Skirting The Issue

She narrowed her eyes. “Jerk.”

“Hey an unadorned jerk! Or would that be a naked jerk?” He raised his eyebrows suggestively.

Her eyes got big and her nostrils may have even flared. He really shouldn’t enjoy pushing her buttons so much, except that they were such cute buttons.

A couple of them seem to have disconnected, though. Sam wasn’t reacting with the banked passion she usually did. The ole you’re-not-going-to-get-to-me was missing. Sure, she was putting up a show, but her heart wasn’t in it. Maybe it was because they were no longer competing to land conventions for their respective hotels.

He’d miss that.

She had added some much needed zing to his life the past few months, the kind of zing a man shouldn’t go too long without.

The elevator reached the fourth floor but Sam stopped the doors from opening. She drew a deep breath and slipped on her professional mask.

Uh-oh. Fun was over.

“As I understand it, we are no longer competitors.”

He shook his head, unable to prevent a wistful half smile.

“I’m here in New York because three of us are being considered for the job of Carrington’s convention manager for the east coast.”

He’d heard something to that effect. He’d even put in a mildly good word for her, not that he’d ever admit it. “Congrats.”

“Again, three of us. I want this job. It’s important to me, Josh, and I would appreciate it if you…would behave.” She ground out the last bit without looking at him, clearly hating to ask anything of him.

If he had a conscience, it might have twinged.

And then she turned her head and looked at him. Straight at him, her eyes…he wouldn’t go so far as to say pleading but they were vulnerable. Definitely vulnerable.

It was a new look for her and it rattled him. Sam was as tough as they came. She played to win and when she did, she didn’t gloat, and if she didn’t, there was no pouting. He liked her, genuinely liked her, though he knew she’d be surprised to know it.

“Well?” She looked away and stared straight ahead.

“Sure,” Josh said gruffly.

“Thanks.” She released the doors and strode out, any hint of softness now buried beneath a sternly professional outer shell.

Josh resisted the urge to mimic her straight-backed posture. She sure wasn’t going to be as much fun if she got this job.

They walked along a wide hallway that was open to the atrium lobby below. Though he’d never been in this hotel before, Josh was intimately familiar with standard hotel layout and knew the ballrooms and meeting rooms were on this floor. “So who’s your competition?”

He didn’t think she was going to answer him, but finally offered, “Leonard Sheffield—”

“I know him. He’s a wienie. Don’t worry about him.”

“And Harvey Wannerstein.”

Figured. Josh had run across him, too. Talk about your jerks. He said nothing because it didn’t look good for Sam. She was too much of a rule follower and it made her predictable and thus easy to outmaneuver—like playing poker with someone who showed you her hand. Harvey played with marked cards in mirrored rooms with aces up his sleeve.

“Josh?”

“Hmm?”

“You’ve got to know Harvey. He’s based here in New York.”

“Yeah. I know him.”

“So what do you think?”

He looked down at her—not far, since Sam was on the tall side. He couldn’t help remembering that she fit ever so nicely against him. “Watch your back.” And a lovely back it was, too. He considered offering to watch it for her.

“Why?”

“He’s worse than me.”

“I didn’t think that was possible.”

She walked on, but Josh stopped, right there on the muted gray-blue carpet with intarsia border. Sam would no doubt be surprised to know that he had buttons and that she’d just pushed one of them.

She kept walking until, all at once, she pivoted. “What?”

Josh drew his hands to his waist and stood firm in the middle of the hall. “I am not worse than Harvey Wannerstein. In fact, I don’t like being compared to Harvey Wannerstein.”

Sam took a few steps back in his direction. “You compared yourself to him.”

“Because there are similarities in our approach—”

“You mean he beats you at your own game?”

“I mean he changes the rules after you’ve signed on.”

She raised an eyebrow, her face the picture of contempt.

He couldn’t stand it. His mother had given him that same look every time she said, “You’re going to grow up and be just like your father—all talk and nothing behind it.” And if there was one thing Josh didn’t want, it was to look at Samantha Baldwin and be reminded of his mother. “When I make a deal, no matter how it comes about, once we shake hands, I deliver. No tricks and no gotchas. And I never go into a deal promising something that isn’t going to happen.”

Sam crossed her arms across her chest and gave him a disgusted look. “Federated Nurses, 1998.”

Remembering that spectacular mess, Josh felt his face heat. She would bring up that. “Construction ran behind schedule and the hotel wasn’t finished. I personally negotiated a deal with, as I recall, Carrington, on that group’s behalf. And, yes, it was more than the nurses wanted to pay, but less than if they’d gone out and tried to find another hotel on their own. I did not—” he jabbed a finger for emphasis “—just tell them too bad, those are the breaks and send back their contract!”

“You’re shouting.”

He was. “I’m enunciating clearly across the chasm that divides us.” Josh took a deep breath to calm down.

Looking at the toes of her shoes, Sam traced the design in the carpet and by doing so, slowly drew closer to him without giving the impression of losing ground. Atta girl.

He consciously lowered his voice. “I guess I’ll have to say I don’t knowingly promise what I can’t deliver—unlike your friend Harvey.”

“He’s not my friend.”