No More Mr. Nice Page 2

  Roxbury’s smile never wavered. “I see,” he said.

  A cough from the other side of the bed drew Lucas’s attention. Mrs. Glen’s lips were tilted in a vague smile, but there was something unconvincing about her friendly manner. “We appreciate your frankness, Mr. Brand,” she commented, her voice throaty but tremulous. “A man like you, who’s fought for everything he’s ever gotten.” She paused, chewing her lip. “Except, of course for your college education. Well, we understand how busy you are. I’m sure Mr. Roxbury can find someone who can free up a little time to…repay a favor.” She lifted her chin and gave him another small smile that didn’t quite gel.

  However softly spoken her words, the woman’s sarcasm hit home, and that nettled Lucas. He knew he owed Norman a favor, and he was going to pay it back. Only in some other way, at some other time. Damn, interfering woman.

  “Now, now, Jess, dear,” Norman admonished with a wave of his hand, turning to grant Lucas a trusting look. “You’ll have to forgive my assistant. She and I have a difference of opinion about your taking on this project for me. Jess preferred to ask Congressman Hillman, but he’s served me several times, and, well, he’s just had that gallbladder surgery—” Roxbury halted and took another shaky sip of water, then winced.

  “Are you in pain?” Jess asked, concern sharpening her words. “I’ll call the nurse. It’s almost time for your medication.”

  He put the glass down and waved her concerns aside.

  “Look.” Lucas directed his comment to the woman. “I don’t want to seem rude here, but to be frank, Mrs.—whatever—”

  “Glen,” she offered without inflection.

  “Mrs. Glen,” he repeated, dropping his harsh tone. It was uncivil to shout at a woman who was soft-spoken and timid, though it was clear she was trying to be otherwise. Annoyance snaked through him as he realized he had suddenly become the villain here. Deciding to fight reason with reason, he explained, “I’m in a competitive business. I wouldn’t expect you to understand the demands of a cutting-edge Virtual Reality software firm like mine, but—”

  “Mr. Brand,” Jess offered with a self-effacing shrug, “I’m sure I wouldn’t understand, so don’t waste your time trying to educate me. Mr. Roxbury asked a favor, and you’ve responded.” She looked over at her employer and worry clouded her somber face. “Please don’t let us keep you.” Facing him again, she added, “Norman should rest. Stress only aggravates his condition.”

  Lucas eyed her warily, unsure how to react. Clearly she didn’t want him involved and was giving him the bum’s rush—however demurely. He turned back to Roxbury, who had a sympathetic look on his face.

  “My boy,” he said, reaching out to pat Lucas on the hand clenched around the arm of his chair. “I’m afraid Jess is rather protective of me these days. She thinks I’ll get these old feelings hurt.” His chuckle was feeble. “But I told her never—not at the hands of Lucas Brand. Not the boy who ran yelling into my pond to save a baby swan from a snapping turtle. Remember? That spring after the Thanksgiving Retreat? You couldn’t swim, then. But you never thought about yourself, and you saved the injured gosling—almost drowned doing it. I was as proud of you as if you’d been the son I never had.”

  Lucas was appalled to see the old man’s eyes glisten with tears as he went on, “Never saw anything so noble before or since.” He patted again. “Now about that little favor. The Thanksgiving Dinner and Retreat. What do you say?”

  Roxbury clearly hadn’t taken a word Lucas had said seriously. Passive-aggressive was the term that came to mind. Passive-aggressives were the types of people who smiled kindly, listened attentively, and then, by the least offensive means possible, got their way. Norman Roxbury was clearly a master at it.

  But Lucas was good at getting his way, too. He hadn’t become the president of a multimillion-dollar computer-graphics company by being a dishrag. Dammit, he had to say no! He already had too much to do in the next couple of weeks—debt of honor, or no debt of honor.

  Uninvited, the memory of that baby swan came to mind. He recalled naming the gosling “Jane,” after his grandmother. He’d helped care for her that spring and summer as she’d grown strong again, and then, feeling both sadness and pride, he’d watched her fly away that fall, a beautiful gossamer sight in the clear, Oklahoma sky. From that day, he never saw a swan without thinking of Norman Roxbury—the father he’d never had.

  Forcibly shutting out the memory, he responded in a tone that brooked no opposition, “Norman, it’s like this—I’ll do it.”

  Lucas frowned. Who the devil had said that? It had sounded a lot like his own voice, but it hadn’t sounded much like “no.” When he realized he’d just offered to take on the Mr. Niceguy project, he squeezed the arms of the chair so tightly he could hear the wood creak.

  What had happened to his famous—no, his infamous—control and mastery over situations? God help me now, he fumed silently. He must be more exhausted than he’d thought to allow millions of dollars to go right down the toilet. He wouldn’t be surprised if his board of directors had him declared incompetent and booted him into the street! Not if he could help it, he vowed. Even though he’d stuck his foot into his mouth and made this idiotic promise, he damn well wouldn’t lose this deal!

  His gaze roamed to the woman on the other side of the bed. She looked stunned. No doubt their expressions were mirror images of each other. Her fidgety, tapping sounds had stopped. The thump of her purse dropping from her lap and hitting her briefcase was all that broke the stillness.

  Lucas cast his glance back at Norman Roxbury, the only person in the room who seemed completely serene. The old man simply continued to smile that gentle, benign smile.

  2

  Jess stood in the entrance hall of Lucas Brand’s home, shivering. Her parents would have loved this opulent place, but if she had her way, she’d run screaming in the opposite direction. Of course, she wouldn’t really. That would be childish, and she was a divorced woman of thirty. Her parents’ yearnings and pressures didn’t affect her now. Shouldn’t, anyway. They’d dragged her behind them in their single-minded lust for exactly this sort of pretension, showing her off along with their paintings and trendy furniture. Her parents’ pursuit of money had colored so much of her childhood.

  As a result, she felt a grudging distaste for any exorbitant show of wealth.

  Admittedly Lucas Brand’s house was beautiful, yet it exuded a frigid, intimidating elegance. There were no warm, fuzzy vibrations here.

  Ahead was a wall of multipaned doors that opened onto a hallway. Beyond that was another set of glass doors that led outside. She was almost blinded by the glittering reflection of the setting sun on a lake just beyond the doors. The fiery glow of sun and water was the entryway’s saving grace, giving the house’s interior warmth and life. She decided not to credit that phenomenon to either the architect’s foresight or to Lucas Brand’s direction. She was sure it was merely a happy freak of nature, which she’d arrived in time to witness. The sight calmed her slightly, but not enough.

  The butler who had answered her knock had disappeared through the first set of doors and rounded the corner a moment ago. Jess waited, trying not to lose her nerve. Being in Lucas Brand’s lake residence—a kind of streamlined plantation house—both awed and upset her, reminding her of old hurts and slights that set her teeth on edge. Her father would have killed to have had an estate like this. Ironically, he’d finally made some big money—though not quite to this degree. But the measure of wealth he now enjoyed was due to Lucas Brand.

  Suppressing a surge of bitterness, she reminded herself that she was here as Mr. Roxbury’s employee, on Mr. Roxbury’s business. She needed to stay focused on that. Lucas didn’t know she was related to Clancy Ritter, the man from whom he’d bought a small software firm five years ago to absorb into his own. There was no need for him to know this, and she planned to keep her feelings to herself, for Mr. Roxbury’s sake, now that she was working with Lucas Brand. A desponden
t sigh escaped her at that miserable thought.

  Nibbling her lower lip, she tried to regain her calm. She’d reread the chapter on “Keeping a Cool Head” in the self-help book she’d bought yesterday, in preparation for this meeting. The title—Managing Unmanageable People—had caught her eye. And she’d known Lucas Brand was the pigheaded breed the book dealt with—utterly aloof, utterly confident, with a will of granite and a heart to match.

  Though she’d grown up with aggressive parents, she’d never been all that driven, herself; it was a trait her mother and father had tried vainly to encourage in her. At twenty, she married a man who had turned out to be as self-centered and aggressive as her parents. She’d never successfully stood up to any of them—had a horror of dealing with that type—and had become a social-services worker expressly to avoid their sort.

  Several years ago, after meeting Norman Roxbury, she’d become fascinated with his Mr. Niceguy program and had asked to be a part of it. When he’d made her his assistant, she’d never realized that one day she’d have to work with the very man who…

  She gritted her teeth. Enough negative thinking. She had a job to do, and she would have to “manage” the unmanageable Mr. Brand, if Mr. Roxbury’s wishes were to be carried out. Though their personal contact had been minimal so far, she’d found Lucas to be the most perverse man she’d ever had the misfortune to come in contact with. He could never be reached by phone, and never returned messages. Finally, in desperation, she’d had to resort to dropping in on him, unannounced. She looked forward to it the way she would look forward to life-threatening surgery—necessary but terrifying.

  “Mr. Brand is on the terrace, Mrs. Glen,” said the butler, startling her.

  “The…terrace,” she repeated, hoping she wasn’t expected to guess where that might be.

  The butler, intimidating in a tuxedo, nodded rigidly, and with a small wave indicated the way. “Please follow me.”

  She trailed along, feeling as though she were being led to the principal’s office for some infraction. No, no, Jess, she chided herself. You’re a capable, competent adult. You can handle this. Remember, the book says to “be reasonable, but be assertive.” After all, you’re in the right, here. He made a promise.

  They entered a huge living area with a two-story window-wall that overlooked the lake. That whole side of the room glowed red-golden with the sunset, making Jess take in a sharp, appreciative breath. The decor appeared muted in color—charcoal gray leather, smoked glass—with accents providing splashes of gold and bloodred.

  The ceiling was high, the walls were stark white. Bold, abstract paintings were strategically hung about the space, complementing the decor in a way that seemed handsome and masculine, yet devoid of human warmth—very like her impression of the man who owned them.

  Jess wondered if her father’s condo in Florida looked like this. Probably. Before he’d retired, Clancy had been very much like Lucas Brand—a cold-blooded businessman. With the five million dollars he’d received when Lucas purchased his company, her dear old dad had probably gone all-out with the decorating. After all, he had a new young wife to please.

  Her stomach twisted at the reminder, but she had to concentrate on the business at hand as the butler opened a glass-paned door. “Mr. Brand is on the terrace,” he repeated, as though he assumed she was too dim-witted to remember he’d already told her.

  She nodded, trying to smile. “Thank you,” she mumbled, as she picked her way down the broad fan-shaped steps.

  Lucas Brand wasn’t hard to spot. He stood by the wall at the end of the brick patio, holding a cell phone to his ear—a tall, black silhouette, solid and substantial against the shimmering splendor of the lake.

  Her glance darted skittishly around. A high roof protected comfortable-looking wicker furniture that was scattered about the terrace in conversation areas. Despite the abundance of seating, Mr. Brand remained standing. Jess had the feeling he wasn’t a man to sit when he could stand, stand when he could pace, or rest when he could be active—namely, making money.

  Now that she was about to confront him, she was so nervous her legs could barely support her. She had no idea what to do, but she decided he’d keep her waiting as long as she let him, so she trudged out to the edge of the patio where he would have to notice her. Her heart thudded against her ribs as she reminded herself she was right to be assertive. Cowering in a corner would never do. Especially with a man like Lucas Brand. If he sensed her fear, he’d attack, chew her up and spit her out.

  “You’re not serious, Fletch,” Lucas demanded. “It’s still locking up? Can you get the diagnostics—You already tried? Hell.” He seemed to notice movement, and turned, his features in a severe scowl. “Takahashi’s going to call for an update in—” he jerked his wrist up to scan his watch “—about an hour. I’ll stall him with some techno-bull, but we’d better find the problem pronto. Get Sol back in. I’ll be down as soon as I can.”

  He clicked off, turning to face her with hooded, black eyes. “What is it, Mrs. Glen?”

  No, Good evening, Jess, how’s it going? No Nice to see you, Mrs. Glen. What had she expected? Politeness? She hiked her purse strap up on her shoulder more from unease than necessity. It struck her that he looked tired and needed a shave. He was also taller than she’d realized the other day. At least six-four, he was muscular, built more like a football player than a computer nerd.

  Computer nerd, indeed! From the first moment she’d met him in Mr. Roxbury’s hospital suite, Jess had sensed tremendous energy in him. Lucas Brand wasn’t a man who would accept second best at anything. Not from himself or from his associates. From the harassed look on his face, and what she’d just heard on the phone, it appeared he was riding both himself and his employees very hard these days.

  “Mrs. Glen,” he prodded, his tone weary, “if you have something to say, spit it out. If you’re just here for a staring contest, let’s make it another time. I’m in the middle of something.”

  Lucas’s uncaring attitude, coupled with her insecurities, filled her with anger. It took all her restraint to keep from suggesting at the top of her lungs where she’d like to see him go. This man didn’t care about her problems or about the needy kids in the Mr. Niceguy program—and worse, he didn’t care about his debt of honor to Norman Roxbury.

  With effort, she collected herself and regrouped, recalling the lesson in chapter two. Be reasonable, but be assertive, she chided herself. Don’t blow this, Jess. Too bad the book hadn’t offered step-by-step instructions—catchy phrases, never-fail dialogue. Oh, well, what had she expected for four ninety-five?

  She presented him with the toothpaste smile she’d been long trained to exhibit. Every time her parents had paraded her out like some prize poodle, she’d pasted on her “I’m-so-delighted” face and endured the ordeal. It surprised her that she hadn’t lost the ability, though she wished she’d lost the necessity. “Good evening, Mr. Brand,” she said, extending a hand. “I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice. You have a lovely—”

  “If you’ll forgive me,” he interrupted, “I’m too tired to tap dance. Say what you have to say.”

  She held fast to her smile, hoping her flinch didn’t show, and counted to ten. “Of course. I understand you’re a busy man.” Belatedly, she realized her rejected hand was still poised before him as though she had designs on his tie. Abruptly she dropped it to her side. “It’s just that I’ve been trying to reach you through proper channels about the Thanksgiving dinner, and, for some reason, we’ve never connected.”

  “My secretary’s handling that. I assumed she’d get back to you.”

  “She did,” Jess admitted.

  “Well, then?”

  Be reasonable, be reasonable, be reasonable! Though she was trying to remain civil, she felt her jaw getting tight. “Mr. Brand,” she began, “I heard from your secretary today, about the caterer she’d hired for the dinner.”

  Lucas nodded. “My secretary is very capable. Is that
all?”

  “Almost.” She swallowed to ease a tremor in her voice. “Just one thing. I had to let the caterer go.”

  His dark eyes widened slightly in surprise. “You what?”

  “I—I said—”

  “I heard what you said.” Lucas thumped his phone down on the wide brick railing. “What the devil did you do that for?”

  She lifted her chin, praying her voice wouldn’t falter. “Do you recall the Thanksgiving dinner you attended?”

  His gaze drifted out over the lake, and his expression softened at some memory. Watching him, waiting for his reply, she had to acknowledge that, even as testy and exhausted as he was, he was handsome, in an unnerving, insolent way. His dark navy suit, white shirt and silver-patterned tie were the epitome of well-heeled elegance. With his tie loosened, and his black hair mussed by the evening breeze, he almost seemed touchable. No, she mused, that had to be an illusion, for there was hard-edged willfulness in the set of his jaw.

  “Of course, I remember the damned dinner,” he said gruffly.

  “Do you remember what caterer Mr. Roxbury hired?”

  “No,” he ground out too quickly.

  “Are you sure?”

  He faced her again, obviously annoyed. “What are you trying to say? I have to let those kids make the dinner?”

  Though she felt a strong urge to look away from his indignant glare, she eyed him squarely. “You helped make the dinner, didn’t you?”

  “I scraped pumpkin for pies. What’s so earthshakingly important about that? I would think you’d thank me for hiring a caterer. This way, the kids will have more time to play.”