm now. He said that once he’d even wanted to become a high-seas officer. She’d grinned at that. Who would have guessed?
Cole changed the tone and the subject back to family. Almost finished with their meals, he spoke about his mother—just a few words, but they were said with such sincerity and affection, Taryn felt moved. More than instinct said that this was a side of Cole others would rarely see. His next question was obvious, and yet she’d been so caught up in ingesting this small taste of “human Cole” that she hadn’t seen it coming.
“Most daughters are close to their mothers,” he said. “Does yours live nearby? In town?”
Taryn’s stomach jumped but she forced the emotion down. She’d lived with the reality all her life. Woke up to it every morning. And still that empty sick feeling rose in a surge whenever she needed to say the words aloud.
She set down her fork. “My mother’s dead.”
His brows nudged together and he took a moment before responding.
“I’m sorry.”
Yeah. Where her mother was concerned, she was sorry about a lot of things.
But this wasn’t a first date. They weren’t here to analyze the past—how some were born to rule while others were left to build on crumbs. Still, the evening hadn’t been the disaster she’d half expected, although now was the time to gently but firmly reset some boundaries.
“I’d rather not discuss my personal life.”
“Sure.” He nodded. “I understand. I was only making conversation—”
“I know, Cole. That’s fine.” She pushed down those rising levels again and pasted on a reasonable face. “But we’re here because you wanted to eat. Let’s get that out of the way so we can get back to work.”
While Taryn set about consuming the remainder of her salad, Cole warred with himself. He understood this occasion was in no way a catch-up between friends or, God forbid, a night out for lovers. He had indeed been making polite conversation—and he’d ended up sticking his foot in his mouth once again. He knew about the pain of losing a parent, but how was he to know that Taryn had lost both a father and a mother?
Yes, best they keep any subsequent talk firmly centered on business, he decided, draining his glass. Definitely best they conduct future meetings in a work environment—if Taryn and her proposal made it past this evening.
One glass of wine, half a steak and no conversation later, Cole set his napkin firmly down on the table beside his plate.
“Okay. We’re done. Let’s talk.” And get back to our own lives.
Finished, too, Taryn slid her plate aside, collected her laptop and scooted her chair slightly toward his, purely to offer a better view of the screen. Before the hard drive had finished booting up, she’d outlined logistics on travel points and was expounding on visions for the future. But he was done with being chatty. Now he wanted the heart of her revised idea, and he wanted it fast.
“What’s the hook?” he asked. “The draw card that’ll have everyone and their great-grandma tuning back in week after week and advertisers cuing up?”
A manicured fingertip brushed a key and an image flashed up on the screen … a rather uninspiring shot of a group of people standing in an ordinary suburban front yard. The way Taryn was beaming, you’d think she was about to Skype with the person at the top of her “must meet” list.
Cole loosened his tie. God, why had he bothered? Why was he bothering still?
“Rather than trained reporters,” she said, moving to the next image—a handful of kids playing basketball in some rundown hall, “we’ll use real-life couples or families or groups to check out each holiday hot spot. We’ll ask viewers to email or text in reasons why they, or someone they know, ought to be the next to enjoy an all-expenses-paid trip to some amazing place, courtesy of Hunters.”
He barely contained a groan. “This is another reality show idea, isn’t it?”
“Reality shows are still extremely popular,” she insisted, rolling through more similarly uninspiring images, “and with this formula—coupling luxury with underprivileged—we can truly tug at the heartstrings of our viewers.” When he groaned aloud, she tipped toward him. “Open up your mind to the possibilities and all the people you could help make happy.”
“I’m not here to organize charities. I’m here to make good television.” Make money.
She blinked then returned her attention to the screen and went on.
“At the end of the season, the viewers get to vote on the number-one holiday couple, family, friends or whatever, and the main sponsor donates a potful of cash toward helping an associated community cause. The next season kicks off with a lucky draw winner from a list of all the voters.”
She looked so animated—her big eyes twinkling and hands dancing—he practically saw sparks fly. But …
“It’s not new enough,” he said. When she looked at him, puzzled, he elaborated. “I need more. Maybe if you include some sort of elimination strategy—”
“No. I want everyone associated with my show to feel like winners.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. Great. He was dealing with an I-can-save-the-world type. Not that philanthropy wasn’t admirable. In this instance, however, it simply wasn’t feasible. He’d grown up living and breathing the culture of broadcasting. He’d learned from the best, and now, he delivered the same. Or wanted to. He didn’t know why Guthrie had let this stunt get as far as it had, but in the morning he’d tell his father he should consider a vacation. In fact, a lengthy holiday away from business—and would-be assassins—sounded like a damn fine idea.
“This will be a feel-good program,” she was saying. “Sure, along the way there’ll be all sorts of trials and fears faced, but no one will be left feeling like a loser. This show could start a whole new genre.”
“Taryn,” he said gently but clearly, “there is no show unless I say so.”
She tacked up her slipping smile. “Think of the sponsors.”
“You can talk all you want about sponsor dollars, but in the end time is money. My time. The company’s time. I won’t put valuable people on a project I’m not convinced will succeed.”
“Not convinced yet,” she corrected.
Blast it all. She wasn’t listening.
“You shouldn’t have rushed this. You should have given yourself at least a couple of days to really think through every possible angle.”
“My idea was good to begin with.”
He sucked down a breath. Okay. Blunt ax time. “There’s no room at Hunters for good. I’m after brilliant—or nothing.”
“Brilliant?”
“That’s right.”
Her gaze hardened. Then it turned to stone. “Because you’re so brilliant?”
“Because, I’m the boss and—” dammit “—no one gets to play in my sandbox unless I say so.”
Her eyes filled with an emotion that glistened at the same time as it burned. Then her hands fisted an instant before she pushed out of her chair. On her way up, she bumped the table and her glass toppled toward him. Wine hurled through the air, ending up with a splash on his lap. His arms flew out; at the same time his temper spiked and he slid his chair back. Was that an accident or was she deliberately making matters worse?
Still in his seat, Cole gripped his napkin and pressed at the cool alcohol seeping into his trousers. Somehow he managed to keep his voice even.
“I’ll assume that was an accident.”
“It was.” She leaned across the table and flung the wine from his glass, too. “That one, I did mean.”
Five
She shouldn’t have done it.
God knows, she ought to have kept her head and tried to contain the smoke rather than flinging more fuel on the fire. But as Taryn stormed out through the five-star restaurant, half-aware of curious patrons’ heads turning, that more volatile side of her nature was glad she’d let Cole Hunter know precisely what she’d thought. Sandbox, indeed!
He was lucky a glass of wine was all she’d thrown.
Outside, the fresh air hit. Stopping at the bottom of the restaurant’s half-dozen stone steps, she glanced around with stinging eyes before the realization struck. Cole had driven her here. To collect her sedan, she’d need to grab a cab back to Hunters.
And tomorrow? Cole had as good as said her idea sucked and she was through. Hopefully Guthrie would have something to say about that. But if she went to the senior Hunter about this situation, she’d feel like a tattletale whining to daddy about her bullying big brother. How she longed to circle her hands around Cole’s big tanned neck and squeeze until he turned blue. Lord how she wished she’d never met the man.
She noticed a concerned-looking doorman crossing over at the same time a low, smooth voice wrapped around to startle and disarm her from behind.
“Would you kindly tell me what that was about?”
She swung around and glared into Cole Hunter’s flashing green eyes. She hated that her voice was shaky.
“Kindly leave me alone.”
“You came with me—”
“And I’ll leave without you.” She directed her next words to the fidgety doorman. “Can you organize a cab, please?”
Waving a hand, Cole sent the poor doorman back to his corner. “I’ll drive you to the station, or home, if you like.”
“I’d prefer you didn’t.”
“I’d prefer that I did.”
“So you can goad me into doing something else I might regret?”
He stepped closer until his shadow consumed her and his lidded gaze dropped to her lips. “And just what is it you’re afraid you’ll do?”
When his eyes met hers again, she felt the stakes between them change and swell. Was it her imagination or had he just propositioned her?
She ought to be outraged. She should want to slap his face. But the heat racing over her skin, snatching her breath and warming her insides, suddenly felt less like anger and a whole lot more like anticipation.
She croaked out, “I never asked to come here tonight.”
“No. You were only jumping around like a Christmas puppy, wanting me to see your idea right away.”
“You said you wanted to see it.”
“When it was good and cooked.”
She hitched her carryall strap higher on her shoulder. “Admit it. You never had any intention of giving me a chance.”
“Whoa. Don’t put this back on me.”
“No. I should be overjoyed with needing to jump through your hoops after I’ve already landed the job.”
He blinked at that then absently readjusted the platinum watchband on his wrist. “I’m yet to speak to my father about signing you without consulting me first.”
“Perhaps you should have done that before putting me through that charade.”
“Sorry for doing you a favor.”
“Forgive me if I don’t shower you with thanks.”
A cab rolled up the lantern-lit drive while a valet brought Cole’s car around at the same time. Shaking with rage—with hurt and frustration—she made a beeline for the cab with Cole hot on her tail.
That doorman came forward to open the passenger door. With one sharp look, Cole sent him packing again. Then, refocusing, he crossed his arms over that stained damp shirt.
“I’m sorry you can’t handle the truth about the premise of your show.”
“Your version of the truth,” she pointed out.
“Like it or not, mine’s the only version that counts.”
She crossed her arms, too. “Has anyone ever suggested that your ego might be a trifle oversize?”
“My temper, too—particularly, but not excluding, when I’m soaked through and smelling like a barroom floor.”
Her conscience pricked. She looked him up and down. Then, although it pained, she offered up what her aunt might consider polite and fair.
“I’ll pay for dry cleaning.”
“Shirt, trousers and tie.” He pretended to wring the strip of royal-blue silk. “You didn’t miss much.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my pitching arm. I was captain of my school softball team five years running.”
“Remind me to stay out of your way if you try to swing a bat.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure none of my home runs land in your sandbox.”
Cole looked at her harder, his gaze penetrating—judgmental—and yet she got the impression that a different, less hostile emotion churned just below his surface. Maybe a miniscule touch of grudging respect? She crossed her arms tighter. Too little, too late.
Finally he shrugged back both shoulders and tucked in his chin. “Maybe I was a little over-the-top with the sandbox line.”
She pretended to tug her ear. “Was that Cole Hunter apologizing?”
“Merely an observation.”
His brows lifted as if he were waiting for her to return the sentiment. No way would she give another inch.
Except …
She didn’t need for Cole to walk away from this confrontation thinking he was the better man. She might be right, but she wasn’t stupid.
With the cabbie and doorman hanging back, waiting, she eased out that pent-up breath and let her arms unravel.
“Well, maybe,” she ground out, “I didn’t need to toss that second drink over your lap.”
The intensity of his gaze gradually lifted and, after another deliberative moment, he tilted his head at his car. “So you up for a lift back to the station?”
“Only if I choose the topic of conversation.”
He clutched at his chest. “You’ll even talk to me?”
“Not about anything personal. And I’d prefer not to discuss my project with you any more at this time.”
“I’m sure that’s wise.” He started off then stopped, waiting for her to join him, which—after making him stand there wondering for another five full beats—she did.
“Maybe we could discuss vegetarian cuisine,” she said as they reached his car.
He grunted. “What about sports?”
“I’m in charge, remember?”
After she’d slid in, but before he shut the door, she heard him mutter, “Enjoy it while it lasts.”
Cole drove back to the station listening to Taryn share her secrets on the abundance of ways one could combine pumpkin with pine nuts. Fascinating.
But now, as he made his third stop for the evening—at his father’s Pott’s Point mansion—he could admit he’d almost enjoyed the final stint of his evening with this persistent producer. Even as the wine dried on his clothes, he surrendered a smile remembering the poised timbre of her voice and glorious lines of her legs as she’d chatted on.
One moment spitting fire, the next a consummate ice queen. He didn’t know which intrigued him more. From the moment he’d laid eyes on her, sitting demurely in his father’s reception lounge, he’d been struck by those lips, her hair, that barely subdued sexuality. After her spectacular meltdown at the restaurant tonight, perverse though it might sound, his attraction for her had only grown.
By the time he pulled up beneath his father’s extravagant granite forecourt, Cole was trying to shake the image of Taryn twining her arms around his neck and searching out his kiss—not because he felt guilty necessarily, but because he didn’t need any added aggravation when he visited this place. Guthrie he could handle. His father’s wife, Cole didn’t want to touch.
He’d fortified himself and was about to slip out of the car when his cell sounded. Two callers—Dex and Wynn combined. Cole connected and Wynn spoke first.
“How’s Dad holding up?”
Then Dex. “Do the authorities have any clue who’s behind it all?”
“We’ll get the guy,” Cole told them. “Don’t worry.”
Cole hadn’t been able to get a hold of either brother this morning, or Teagan, for that matter. They had their differences but, beyond and above all else, they were a family. Cole wasn’t certain which brother had organized this conference call, but he was grateful to have the opportunity to fill them in. Dex and Wynn had a right, an obligation, to know about this second attempt on their father’s life, and Guthrie would never tell them. He wouldn’t want any of his children to worry.
When Cole finished passing on the incident’s details, Wynn cursed under his breath.
“Cole, what’s the plan? You’ll put some safety measures in place, right? Get a P.I. on board?”
Dex’s deep laugh rumbled down the line. “As if Cole could stop himself from taking charge.”
Cole huffed. “I don’t hear either of you offering to fly back and help man the fort.”
“As a matter of fact—” Wynn started at the same time Dex said, “I’ll be right out—”
But Cole cut them both off. “Stay where you are.” Wynn couldn’t spare time away from his seat in New York and Dex’s smugness would only drive his older brother nuts. “I can handle whatever has to be done.”
Dex said, “Well, if you need anything …”
Flicking a glance toward the house, Cole thought of his stepmother. “Maybe a leash,” he muttered.
Wynn asked, “What was that?”
“Nothing.” Cole opened the car door. “I’ll keep you guys in the loop.” He hung up, and a moment later rang the bell. A woman he’d never seen before fanned open the tall timber door. His expression must have looked as confused as hers. Drab, overweight. Was that a mustache? Shrinking back, he thrust his hands into his pockets.
“Who the devil are you?”
“I work for the Hunters.”
Cole examined the woman’s garb: a dreary gray old-fashioned uniform. “What happened to Silvia?” And her vibrant colors and big friendly smile.
The woman shrugged a pair of round shoulders. “Think the madam said she’d been here too long.”
He grunted. Obviously Silvia had become an annoyance for dear Eloise. He’d seen the calculating look in the younger woman’s eye whenever the Hunters’ much-loved housekeeper had entered a room or dared to have a laugh with Guthrie. Silvia knew this house, the history and its characters inside and out. And like the Hunter boys, Silvia hadn’t approved of the master’s new bride one scrap. Seemed it’d taken Eloise five years to weed their old friend out. So, who was next on the ambitious second Mrs. Hunter’s hit list?
The new help wiped a worn hand down her starched apron and asked, “Who shall I say is calling?”
“Name’s Cole.”
Dull hazel eyes rounded. “Mr. Hunter’s eldest?”
As she studied the wine drying on his shirt, he wove around her. “Where can I find him?”
In the cavernous double-story foyer, another voice joined in. One Cole recognized—and loathed.
“Cole, honey, come on through.”
Decked out in a full-length silk robe the color of ripe strawberries, Eloise beckoned him from beneath the decorative arch that led into the front sitting room. He wondered if she were vain enough to wear all that makeup to bed. So different from his naturally beautiful mother. He wouldn’t start on the difference between poise and class.
Dismissing the stirring in the pit of his gut, Cole strode forward. “I wanted to check in and see how he was doing.”
“After that terrible business this morning, you mean.”
Cole was already inside and glancing around that sitting room. An empty room. He ran a hand through his hair. He really didn’t have time for hide-and-seek.
“Where is he?”
He spun around. Eloise was standing so close behind, he almost knocked her over. Theatrical, as usual, she emitted a small cry of surprise and swayed, no doubt hoping he’d physically prevent her fall.
Cole only stepped well back then asked, “Is he in the study?”
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