That partnership, involving high-end hotels around the country as well as a select number of premier resort lodges, would not only give the featured artists a serious boost, it’d put the Saxon & Archer brand firmly back at the top of a very exclusive table. It was why Gabriel was being so hands-on when it came to choosing the artists. He’d already confirmed a gifted metal sculptor who worked at the miniature level. A painter specializing in breathtaking New Zealand landscapes was also on his list.
It was all part of his long-term plan to remind people that Saxon & Archer meant the unique and the beautiful, elegance teamed with faultless perfection. It was far from the rough and tumble of his previous position in the sustainable logging industry, when he’d worn boots and hard hats as often as he’d worn suits. However, business was business, and Gabriel understood business.
There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that at the end of his one-year-contract, he’d leave behind a thriving company. The board was already making hopeful noises about having him stay on, but Gabriel had no intention of doing so—he liked playing knight for ailing corporations. The role of a captain holding the ship steady didn’t suit him as well, though he’d make damn sure of his successor’s skill set before he moved on.
When he did, whether it was to another business that needed his skills or to focus on his significant and growing property portfolio, he’d be taking his PA with him. Let the next CEO find his or her own Ms. Baird. Not that they would—Charlotte was one of a kind.
“A seven thirty start will get us there around ten thirty,” he said to her now. “Meeting’s at eleven. We’ll have lunch afterward, be back in Auckland by five.”
“You don’t want me to hold the fort at the office?”
Staying against the car instead of closing the distance to her, he shook his head. “It’s a relatively clear day tomorrow businesswise.” It had taken three months and a small number of additional staff changes, but his management team was at the stage that he could trust them to do what needed to be done, even if he wasn’t physically there for them to consult.
Unlike that idiot, Hill, Gabriel didn’t waste his time micromanaging competent people. “You can get calls forwarded to your cell,” he added. “So, seven thirty?”
CHARLOTTE COULDN’T FIND ANY reason to say no… except for her nervousness at the roughly three-hour drive with Gabriel. “Okay,” she managed to get out, her nails digging into her palms as she hit her limit of cowardice.
No more, said a frustrated, angry part of her. No more. Her frustration was all the more intense because of how well the day had gone—she’d more than held her own with Gabriel. And now this.
“Good night, Ms. Baird.”
“Good night, Mr. Bishop.” Closing the door, she threw the deadbolt and double-locked everything, then ran quickly to the living room to watch Gabriel leave, the lights of his vehicle scything across windows set with bars. It was an unusual modification in her neighborhood, but she’d made sure it was tastefully done—the bars looked more like a decorative element than the rigid iron they actually were.
The sound of Gabriel’s car was gone a couple of seconds later, purring into the darkness.
Taking a shuddering breath, she turned on the lights in the living room, the kitchen, the hallway, the spare room, and her bedroom one by one, including in the master bathroom. Then, as she did every night, she walked through each room to make sure nothing had been moved or disturbed in her absence and that the door from the garage remained deadlocked from the inside.
Only when she was certain everything was exactly as she’d left it, all the little booby traps she’d set unsprung, did she walk into her bedroom and change into her sleeveless white eyelet nightgown. Skimming her body to the ankle, the Victorian-inspired nightgown was embellished with a thin ribbon in the same delicate peach shade as that which separated the bodice from the rest of the gown. Overall, she thought, catching a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror on the wall beside her wardrobe, it was sweetly romantic but not exactly sexy.
No, she was definitely not one of the red-rose women.
Brushing out her hair on that scowling thought, she walked into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. She’d always been a night owl, and given that it was only ten forty-five, she decided she’d read for an hour. Snuggling into bed with a Scottish historical, her teacup on the nightstand, she flipped to her bookmark but couldn’t focus. Her mind kept drifting in a single direction.
Gabriel was probably home by now. If she knew him, he’d put the briefcase on a table, take off his coat, and throw it over the back of a chair. He’d no doubt kick off his shoes and socks, walk into the bedroom as he unbuttoned his shirt to reveal that glorious wall of a chest, those wide shoulders, the ink on his body only highlighting the beauty of him.
It was truly, truly embarrassing how many nights she’d fantasized about watching Gabriel dress and undress. Even with her admonitions to herself about the danger of allowing her crush to deepen into something that could hurt her, she couldn’t stop herself. The book lay unread in front of her as she imagined him shrugging off that shirt to ball it up and chuck it into the laundry basket, his shoulders gleaming under the light.
Then his hands went to the belt of his pants.
Toes curling, she swallowed and watched the strip of black leather slide out, drop to the floor with a clink of metal softened by the carpet. His fingers went to the top button of his pants, undid it, lowered the zipper.