"If you didn't make them, I wouldn't have to find them. But…" She held up a hand, not so much to avoid the argument as to make a point. "I'll stay at the counter, and I have twenty bucks that says I make more sales than you by the time we close."
"In your dreams, Powell."
On Monday morning, Kate wasn't thinking about dreams or treasure hunts. At nine sharp, with her third cup of coffee at her elbow, her computer booted, she was behind her desk in her office at Bittle and Associates. Following her daily routine, she had already removed her navy pin-striped jacket, draped it behind her chair, and rolled up the sleeves of her starched white shirt.
The sleeves would be rolled back down and the jacket neatly buttoned into place for her eleven o'clock meeting with a client, but for now it was just Kate and numbers.
And that was how she liked it best.
The challenge of making numbers dance and shuffle and fall neatly into place had always fascinated her. There was a beauty in the ebb and flow of interest rates, T-bills, mutual funds. And a power, she could privately admit, in understanding, even admiring, the caprice of finance, and confidently advising clients how best to protect their hard-earned money.
Not that it was always hard-earned, she thought with a snort as she studied the account on her screen. A good many of her clients had earned their money the old-fashioned way.
They'd inherited it.
Even as the thought crossed her mind, she cringed. Was that her father in her, sneering at those who had inherited wealth? Taking a deep breath, she rubbed a hand over the tense spot in the back of her neck. She had to stop this, seeing ghosts around every thought in her head.
It was her job to advise and protect and to ensure that any account she handled through Bittle was served well. Not only was she not envious of her clients' portfolios, she worked hand in glove with lawyers, bookkeepers, brokers, agents, and estate planners to provide each and every one of them the very best in short- and long-term financial advice.
That, she reminded herself, was who she was.
What she reveled in was the numbers, their stoic and dependable consistency. For Kate two and two always and forever equaled four.
To realign herself, she skimmed through a spreadsheet for Ever Spring Nursery and Gardens. In the eighteen months since she had taken over that account, she'd watched it slowly, cautiously expand. She believed strongly in the slow and the cautious, and this client had taken her direction well. True, the payroll had swelled, but the business justified it. Outlay for the health plan and employee benefits was high and nipped at the profit margin, but as a woman raised by the Templetons, she also firmly believed in sharing success with the people who helped you earn it.
"A good year for bougainvillea," she muttered, and made a note to suggest that her client ease some of the last quarter's profits into tax-free bonds.
Render unto Caesar, sure, she thought, but not one damn penny more than necessary.
"You look beautiful when you're plotting."
Kate glanced up, her fingers automatically hitting the keys to store her data and bring up her screen saver. "Hello, Roger."
He leaned against the doorjamb. Posed, was Kate's unflattering thought. Roger Thornhill was tall, dark, and handsome, with classic features reminiscent of Gary Grant in his prime. Broad shoulders fit beautifully under a tailored gray suit jacket. He had a quick, brilliant smile, dark-blue eyes that zeroed in flatteringly on a woman's face, and a smooth baritone that flowed like melted honey.
Perhaps it was for all of those reasons that Kate couldn't abide him. It was only coincidence that they were on the same fast track for partnership. That, she assured herself often, had nothing to do with why he annoyed her.
Or just a very little to do with it.
"Your door was open," he pointed out and strolled in without invitation. "I figured you weren't very busy."
"I like my door open."
He flashed that wide, toothy smile and eased a hip onto the corner of her desk. "I just got back from Nevis. A couple of weeks in the West Indies sure clears out the system after the tax crunch." His gaze roamed over her face. "You should have come with me."
"Roger, when I won't even have dinner with you, why would you think I'd spend two weeks frolicking with you in the sand and surf?"
"Hope springs eternal?" He took one of the pencils, sharpened like swords, from her Lucite holder, slid it idly through his fingers. Her pencils were always sharpened and always kept in the same place. There was nothing in her office that didn't have a proper slot. He knew all of them. An ambitious man, Roger made use of what he knew.
He also made use of charm, keeping his eyes on hers, smiling. "I'd just like us to get to know each other again, outside the office. Hell, Kate, it's been almost two years."
Deliberately, she raised an eyebrow. "Since?"
"Okay, since I messed things up." He put the pencil down. "I'm sorry. I don't know how else to say it."
"Sorry?" Voice mild, she rose to refill her coffee, though the third cup wasn't sitting well. She sat again, watching him as she sipped. "Sorry that you were sleeping with me and one of my clients at the same time? Or that you were sleeping with me in order to get to my client? Or that you seduced said client into moving her account from my hands to yours? Which of those are you apologizing for, Roger?"
"All of them." B