Pink slips firmly in hand, Robin marched on, right past Evan Iverson's door—at which point her heart did a little start when she saw him seated at his desk—and stuck her hand in Lucy's cubicle to signal that she had, indeed, arrived, before disappearing into her own office. Tossing her briefcase aside, Robin went immediately to her wet bar and the pot of coffee Lucy had put on. French roast. Pedestrian, but potable.
In the midst of pouring a cup, Lucy came in with a Yo. Robin glanced over her shoulder at Lucy, who stood in the doorway of her office wearing a lime-green sweater and black pants. Her long red hair was piled on top of her head with a pencil stuck through to hold it. Robin paused to sip the nectar of gods before asking, “Hey, did you take Dad's call?”
Lucy came farther into the room, adjusted her black-rimmed matchbox glasses. “I took the first one. He said he assumed you would manage to drag yourself in before noon , and if you did, you should call him immediately. At the ranch.”
The ranch? Oh great. When or why Aaron had made the trek to Texas , she couldn't imagine, and frankly, didn't even want to think about it.
“Mr. Herrera has called twice. Are you going to call him? You need to call him.”
Well, hello, she knew that. Robin took another sip of coffee. “Was that Evan I saw?” she asked, trying very hard to be nonchalant.
“Yep.”
“So what's he doing here?”
“I don't know,” Lucy said with a shrug, and plopped down in one of two leather armchairs in front of Robin's desk. “But he needs to talk to you before he goes back to Dallas . He asked if you had lunch plans.”
Oh frapcious day, her father and a former lover all in one Monday. “I don't think so.”
Lucy looked suspiciously at Robin. “Why are you making that face?”
“What face?”
“That face.”
“There is no face.”
It was obvious Lucy believed there was a face. There were a lot of things the old girl knew about Robin, but her affair with Evan was not one of them. In his position as chief operating officer, Evan was her father's most trusted man—his loyalty to the company was unquestionable and he was very good at what he did. His was a classic rags-to-riches story—he graduated from the university in Austin , started selling freight carriers to businesses. That's how he met Dad and came to LTI. From there, he worked his way up, making LTI extremely profitable and himself extremely rich in the process—Robin had heard the golden boy's story enough times from Dad to know.
It happened that Evan was also a very handsome man in addition to being smart, and Robin could not help the attraction she had developed during her four-year stint with her father in New York .
But it wasn't until she had talked Dad into opening the Houston offices and had moved back to Texas that the affair had begun. At a corporate meeting in Dallas , she had flirted, Evan had taken the bait, and the rest was the ancient history of inconspicuous dating, which had gone on until Robin began to realize that good looks did not necessarily mean interesting.
When he began to hint around about their relationship taking a more serious and permanent bent, Robin had balked outright and had bowed out under the pretense of work. There probably could have been a little more finesse on her part, but still, it did not end too terribly badly, she supposed, given that Evan promised her—“for the sake of the company”—that he would not make it uncomfortable for her.
Unfortunately, she clearly made it uncomfortable for him without even trying. She didn't mean to do it, but every time she saw him, he looked at her with cow eyes and would ask, in that quiet, we-have-a-secret voice, “How are you?”
That was exactly the reason why, in the midst of another failed relationship in London , Robin had promised herself to never, ever, dip her pen in the company ink again.
“HUL-LO-OH!” Lucy all but shouted.
“What?” Robin exclaimed, startled.
“You drifted into Robin-land,” Lucy said with a snort and popped up out of her chair. “I've got some stuff for you to sign. I'll be back.” As Lucy went out, Robin helped herself to another cup of coffee and picked up her phone and dialed the Rio Grande Valley freight yard for Guillermo, the sales rep there.
“Hey, Miss Lear, how are you?” he asked cheerfully when she got him on the phone.
“Good. Listen, I had a call from Mr. Herrera yesterday from Valley Produce? He's a little agitated. He says we are delivering spoiled product.”
“Yes ma'am, we are,” Guillermo said matter-of-factly. “It's those refrigeration units we got on the trucks. They don't work for crap, pardon my French, and it seems like every time one goes out, it's his freight we got on there.”
“Refrigeration units? What refrigeration units?”
“The refrigeration units! With all due respect, Miss Lear, I told you about this before Christmas. See, the coils, they're not working like they should. It's a short in the—”
“Guillermo, I don't remember anything about coils,” Robin said sternly.
“Sure, don't you remember? When we had that holiday party in Padre, I was telling you about the coils.”
Robin was suddenly struck with the memory of Guillermo holding a longneck in one hand, a half-eaten monster turkey leg in the other, which he used to emphasize his monologue about coils and refrigeration units… and something in there about the average life of a head of lettuce. Robin groaned. “Yes, I remember that, but I didn't realize at the time you were telling me there was a problem—it was a holiday party, for Chrissakes!”
“Well, sure, Miss Lear. That's why I called you the next week.”
Oh.
Right.
She had been on her way to London and had stacked Guillermo's message to call along with all the others she had decided could wait. Of course, she had expected to return in two weeks time, but then again, she hadn't counted on meeting Nigel. That idiot savant had cost her two extra weeks—
“… so I told him, it's all at corporate, but sure, go ahead and call. And he did.”
“What? Did what?” she demanded.
“Called. Mr. Iverson. He ordered all new units. We should get them in today, have 'em installed by the end of next week.”
Fabulous. All she needed was to have Evan cleaning up this little mess for her. She punched a key on her computer—the e-mail screen popped right up. “Okay, t hank s, Guillermo,” she said, and winced at the e-mail from Evan, Valley Produce refrigeration units. Her head was beginning to hurt.
Robin glanced again at the stack of pink phone messages. Jacob Manning's number was a cell phone; he picked it up on the third ring. “Manning here.”
Having exchanged no less than fifteen phone tags with him, the sound of his voice actually startled Robin. “Oh! Uh… Mr. Manning, this is Robin Lear.”
“Hey, good to hear from you, Ms. Lear.”
Speaking of hearing, he certainly had a nice silky voice for real, Robin thought absently. “Listen, t hank s for sending your estimate so quickly for the work on my house. I like what you suggest be done to it.”
“Great. Nice place.”
“T hank s. I just have a few questions if you don't mind.”
“Sure. Fire away.”
Yes, a very nice voice. “I calculate this work to be about forty dollars a square foot, is that right?”
“Sounds about right—”
“I had other bids for the same work that came in much lower than that.” That was really a teeny-tiny lie—she'd actually had only one other bid.
Mr. Manning said nothing at first, then chuckled softly, a sound that sent a quick and curious shiver down Robin's spine. “I'll just bet you did, Ms. Lear. But if you want a quality job, you're going to have to pay for it.”
Well, wasn't that just a typical male response? “Really?” Robin asked in her shy, I'm-just-a-woman voice. “And do you think I should have to pay as much as ten dollars more per square foot than any other expert in renovations? Perhaps you didn't notice, but it's just a house, Mr. Manning, not the Galleria.”
“Well, now, Robin, even I can see that it's not the Galleria,” he said, the amusement irritatingly evident in his deep voice. “In fact, I'd bet I've seen more of that house than you have in the last few days, and I can assure you, it is just a house. Now, if you don't want to pay for the work I propose to do, I understand. Not everyone does. Won't hurt my feelings one bit if you decide to go with someone ten dollars a square foot cheaper—it's your call.”
His remark took her aback, but not nearly as much as the casual slip of her first name, which sounded, much to her surprise, incredibly sexy from his lips. With a shake of her head to clear it, Robin demanded, “What about materials? How can I be assured that the materials I will be paying a premium for are indeed of the quality you propose?”
“You can inspect everything I bring into your house.”
“Receipts?”
“I'll copy you on everything I do.”
“And consult me if there is any change to your proposal?”
“I don't know,” he sighed. “Are you going to want to pick the colors, too?”
The question was so ludicrous that Robin was left momentarily speechless.
“It's a joke,” he said in that voice.
“I knew that!” she exclaimed defensively. “Mr. Manning, I need the work done right away. I suppose I could see my way to your cost if I could have your guarantee that you will start this week. How long will it take you?”
Mr. Manning laughed. “Do you always bounce from one extreme to the other like that? There for a minute I thought you were going to fire me before you even hired me.”
Robin rolled her eyes heavenward. “Did you say how long, Mr. Manning?”
“You need to understand that this sort of work takes time. And once I get under that old paint, if there is any sort of abatement that needs to be done, you can count on two extra weeks at a minimum. That's an old house you're in there, Robin. It's not going to be a six-week job, I can tell you that, not with what you want done to the bathrooms and kitchen. Not to mention the other work I've got going on, too. Let's see…” Robin could hear a tapping sound. “We're looking at three months, easy. Maybe four.”
“Four months!” she exclaimed. “Can't you readjust your schedule?”
His laughter at that was full and very rich—Robin could just picture him, probably an older gentleman, gray at the temples, wearing a crisp white shirt and sitting in his luxury sedan—
“I'll see what I can do, but I'm being honest with you— this is not going to go quick. You want a start of this week?” The tapping again. “I can rearrange a couple of things, I guess, but Thursday is the soonest I can get over there. I sent a contract with the bid to your attorney. Let me know if there's anything you want to change. Once that's signed, we've got us a deal. Appreciate the business and we'll talk soon.”
The connection was suddenly dead.
Surprised, Robin held the receiver out from her head and looked at it. Well, at least his reputation was excellent—she had called four references and they had all raved about the quality of his work. She supposed she ought to be happy that she had managed to get him at all, much less get him to agree to start this week—
“Robin.”
She started at the sound of Evan's voice; she hadn't even heard the door open. But there he was, half in, half out. Robin put the receiver down, suddenly embarrassed that she had avoided him so completely since her return from London .
“Hello, Evan,” she said, motioning him forward, and watched him walk in without actually looking at him. He was still as handsome as ever, his blond hair perfectly trimmed, his jaw clean shaven. And as usual, his style impeccable—from the crisp knot of his silk tie to the perfect pleats of his gray suit pants.
“I'm sorry to interrupt, but I need to talk to you before I leave for Dallas .”
“Not a problem,” she lied and stood, gesturing for him to sit. “Want some coffee?”
He shook his head, sat uneasily in the chair she had indicated. Robin made herself come around to sit next to him. “Sorry I didn't stop in earlier. Lots of calls,” she said, motioning vaguely at her desk.
“Oh,” he said. “You look great,” he added quietly.
Her self-conscious smile burned. “Uh, t hank s… so what's up?”
“I was hoping we could do lunch—”
“Well, I—”
“But you look buried,” Evan quickly interjected with a shrug. His perfectly manicured hands fidgeted unconsciously with the bottom of his tie. Robin folded her nail-bitten hands in her lap. “I just needed to talk with you before I talk to Aaron.”
“Aaron?” she asked, confused.
Evan looked at her fully then, a slight frown on his face. “We lost the Valley Produce account. Herrera has gone to American Motorfreight. He told me this morning.”
The news stunned her. How could they lose the account? She hadn't even spoken to Herrera yet! “You're kidding!”
“No, I'm not kidding, Robin. Herrera was our biggest Texas account. And one of our oldest. He's been with your dad since he started up.”
Yes, she was aware of that, and nodded in complete agreement, but Evan's frown just deepened. “Robin, you lost that account.”
“Me?” she exclaimed in surprise, but the twinge of guilt had already started to pierce her conscience.
“You've spent too much time looking for a big fish—”
“What? Oh, I'm sorry, I thought the object was to strive for the new and very big accounts, Evan, the ones that ship tons of freight—”
“The object is to take care of your customers.”
Ouch. “I hope you are not lecturing me,” she said defensively. “And you don't need to talk to Dad for me. I am perfectly capable of telling him that we lost the account.”
“I know you are capable, but let's not forget that I run this pop stand. I let you handle the valley accounts, just like you asked before you took off for London —”
“I did not take off—”
“Whatever. I'm just saying that Aaron is going to want an answer from me, too.”
Robin fought the urge to squirm in her chair. “All right, it's my fault,” she admitted reluctantly. “I didn't realize that was what Guillermo was telling me, and then I was gone for a month—”
“Five weeks, but who's counting? Anyway, what's done is done,” Evan said, then stood abruptly, shoved his hands into his pocket as he walked to the windows. “I'm going to fly to Harlingen tomorrow and talk to Herrera but I don't think it will do any good. Now listen, Aaron will know immediately that this was something that should have been easily handled. Don't bullshit him.”