Bad Reputation

* * *

There’s nothing quite as humiliating and infuriating as trying to get dressed in the men’s room at an office building where no one knows you. Except maybe being caught doing it. Which I was. First by an unsuspecting mail delivery boy, then a thick-necked businessman, and finally a cop, all of whom had eyed me suspiciously. As I tucked my dress shirt into my pants and finished a double Windsor knot on my tie, I happened to glance in the mirror, and I saw that my face was red with exertion and embarrassment. I had no time to spare.

I paused very outside the boardroom, doing a quick inventory of the men seated at the table inside. Five stuffed shirts and a stuffed-shirt wannabe. I wondered which one was my dad’s informant.

Not informant, I corrected myself mentally. Informant would imply that Dad is the good guy in this situation.

I knew he wasn’t. Which didn’t bother me as much as one might think. My father wasn’t without scruples. He just did what he had to do to be successful. To stay successful. He ran a hard line in his business pursuits, and it worked.

I should be asking which one is the leak. That’s probably a more accurate descriptor.

One of the stuffed shirts checked his watch, then glanced up and saw me. I hurried to join them at the table, feeling like an imposter. I was sure I might as well have had a sign on my head.

“I’m the…” I trailed off and faked as cough as I almost said the word spy out loud.

“You’re the student observer from the paper at the college?” the wannabe filled in.

“Right. That’s me,” I agreed.

The door swung open and the representatives who were delivering the request to stay my father’s building plans came walking in. I took in the lawyer first. Keith Bomner was a man I recognized. He was big into causes, big into pro bono work and good at taking on both. My dad would be very interested in discovering that Bomner had been at the meeting, and I started to make my first note.

Then I caught sight of the redhead and all logical thought left my brain.

She was dressed the same as she had been earlier this morning, in a hip-hugging skirt and a conservative blouse. As I eyed her from head to toe, I noted with a smile that the only real difference was the lack of mismatched shoes.

My eyes traveled the length of her body a second time, enjoying the subtle muscles in her calves and each curve that led up to the tightly wound bun, fastened at the nape of her neck. I had a perfect view of her creamy throat, and my gaze couldn’t help but rest there. I pictured myself tracing the line of it, working my fingers into that vanilla-scented hair, pulling it free and surrounding myself with it. I imagined it was rich and soft—the kind of hair that would look stunning splayed out across a crisp, white pillow.

What would she do when she spotted me? Would a pretty blush creep up those cheeks?

I hoped to God it would.

My appreciative stare worked to her lips, and I wondered what it would be like to taste them. Would they have the same rich texture of her hair, the same airiness of her scent?

Her mouth. Her neck. Her—my runaway imagination came to a halt as I saw her soft expression change from guarded determination to complete devastation.

My heart sunk, flowing downward with the tilt of her lips, and I watched all the color drain from her face. For one second I thought that the sorrow there was directed at me, but she was staring right at the wannabe stuffed shirt.

Mark, I heard someone say.

Her intent gaze was so focused, it seemed like the object of her interest was the only thing in the room. I didn’t like that she was looking at him like that. I didn’t like that he made those deep brown eyes darken with pain. And as selfish as it was, I really didn’t like that it meant she hadn’t noticed me.

A dangerous rush of emotions coursed through me, and I realized my hands were balled so tightly that white had formed along the ridges of my fingers.

Focus.

A pretty face had never stopped me from doing my job before. I made myself concentrate on Keith Bomner’s words.

“I’d like to point out that the media tends to look favorably on the underdog,” he stated. “And rarely seeks to laud those who seek to crush him. Or her, as the case may be.”

I mentally rolled my eyes. If scare tactics were all he was working with, he didn’t stand much of a chance against my dad. But he quickly switched topics, and after a few minutes, I found myself paying attention. The proposal they were making—she was making—involved saving a run-down community center. I wondered why it was so important to her.

Bomner talked about the youth center and its various programs, and appealed to the councilmen’s sense of community. He gave all the credit to the girl standing silently beside him, and I had to admit, it really sounded like the redhead had done a lot of work. She was running the project from behind some kind of nonprofit organization. I was impressed. Which meant that my dad wouldn’t be.

I needed to concentrate on making a list of what I would have to do to put a stop to her plans. I glanced down at my notepad. All I’d done was scribble a question mark beside the word name. Somehow, I’d missed it.

I looked back in her direction, wondering what it was about the other man that was making her stare down at her hands in such a defeated manner. I couldn’t decide what I wanted more—to comfort her or to punish him.

“So,” the lawyer said as he closed up. “We’ll have half the funds ready within the designated time. There will be no need to consider other options.”

The city officials looked convinced, and one of them went so far as to nod his head enthusiastically. My father wasn’t going to be happy with the way things were looking.

And you can forget about having anything to do with the redhead on a personal level.

“Thank you, gentlemen.” Bomner snapped his briefcase shut, nodded his head at us, and ushered the girl out.

I jumped up, automatically inclined to follow the redhead out. One of the older men coughed emphatically. I paused in my pursuit, released a breath I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding, and turned to face the table. The man named Mark was staring at me curiously.

“Did you get the information you needed?” he asked.

I nodded dumbly, because I didn’t trust myself to answer him in a calm manner. I hated him, even though I didn’t know him.

“Do you have any questions?” This came from one of the grey-haired, suit-wearing men.

I glanced at the door, then shook my head. The only real question I wanted an answer to was what the girl’s name was, and it would look as if I hadn’t been paying attention if I asked.

I wondered if Mark knew it.

He must.

I resisted a desire to demand that he tell me what it was.

“Excuse me,” I choked out, and exited the room, knowing they were all staring after me, and not really caring.

* * *

I caught up to her in the stairwell.

“Hey!”

She spun my way and stopped, like she was startled to see another human being, then looked guiltily at her hands, which clasped her shoes tightly. I suppressed a grin. Her gaze came up again, and for a breathless moment, they held me fixed to the spot.

Then her eyes narrowed in recognition.

“Are you going to trip me again?” she asked.

“I didn’t trip you. You came running at me.”

“You were sleeping in the hallway. At my house.”