Callie paused at the threshold to the restaurant lobby. Her reflection in the highly polished glass door showed that, aside from the recalcitrant strands of hair and the slight shine on her nose and cheeks from her power walk to the venue, she looked just fine. She drew in a deep breath and tucked her slim brown Vuitton document case under one arm.
The sudden gloom of the entrance forced Callie to push her sunglasses up onto her head and she scanned the dining room beyond for a sign of Tremont.
“Can I help you, madam?”
Callie fought back a smile at the hoity-toity demeanour of the maitre d’. She doubted he’d be as polite if he knew that twelve years ago she’d dined frequently from the Dumpster at the back of this kitchen and others like it, but then the insides of places like this were all about appearances, and she knew all about how important such appearances were. She arranged her features into a screen of patronising calm before responding.
“I’m meeting Mr Tremont.”
“Ah, yes, you must be Ms Lee. Please, come through. Mr Tremont is already waiting.”
His implication that she was late and that Mr Tremont wasn’t in the habit of being kept waiting was painfully clear in the disdainful glance he cast her. Callie followed the stiff-backed maitre d’ as he preceded her through the nearly full dining room, toward a private alcove near the rear. She fought the urge to poke out her tongue at the man’s back. But at the sage old age of twenty-eight she knew better than to give in to impulses that could lead you into trouble.
“Ms Lee for you, sir.”
Callie had seen pictures of Josh Tremont in the gossip columns as well as in business magazines, but she was unprepared for the sizzling power of being pinned by his electric-blue eyes when he lifted his gaze from the PDA in his hand. Now she knew what people meant when they referred to that “caught in the headlights” moment. That time in space when you froze, unsure of whether to flee or fight.
She’d come prepared for the latter, but face-to-face with the man himself she wished she’d been in a position to have refused his invitation outright. A flutter of something she didn’t want to admit might be attraction shifted in the pit of her belly.
“Mr Tremont,” Callie said, deciding to take the initiative and offer her hand.
Josh Tremont uncrossed his leg and placed his PDA on the crisp white linen tablecloth in front of him before standing to accept her hand. Callie’s heart jumped a beat as his long fingers closed around hers and irrationally she wondered how his hands would feel on other parts of her body. Strong, capable, warm. Another tiny pull threaded through her body and yanked, hard.
No wonder the man featured so widely in all the papers. His allure was overwhelming and, she realised, he’d yet to utter a single word.
He let go of her hand and gestured to the seat opposite, waiting for the maitre d’ to pull out her chair and see her settled before he sat again himself.
The dark silver-grey suit he wore, teamed with a black shirt and tie, befitted his outlaw-type dark good looks. And, even though it was only one in the afternoon, already he’d begun to sport a shadow on his cheeks—just enough to take the completely polished edge off the man who she knew was ranked right up there on New Zealand’s rich list.
“I’m pleased you could make it, Callie Rose.”
Callie stiffened in her chair as his deep voice washed over her like a brush of warm velvet.
“Only those close to me call me Callie Rose,” she said firmly, determined to draw her line in the sand as quickly as possible. “You may call me Callie, or Ms Lee.”
The slow smile that spread across his face was mesmerising. Genuine humour sparked in his eyes, tiny lines appearing at the corners, before the corners of his sensually shaped lips pulled into a curve. He bent his head slightly in acknowledgement.
“Callie,” he smiled fully now, the full strength of his charisma aimed front and centre. “Can I offer you something to drink before lunch?”
“Just iced mineral water, thank you.”
She kept her posture upright, her features schooled into an expression of polite disinterest. She would not smile back at him. She. Would. Not.
The man was unscrupulous. Unscrupulous and highly intelligent, and with every business coup he successfully completed he threatened Palmer Enterprises just that much more. She would have to work hard to make him believe he would be using her as his latest stepping-stone to usurping Palmers’ position rather than the other way around.
He placed their order for drinks—to her surprise, ordering the same beverage for himself.
“You don’t need to drink water just because I am,” she said.