The Personal Touch

“Maybe I will.”

But before she could duck into her office, she heard the front door open.

Margot had never seen Clint Hilton before, but based on the stories she’d heard from Carmen, she knew with all certainty the tall, drop-dead sexy man approaching them was him.

He strolled in with the casual ease of a man accustomed to dominating the space around him. Relaxed and calm, as though he could find common ground with a mechanic or a millionaire banker alike. His shoulders were broad and his hands worn. He wasn’t simply the paper-pushing end of the contracting business he owned, and the sun-kissed highlights in his dirty blond hair didn’t come from a bottle.

He was the genuine article. A West L.A. version of the Marlboro Man, if such a thing existed.

A dark pair of Armanis covered his eyes and his brown leather Oxfords were unmistakably Santoni. Along with the stainless steel Rolex, business-casual slacks and tailored dress shirt, she guessed he was wearing a fortune worth more than her car. Yet there was nothing stuffy or presumptuous about his appearance. He wore the ensemble as though he’d thrown it on the same way the rest of the world slipped into a pair of sweats and sneakers.

As the door closed behind him he smiled, revealing a set of perfectly white teeth. His grin pressed dimples into the strong hollows of his cheeks and set off a chain reaction she felt straight to her toes. And when he pulled off his shades, the gaze from his deep blue eyes seemed to slip straight under her skin, sending a shiver through her veins that stole her speech and garbled her thoughts.

She stood there gaping while Alan held out a hand in her rescue. “You must be Clint Hilton. We spoke on the phone.”

Clint turned the lethal smile away, allowing her to momentarily catch her breath and recollect some basic facts—like her name.

What was wrong with her? Rich and handsome men walked into their offices all the time, yet today she stood there like an awed, giddy groupie. She lied and told herself it was resonant fluster from her meeting with David. Or maybe her blood sugar was low, the blueberry muffin she’d had for breakfast coming back to haunt her.

That had to explain the light-headed dizziness that had just come over her because either of those things was better than admitting an instant crush on her best friend’s boss.

“Yes, I’m Clint.” He shook Alan’s hand with vigor. “Alan, good to meet you.”

Tucking his sunglasses into his shirt pocket, he turned the hand to Margot. “Margot Roth?” When she nodded, he added, “Carmen regards you very highly.”

She accepted the handshake while mentally pulling herself together. If Clint had come seeking her professional services, now wasn’t the time to act like a babbling idiot.

“If this is a bad time, I can make an appointment,” he offered. “I’m renovating a building over on 6th and happened to be in the area.”

“The old Fuller building. I’m familiar with it,” she managed to utter.

He quirked a smile that said he was impressed and she marveled over why that excited her so.

He’s just a man. An incredibly sexy man. And in case you’ve forgotten, you’ve already found Mr. Wonderful.

The memory of Rob, the man she’d started dating a month ago, brought her feet back down to earth. Now, Rob was the man she should be getting silly over. Perfect for her in every way.

And as a woman in the business of forming lasting relationships, she should know.

So she did her best to set her lust aside and get to work. “I’ve got time. If you’d like, we could meet now.”

He slapped his big hands together. “Great. I’m anxious to see what you can do for me.”

His choice of words sparked a number of inappropriate responses, but she held them all in check, insistent on shaking off this strange reaction of hers.

Rob, think of Rob, she thought. And money. Lots of money. A new client always made for a good day, and with a heavy mortgage on a brand-new condo, she could use all the business she could get.

So with those thoughts firmly fixed in her mind, she set off down the hall to find out exactly what she could do for the sexy Clint Hilton.

3

MARGOT ROTH was cute. That was the impression that lingered in Clint’s mind as he stood in her downtown office with her and her partner, Alan. Her round face complemented a wide mouth and big brown eyes. She was shorter than average, Clint doubted she’d hit five-five in three-inch heels, and her figure was curved and fleshy. Definitely girl-next-door with her shoulder-length brown hair and bright, unassuming smile. Nothing like the tall, chiseled beauties he typically gravitated to.

Which was why it puzzled him that he couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off her.

He followed as she moved toward a short corridor and down the hall, his gaze continually dipping to the bottom half of her hourglass figure. He liked the way it looked wrapped up in those coffee-brown slacks—shapely and touchable, firm but entirely feminine. Her legs were lengthened by high-heeled sandals that had something sparkly on them, like rhinestones or glitter, and her white ruffled blouse topped her off like whipped cream on a hot fudge sundae.

“Have a seat,” he heard her say, and it was only then he realized they’d actually entered her office. He quickly darted his eyes somewhere respectable before she caught him gawking and labeled him a perv. He didn’t typically give every woman the full Hilton once-over, but then again, it wasn’t every woman who flew into his radar like Margot Roth had.

Taking in his surroundings, he was surprised by the antique furniture in her office. The reception area had been ultra contemporary with bright-colored sofas, tall, sleek palms and bold canvas artwork. This room was like stepping into another world. A large mahogany table took the place of her desk. Queen Anne, if he knew his furniture. And she’d played the rest of the room off it with an antique sideboard subbing for a credenza, large, chunky bookcases framing the back wall and a deep burgundy Persian rug defining the space.

It occurred to him that it fit her, rich and textured, comfortable and calm, and the more he saw of Ms. Roth, the more she intrigued him.

She gestured to one of the two cushioned chairs facing her, and he took the one closest, edging it away from the table to give room for his long frame. After she’d gathered a pad and pen, she smiled and asked, “So how can I help you, Mr. Hilton?”

He cleared his throat and tried to recall why he was there—a minute detail that seemed to have slipped his mind in the short moments between his car and her office.

“My mother,” he said. “She’s in need of a companion.” Then he added abruptly, “A male companion.”

She winked. “I’d assumed as much since we don’t breed dogs here.”

His laugh was heartier than it should have been. “I tried that one already. Now I’ve got a bored mother and a dog.”

“So she’s looking for a gentleman now.”

“Well, she’s not exactly looking. I am. I was hoping you could give me some pointers on how I can find her a date…or two.”

She quirked her brow. “I’m not sure I understand, Mr. Hilton. You want to find a companion for your mother, but you’d like to do it yourself?”

He didn’t like the look in her eyes or her skeptical tone. In business, it was always the first sign of a deal going bad.

“Maybe I should start at the beginning.”

He gave her a brief rundown of his parent’s thirty-five year marriage and then skipped to these last six months. That was when his mother seemed to have settled with the idea of life after his father, and that his brother’s assignment in Afghanistan wasn’t a death sentence. She’d gotten past her worries and her mourning and had officially entered the stage of healing called Drive Clint Crazy.

Margot made a number of notes as he spoke, and when he was done, she set the pen down and asked, “Have you suggested your mother get a place of her own?”

“Every time I feel like watching her burst into tears.”

She nodded and considered for a moment. “So she doesn’t feel capable of living on her own, but you feel she’s ready for a relationship.”

“My mother’s capable and ready. She’s just afraid of being left forgotten and alone. It’s unfounded, but unfortunately she’s not giving me the chance to prove otherwise. If I were a psychiatrist, I’d say she feels she’s lost her husband and youngest son. Sticking at my house is her unconscious way of making sure she doesn’t lose me, too. Of course, that’s just a guess. I’m not a psychiatrist.”

“No, but you’d like to be a matchmaker.”

Ouch. He’d walked right into that one.

He studied her for an extra beat and damn, if he didn’t sizzle over her no-nonsense style. He liked sharp women who weren’t intimidated by him. Thanks to his wealth and reputation as one of the area’s premier builders, it wasn’t always easy finding them.