Saving the CEO (49th Floor #1)(17)
She turned red to the tips of her ears. Good. End of discussion.
“Okay, then.” She busied herself wiping up a nonexistent spill. “I need to do some serious prep work, not just sitting in bars talking. I need to learn everything there is to know about Winter Enterprises. When do we leave for the trip?”
“Thursday morning—a week from yesterday. Early. Back Saturday afternoon. Can you get the time off?”
“Yep. I’ll need to get someone to cover Thursday and Friday, but I never take vacation, so it shouldn’t be a problem. A lot of people owe me.”
“What about Saturday? I can’t guarantee what time we’ll be back.”
“I don’t work weekends. Weekends are for homework, usually.”
“But your semester is over? You were taking a final exam a few days ago.”
“Yes, so it’s perfect, really. But what about you? What about Carl? I assume he can’t know about any of this.”
“That’s right. Carl can’t know.” Jack heard the menace in his tone, which was uncalled for because it’s not like Cassie would ever cross paths with Carl. Still, he’d been delinquent. He should probably make her sign a nondisclosure agreement. Instead he settled for, “Sorry. It’s just that no one can know about this. The office closes for two weeks at Christmas, so no one at the company will know I’m on a trip. And Cassie—” He laid his hand on her forearm and had to hold himself back from tightening it like a vise— “You have to promise you’ll keep everything you know—and everything you’re going to learn—to yourself.”
She nodded. “I promise.”
It was enough for him. Maybe it shouldn’t have been, but it was. He shoved back from the bar. “Meet me at the office tomorrow at two.”
“Which is where?” she called after him.
He grinned. For the first time in a long time, he felt like the Wexler deal might be salvageable. “Check your business card.”
Chapter Six
Winter Enterprises was located on the forty-ninth floor of the Lakefront Centre in Toronto’s high-rise studded financial district. A few floors shy of the top, but high enough that Cassie was pretty darn impressed. The security guard only glanced at her as she strode purposefully toward the bank of elevators. With any luck the outfit she’d bought this morning—fake it till you make it—would not only help convince bystanders she could do this, it would also help convince herself.
Her heart pounded as she made the long, silent ride up. This was going to make everything feel a lot more real. This was going to be Jack Winter, bazillionaire, in his natural habitat. As at ease as he’d seemed in her apartment—or with his head between her thighs, for goodness’ sake—this was where he came from.
She hadn’t texted him that she was on her way, but as the doors opened into a dark reception area, she wondered if maybe she should have. The elevator was well lit—a little too well lit, she thought as she stared at her reflection on the endless ride up, ruthlessly scrutinizing her face. Sometimes she thought the freckles were cute, sometimes they were way too Little Orphan Annie.
Her new three-inch black patent leather pumps—pretty hot if she did say so herself—clicked on the marble floor as she walked past an astonishing collection of what seemed to be original art. Just as she approached the reception desk, a head popped out from behind a corner that must lead back to the offices. She grinned. Then, as she realized the head did not belong to Jack, she reared back, almost tripping in the unfamiliar heels.
“May I help you?”
Whoever this guy was, his eyes did not match the fake smile he was currently deploying.
When she heard Jack’s voice from down the hallway she was initially relieved. That is, until she realized he was on the phone, reaming out someone about something to do with the Ontario Municipal Board and zoning variances. This anger, this intensity—she suddenly understood his insistence that he was devoted to his business above everything else.
“Perhaps you’re on the wrong floor,” Mr. Fake Smile said, making her realize that she’d been standing there like an idiot, transfixed by the sound of Jack’s yelling.
“I, um—”
“Carl.” Jack’s voice—thank God, he must have heard them—from around the corner. “Carl, this is Cassidy,” he said as he emerged into the dim reception area.
Jack was wearing a brown blazer over a cream-colored sweater that was probably some kind of expensive cashmere thing, and a pair of jeans. And hoo-boy, those jeans. Though they weren’t overly tight, they fit him like a glove. Just like in her apartment the other night, there was something about seeing Mr. CEO bazillionaire in jeans that made her face heat up. She hoped he didn’t notice her blush when he leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. A quick peck, the restrained gesture could have meant anything from “Hi, Mom, nice to see you,” to “Hi, hottie, we can get it on as soon as this * leaves.”
Jack set his hand on her lower back. “Cassidy, this is Carl Larsen, my chief financial officer.” Jack was all wound up. She could tell from his touch. It was aggressive—not like he was pushing her toward Carl, more like he didn’t realize how clenched his hand was.
Disgust bloomed in her gut as Carl looked her over, eyebrows raised slightly. Okay, that was it. Carl officially sucked. Carl was the enemy. He was messing with Jack, and in exchange, she was going to make sure that Jack got this Wexler deal done. Which meant Carl could know nothing about what she was really doing here.