This was a shot at a private space program. I’d done my research, and I wanted in. I was ready for a long-term project with potential worldwide impact. But I didn’t want it said I’d gotten in on the value of my stems.
“Ma’am, the comman—” he broke off and flushed. “Mr Carrollus will see you now.”
“Thank you,” I said, giving no outward sign that I’d noticed his slip. But I cataloged it and felt the first tingle of warning drip down my spine.
‘Commander,’ he’d tried not to say. Interesting. Not in a good way.
He swung the door open, keeping it between us as if I might start shooting at any moment. I hesitated at the threshold, trying to sense what I might be walking into.
Office. Immaculate. Big. Bright. Typical, distressing, unidentifiable color of commercial carpet.
The smell of fresh coffee lingered in the room, but I caught no hint of any other odor beneath it. Not even of furniture polish or carpet glue.
In one corner, a fake Christmas tree glittered with tiny, multicolored lights and ornaments. Fancy baskets filled with poinsettias and other plants dotted the room. They were lush, green, well-cared for.
Built-in white display cases were arranged with gleaming books and art pieces.
Below the cases, a brown leather love seat and a matching armchair were fronted by a glass coffee table set with a polished silver coffee service. Steam curled from the spout of the pot.
Almost as an afterthought, a rich cherrywood desk sat tucked behind an exuberant ficus near the window.
To my relief, the holiday elevator music that had been piped into the reception area didn’t intrude into the office.
At the wet bar stood a man pouring an iced seltzer with a twist of lime that sent a burst of spicy citrus across my olfactory receptors. Commander Carrollus, I presumed. Tall, dark, and out of uniform, unless Armani was building his own, well-dressed, pinstriped army.
My mouth watered. The lime? Or the man?
“Sir,” the young man hid behind the door, “Ms Selkirk.”
Carrollus turned.
I had to combat the effect of gravity on my jaw. Tall. I’d said that. But, really. I’m five foot ten in my cute little “rocket scientist to my toes” socks. In my sensible but passably sexy pumps, I pushed six feet. I still had to tilt my chin up to look him in the eye. Broad shoulders, strong arms, narrow waist, all of the classic descriptors of male beauty present and accounted for. But that face. Cheekbones and nose carved by a master sculptor, check. Lips that instantly reminded me I hadn’t entertained an unclothed man in over a year, check.
But none of those good looks mattered to me. Much.
It was the grave weight of responsibility in those midnight blue eyes, the sense of power. He had command presence. And that scared the crap out of me.
So I smiled, strode into the office, and extended a hand. I couldn’t escape the thought that no matter how much I hated the holidays, I’d be happy to find him under my tree. I could so get into unwrapping him.
His gaze swept me, lingered on the damned legs, but rose again nearly quickly enough that I might not have noticed had I not been studying him. I thought I detected a flicker of appreciation in his gaze and in the quirk of his faint smile. He shook my hand and squeezed gently.
Warmth zinged across each nerve fiber in my body, putting every single biological system on high alert.
As if I hadn’t already processed the fact that he was far too attractive for my peace of mind.
His eyes widened, and he glanced at our clasped hands.
I took marginal comfort in knowing I wasn’t the only one affected.
“Unexpected,” he murmured.
“No kidding,” I said.
His gaze flicked to my face and he frowned. “Explain.”
I awarded him the same bland look I turned on my high-school students when they gave me the “what assignment?” line. “I teach physics. Not chemistry.”
The corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement before he wiped all expression from his face.
“Ms Selkirk,” he said in a smooth, rich voice with just a hint of dialect.
The sound shot another burst of “Hey, stupid, he’s sexy” hormones into my already overly-aware body.
“Won’t you have a seat?” He nodded at the sofa. “May I offer you something to drink?”
Needing both the distraction and the fortification, I asked, “Is there real cream to go with that coffee?”
He stepped in beside me, and tucked my hand – the one he’d never released – into the crook of his elbow to escort me across the room. “I believe so,” he said with the air of someone who knew precisely that no one would dare bring coffee into his office without real cream in the frosty creamer.
He released me.
Mr Carrollus sat in the armchair and poured coffee for both of us.
I sank to the edge of the sofa, and settled my briefcase against the coffee table. A surreptitious glance around the room assured me that the receptionist had vanished. I was alone in a room with a man who made me feel small and dainty as he filled my china cup with steaming coffee.
“Thank you for taking the time to meet, Ms Selkirk,” he said. “The holiday season is meant to be shared with family.”
I met his eye, my chest tightening, and my hand frozen near the creamer.
“Ms Selkirk?”
Damn it. I pulled in a breath, but couldn’t force my hand to move. At least I couldn’t feel it shaking.
“No family,” I managed to say in an even tone. “Just me.”
He studied me with a gaze that felt as if it might be burning through my skull to get a look inside.
I couldn’t break free.
“Yes,” he murmured. “My HR department is thorough. I believe I saw mention of an accident.”
I found myself nodding. Since my folks had died in a car crash two years ago, I’d felt as if most of me had shriveled and died, too. Holidays were a sharp reminder of the fact that I’d buried my heart with my family’s remains.
“I’m sorry,” he said. The flicker of pain in his eyes told me he meant it.
I blinked. My eyes stung. It was beyond time to change the subject.
“Mr Carrollus—” I said as I poured the cream.
“Trygg,” he countered.
I paused, mid-stir, to glance at him.
“If you don’t mind, I prefer a more informal approach to interviews,” he said. “Your résumé is intriguing, but it doesn’t tell me who you are. I’d like you to call me Trygg.”
So that was it. Put the interviewee at ease and find out whether or not she could play well with others.
Psychological battery. Been there, done that. I should have recognized the set-up.
I nodded, but couldn’t talk myself into standing down the alarms still jangling my nerves. “Trygg,” I repeated, straightening my cup and saucer. I studied him a moment.
He held still, his expression bland as if he were allowing me to look my fill.
“Scandinavian,” I said. “Isn’t it?”
“It means ‘true’,” he said, nodding. “My mother’s choice, though I never understood why. The family isn’t Scandinavian. Your name. Finlay. Celtic?”
“Yes.” I took a sip of coffee. My toes curled in delight. “Oh, that’s excellent. Bonus points on the coffee.”
He lifted one jet eyebrow. “Do I need bonus points?”
“Depends on the answer to my original question.”
“What question is that?”
“The one I didn’t get to ask because we got sidetracked by names,” I replied.