Page 66 of Wicked Takeover
She rechecked the figures in the presentation and brought them up to date. For the last several weeks, the parlor had been doing all right. Not making a fortune, but it was in the black, thanks to the business Jasmina brought in. Her friends then told their friends about Dante. Every day more young women strolled in to get themselves inked or pierced and to drool over him.
Lauren’s palms were sweaty. She recalled the evening she’d told Dante he couldn’t date or flirt with the customers. It seemed a lifetime ago. Even though she knew he and she would never be more than friends, she hadn’t worried about him screwing around with clients while he was involved with her. Dante wasn’t that kind of man.
She wiped her palms on her skirt and considered telling him about Thursday’s interview and this guy’s interest in Wicked Brand. If anything, she should have been pulling a Tom Cruise, jumping on the sofas in front, shouting that things were finally turning around.
Her tension mounted, her earlier excitement turning to dread she didn’t want to explore. She attached the prospectus to her reply email, along with several newer photos showing Van Gogh’s incredible work. Her message praised him and Jasmina for their outstanding contributions to the parlor. At last, she mentioned Dante, gushing about him the most. How his business smarts and local contacts made the operation run smoothly. She would have added more but didn’t know much about his past, what had brought him here.
Although she was tempted to google his name, she didn’t. It seemed sneaky. Something she’d do if she didn’t trust him. And she did.
With a final exhale, she sent the message on its way and brooded.
A sharp rap hit her door.
She jumped.
Dante pushed the door in and strode to her desk.
Lauren panicked, worried he knew about her emails, though she knew that was nuts. She hoped he’d haul her into his arms and kiss her. Maybe spank her. She wanted some action from him badly.
Noise from clients and a Spanish singer belting her guts out filled the parlor.
He spoke softly. “Are you busy tonight?”
She wasn’t certain what he was asking: whether she had plans to do something or if she had a guy on the side. Dante couldn’t think that, but maybe he did given her stupid behavior. Prior to her having been so mean, then going AWOL on him, he would have come in here, taken what he wanted, then told her they’d be doing something wicked after work while refusing to offer details. She missed that so much her chest hurt. “No. I’m free. Why?”
“I want to show you something.”
“Another level? There’s more?”
He laughed quietly. “You’ll see. After we finish here, all right?”
“I’m sorry.” She took his hand. “I shouldn’t have attacked you like I did.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. Forgive me, please.” She kissed his fingertips.
Dante cradled her face with his free hand. “I already have.”
He was too good a man. She’d acted like a jerk and now was keeping stuff from him. As much as she wanted to tell him about her interview and the potential buyer, she couldn’t bring herself to do so. It was too tentative, not to mention sad if it worked out. If she sold the business or got a job, she wouldn’t be able to see him whenever she wanted as she could now. They might meet infrequently for coffee or dinner, but that would probably be it. Their friendship would drift away. He’d move on. She’d have to.
“Thanks.” She fought back tears and sorrow so deep it threatened to consume her. “Should I wear clothes?”
Dante grinned as he had before she’d behaved like a shrewish fool. “At least until we get there.” He brushed his lips over hers, left the office, and closed her door without saying more.
Trying to work after that was impossible. She watched Gray’s Anatomy on Yahoo View. Then she checked out another site and got into an original series called The Next Step about teenage dancers at a Canadian studio. The lead girls were blond and beautiful. One was a total bitch, the other sweeter than Pollyanna. The writing and acting were awful, but the drama sucked her in, reminding Lauren of her high school days and the snotty girls there.
A silly-sweet teenage romance was brewing between one of the girls and a male dancer.
Rapid-fire knocks hit her door.
She jumped. “What?”
“I’m leaving now.” Jasmina drummed her nails against the wood. “Have a good night.”
“Thanks. You, too.”
Van Gogh’s listless footfalls neared. He sighed loudly. “Night.”
