THE COMEBACK OF CON MACNEILL Page 12

  Con looked up slowly from his laptop, fighting the swift, helpless rise of lust. It was eleven o'clock on a Monday. The restaurant was closed, the bank was open, and he was frustrated by his failure to find a paper trail. He didn't need Val Cutler trashing his concentration.

  "Good morning to you, too," he said.

  She smiled then, making his insides knot, and ran slim fingers through her hair. "Good morning."

  Her eyes were gray as rain and smudged with fatigue. She looked tired, he thought, and felt a quick squeeze of concern.

  "How'd things go at the women's shelter?" he asked.

  She shrugged. Under the fluid front of her dress, her breasts moved. He was pretty sure she wasn't wearing a bra. His jaw set with annoyance. He felt like a pervert, drooling over her while they discussed her friend's predicament.

  "All right, I think. Ann's agreed to counseling. If she and Mitchell decide to stay at the shelter, I'll take her back to the house this afternoon to pack a bag."

  The risks she was willing to assume scared him. His own protective reaction scared him even more. "We'll take her," he corrected her evenly.

  She rolled her eyes. "You can come along if you insist."

  Meaning, she didn't want him. She didn't need him. Hell, he knew that. "I insist."

  "Okay." She came forward into the office, her full skirt flirting with her calves. "Ann said she'd call me when she decided what to do. In the meantime, can you find me the money?"

  "How much do you need?"

  "Enough to hire Ann full-time. Enough for her and Mitchell to live on."

  Con raised his brows and picked up a pencil. "What can she do? What skills does she have?"

  Val perched on the corner of the desk, propping one foot on the arm of his chair. Her ankles were slim and tanned and sexy. He was in sorry shape when even looking at an ankle turned him on.

  "Well, she can operate the cash register. She greets and seats customers for me sometimes. Types menus. Runs errands. I was thinking something at the front end of the house?"

  "You do all that stuff already," he felt compelled to point out. "You can't afford to pay someone else to do it."

  "That's why I came to you."

  So she needed him, after all. Too bad it was only his business skills she wanted.

  Feel free to take advantage of any services you want.

  Never mind that. Define the problem, he told himself.

  "Well, if you're hiring new staff, you either need to increase your income or decrease your expenses. This could be a good time to open the restaurant for dinner. Maybe just on weekends for a start," he added in response to her quick frown. "You could still handle lunch, and evenings Ann could take over."

  "I'd have to do dinner," Val objected. "Ann needs to be home for Mitchell at night."

  "Whatever. However you want to do it."

  She regarded him for a long moment, her eyes amused and aware. "I'm not sure I want to do it at all. But you knew that." She blew out her breath. "All right. What else?"

  "As for reducing expenses," he said carefully, "I've put together a list of cost-cutting measures that—"

  "I'm not sacrificing quality," she interrupted.

  His lick of temper surprised him. It was perfectly rational of her to question his recommendations. But he found himself wanting her trust. "I'm not suggesting you should. Why don't you at least review the damn list before you reject my ideas?"

  "Well, excuse me." But she took the list. Scanned it. "I think you're right about standardizing portion sizes," she said at last, looking up. "I'll talk to Steven. But these two menu substitutions won't work."

  "Look, I'm no cook, but I checked with several area restaurants. The most popular lunch items for your target market are—"

  "Fried chicken salad and french fries. So what?"

  "So, you should offer the same as your competitors. I know marketing."

  "And I know my clientele. I offer a Greek salad and a roasted potato medley."

  "That's not the same."

  "That's the whole point. My customers can go to any one of half a dozen places for the same-old same-old. When they come here, they want something different."

  "Will you at least try it?"

  "Maybe." She grinned. "If I can send the complaints to you."

  "There won't be any complaints."

  "Then you don't have anything to worry about, do you?"

  She was quick. It was one more thing to like about her, however difficult it made his job. "Sure of yourself, aren't you?"

  "Aren't you? Mr. Business Solutions."

  He wouldn't apologize. "It's what I get paid for."

  "It's not just your job. You like being in charge. Look at the way you jumped on Rob last night."

  Her quick change of subject drove him on the defensive. "I was protecting you."

  "Thank you. But I don't like feeling that I need protection. As long as Rob was talking, I had the chance to change his mind. Once the confrontation got physical, I lost all control over the situation."

  "Not quite," he said dryly. "You did have me."

  "But I didn't. I can't control you. I have no control over your actions."

  "Look, Dixie, you don't need to control my actions. You just need to believe that I can." It all boiled down to trust, he figured. She still didn't trust him. "So what if I can beat on Rob Cross and you can't? You think that makes us less than equal?"

  She put up her chin. "More to the point, is that what you think?"

  "This isn't an arm-wrestling contest. I think you can hold your own."

  "My father wouldn't agree with you."

  Damn. Was that what this was about? Growing up under her father's rule, was it herself—her strength, her spirit, her own resolve—that Val didn't trust?

  "Yeah, well, I had different examples growing up. They don't come any tougher than my dad, but my mom matched him and kept us all in line."

  "That's because your father was overseas all the time." Con grinned suddenly. "You wouldn't say that if you'd met my mother."

  Her answering smile was wistful. "I'd like to."

  "Tell you what, why don't you come to my brother's for dinner sometime?"

  The invitation surprised them both. He saw her eyes widen. He wasn't sure he wanted her that close himself. He had plans, and she wasn't part of them. Not to mention that the last time he'd brought a girl to "meet the family" could hardly be called a resounding success.

  "I don't know…"

  Oddly enough, her uncertainty convinced Con it wasn't such a bad idea. At least she wouldn't look down her nose at Patrick's family, or worse, try too hard to please and impress.

  "Maybe Wednesday, before I go. Or we could do it when I get back," he said.

  Her brow creased. "Where are you going?"

  "Boston. I've got a trip at the end of the week."

  It was none of her business where Con MacNeill went or when, Val reminded herself. It would be a relief to get him out of her hair and off her mind.

  "What kind of trip?" she asked, and bit her lip. She sounded like her mother.

  He leaned back in his chair, looking faintly amused. "Job interview. Going to miss me?"

  "I haven't thought about it." But she was afraid she might. She twitched her braid over her shoulder. "I just thought you might stick around to deal with things here."

  "It's important, or I wouldn't go. Vice president of Northern Ventucom," he explained, as if that would have some significance for her.

  The only significance Val could find was that she'd let herself rely on him and he was leaving.

  Something of what she felt must have shown in her face, because he added, "I'm not leaving your restaurant in the lurch, Dixie."

  "I'm not worried about the restaurant. I'm worried about Rob Cross. You questioned his handling of my account. You humiliated him in front of his wife. He's not going to just go away while you fly off somewhere."

  Con straightened, all amusement gone. "I'll deal with Cross.
"

  "From Boston?"

  A muscle jumped in Con's jaw. "Are you asking me to stay?" he asked quietly.

  Oh, dear Lord, she wanted to. The thought appalled her. Was she already so dependent on him that his very presence comforted her?

  "Of course not." She'd told him she could take care of the situation herself. She preferred taking care of things herself. Nothing had changed. His leaving proved that. "I'm simply suggesting that the next time you're tempted to get involved you consider the consequences."

  "I don't need you to lecture me on responsibility."

  "No?" she asked crossly. She was tired. Her head pounded, and the odd hollow feeling inside her had spread. She wrapped her arms around her stomach. Maybe it had been a mistake to skip breakfast this morning. "What about Mitchell? At the moment he imagines you're some kind of cross between Daddy Warbucks and Sir Lancelot. What am I supposed to tell him about you leaving?"

  "You could try telling him I'm coming back. It's an overnight, Dixie, that's all."

  "And if you get offered the job?"

  He hesitated.

  She tossed back her hair. "Yeah, that's what I thought."

  His eyes narrowed with temper. "Any commitments I make will naturally be contingent on my fulfilling my obligations here."

  "Big words," she scoffed. "Try asking an eight-year-old sometime how he likes being considered an obligation. I know I sure as heck don't." She hopped off the desk, disappointed in him and furious with herself for letting it matter. For letting it show. "I've got to run."

  His voice stopped her at the door. "What time are we picking up Ann?"

  She jerked one shoulder irritably. "I don't know."

  "What time?"

  "You don't need to come."

  He met her glare with a long, level look of his own. "Maybe I do."

  Her thighs went as soft as butterscotch left in the sun. Darn him. Did he have any idea what it did to a woman when he looked at her with promise in his eyes?

  Of course he did, she scolded herself. The man had a mind like a calculator, adding, ticking.

  "Ann's supposed to call me," she said coolly. "I'll let you know."

  Con watched her sweep from the room in her rainy day dress, frustration twisting inside him. What did she want from him, anyway? He drummed his fingers on the desk. The ceramic pig that held her pencils smirked.

  Hell. For a moment there, he'd actually considered calling Josh Wainbridge to put off the interview until next week some time, when the situation here was more settled.

  Which was ridiculous.

  Opportunities like Ventucom didn't wait. The vice president position represented his best chance for a corporate comeback, to recoup his place in Boston's moneyed set and recover his self-respect. It was everything he'd worked for, everything he'd wanted.

  Damn Val Cutler's stubborn priorities for blunting his enthusiasm for the trip.

  His hand closed around the pencil. Con is very motivated, his fifth-grade teacher had written on his report card. Driven, his Harvard classmates had acknowledged. Ambitious as hell, his co-workers had muttered.

  He wasn't used to being hedged by another person's hopes, fettered by someone else's trust. It was a kind of connection, an accountability, he hadn't felt since leaving home. A sense of belonging. Of limits.

  He had every intention of fulfilling his contract with Cutler. But what was he supposed to do with this nagging sense of obligation to Cutler's daughter?

  The furious echo of her words challenged him. Try asking an eight-year-old sometime how he likes being an obligation. I sure as heck don't.

  * * *

  Val rested her forehead on the steering wheel as if she could drive her headache away. The last place on earth she wanted to be was the bank. The last man on earth she wanted to see was Con MacNeill. The shark. The rat. He was probably in there right now reporting to her father on his clever cost-cutting measures before he flew away to Boston.

  But Ann had been so relieved by Con's offer to go with them that Val had promised to fetch him. So, here she was, baking in the bank parking lot in her little tin can of a car, waiting for Con to finish his business inside and come out.

  "I won't take long," Ann had said, her face swollen and her eyes pleading. "We just need a few things. But it would be so nice to have him there. Just in case…"

  In case Rob came.

  Shoot. Val raised her head and glanced at her watch. Two forty-nine. If Ann was going to get packed and be gone before Rob returned home from work, Val needed to collect Con now. She pulled her keys from the ignition, hitched her canvas tote over her shoulder and crawled out of the car.

  Cool air rushed to envelop her as she tugged on the bank's thick glass door. The bank lobby was nearly empty. A farmer in clay-coated work boots and a NASCAR cap waited by the velvet rope. A harried mother held her squirming toddler on the counter while a glossy-lipped young woman with styled dark hair counted out bills. Val squinted at her brass nameplate. Donna Winston.

  Donna? As in, he - cheats - on - me - with - Donna - at - the - bank Donna? What could that polished, pretty woman possibly see in Rob?

  But Val already knew. A blond bank vice president with a thirty-four-inch waist, an eight handicap and a six-figure salary probably looked pretty good to a bright young thing tired of shooting pool with the good old boys down at Tim's Tavern. Pickings were slim in Cutler.

  Con's words came back to taunt her. I won't be in town forever.

  She bit her lip. Nodding to the security guard—Alex? Eric? His brother had been a year behind her in high school—she pushed through the gate that separated the lobby from the private offices.

  Back here, the walls were a deep rich gray and the floor marble. Very tasteful. Very cold. Shivering in her sleeveless blue dress, Val passed the open cubicles that served the loan and proof departments. Rob's office door was open, but his lights were off. She hadn't seen him after his fight with Con. Had he stayed home rather than explain his bruises?

  Or was he out looking for Ann?

  The marble hallway ended in a pool of carpet. A big empty desk floated in the center, banked by a couple of red leather chairs and some waxy-looking palms. Her father's efficient secretary must have stepped away, leaving the citadel unguarded. The inner office door was ajar.

  Val hesitated. Edward Cutler had never been an advocate of Take Our Daughters to Work Day. Sylvia Cutler had raised their daughter not to bother Daddy at the bank. On the other hand, Con was probably in there discussing the financial future of her restaurant. A discussion about her business was her business.

  She skirted the desk, the sound of her chunky-heeled sandals absorbed by the deep-pile carpet. Her soft tap on the door was overpowered by the raised voices within.

  "That's nonsense," her father was insisting. "Rob's department exists to prevent exactly the kind of mistake you're talking about."

  Con's deep, cool voice answered. Good, Val thought. At least she'd tracked him down.

  "I'm not saying there's a mistake. From where I stand it looks like a deliberate manipulation of deposits."

  What deposits? Her deposits? She stopped with her hand on the door.

  "Do you have any proof of that?" Edward Cutler asked sharply.

  "There won't be proof if the original receipts have been destroyed."

  "But what you're suggesting is impossible without the collaboration of someone in the bank."

  "Precisely."

  Edward laughed shortly. "God, you've got some nerve. It's not me, if that's what you're driving at."

  "Then let me find out who it is."

  "Let you go snooping around, casting aspersions against members of my staff… Certainly not. I won't have you interfering in my business."

  "You didn't have any trouble with me interfering in your daughter's business."

  "I hired you to advise her. Not cook up some cockamamie excuse for her mismanagement. What's she giving you to come in here and make unjustified allegations against my
bank? It sure as hell isn't money, because she hasn't got any."

  The insult hit like a slap in the face. Val sucked in her breath.

  "If you weren't her father I'd deck you for that," Con said quietly.

  She pressed her hands to her stinging face. She didn't need Con's backing. She'd trained herself—she thought she'd trained herself—not to care what Edward Cutler thought of her. It surprised her how much his words still had the power to hurt and how comforting she found Con's support.

  "Don't threaten me, MacNeill. I'll see you pay."

  "You're the one who will pay if something's going on and you don't get to the bottom of it."

  "You don't know what you're talking about. It doesn't cost you anything to waltz in here and throw around accusations."

  "You think it should cost me something? Fine. Name it."

  Oh, no. Squaring her shoulders, Val pushed open the door. "I wouldn't recommend it," she drawled.

  Edward stiffened, but for once her father's disapproval carried little weight. Her gaze automatically sought Con.

  He turned. His eyes narrowed. "How long have you been out there?"

  She smiled, not the least bit intimidated by his I-eat-nice-girls-like-you-for-breakfast tone. He was being honest and decent and brave. And if he didn't like her knowing about it, that was just too darn bad.

  "Long enough to know you're making a mistake. Both of you. Con's trying to help, Daddy. And, Con—" she faced him squarely, realizing her heart probably showed in her eyes and not caring "—never offer my daddy a bargain. There're men walking around all over town without their shirts who could tell you that."

  His gleam of appreciation sent warmth curling through her stomach. "Thanks, but I'll stand by my report. And my offer."

  Edward Cutler pursed his lips. Here it comes, Val thought. "Let me make you a deal, MacNeill. If you can prove that someone at my bank is somehow at fault, you get my handsome apology and a nice bonus for the job. But—" Edward raised a manicured finger "—if there's no evidence of wrongdoing, I fire you from this job. And I'll do my damnedest to see you don't get another one."

  Val shook her head. "No."

  "Fine," Con said at the same time.