Griff stared at him for several seconds, then he began to laugh. Either somebody had set him up for a whopper of a practical joke or Speakman was out of his frigging mind.
Nobody in Griff’s life cared enough to play an elaborate joke on him. No one in his present life would go to the trouble. No one from his past would give him the time of day, much less invest the time it would take to set up this bizarre scenario and talk Speakman into going along.
No, he was betting that Speakman went beyond being an eccentric millionaire and neat freak and was, in fact, certifiable.
In any case, this was all one huge waste of time, and he’d lost patience with it. Flippantly, he said, “My job would be to fuck your wife?”
Speakman winced. “I don’t care much for the vernacular, especially in—”
“Cut the bullshit, okay? You’re hiring me to play stud. That’s basically it, right?”
Speakman hesitated, then said, “Basically? Yes.”
“And for half a mil, I guess you get to watch.”
“That’s insulting, Griff. To me. Certainly to Laura.”
“Yeah, well…” He didn’t apologize. Kinky sex was the least offensive factor of this whole interview. “About her, does she know your plan?”
“Of course.”
“Uh-huh. What does she think about it?”
Speakman rolled his chair toward an end table where a cordless phone stood in its charger. “You can ask her yourself.”
CHAPTER
3
UPSTAIRS, IN HER HOME OFFICE, LAURA SPEAKMAN CHECKED the clock on her desk. Only half an hour had elapsed since Griff Burkett’s arrival. Punctual arrival. Being on time would definitely have won him marks with Foster. But of the other impressions he was making, were they good or bad?
For thirty minutes she’d been reading a new flight attendants’ contract proposed by their union. She retained none of it. Giving up the pretense of working, she left her desk and began pacing the width of the office. It was a bright and airy room. There were drapes on the windows, carpet on the floor, crown molding at the ceiling. It was designated an office only by the desk and the computer setup concealed in an eight-foot-tall French antique armoire.
What was being said downstairs in the library? Not knowing was driving her mad, but Foster had insisted on meeting with Burkett alone.
“Let me test the waters,” he’d said. “Once I get a sense of him, I’ll ask you to join us.”
“And if your sense of him isn’t good, if you don’t think he’s suitable, then what?”
“Then I’ll send him on his way, and you will have been spared an awkward and unproductive interview.”
His plan made sense, she supposed. But it wasn’t in her nature to delegate decision making. Certainly not on something this important. Not even to her husband.
Of course, if she and Foster weren’t in complete accord about Griff Burkett’s suitability, he would be rejected. Nevertheless, she hated to miss seeing his initial reaction to their proposal and gauging that reaction for herself. How he reacted would tell a lot about him.
She looked across at the closed door and, for a moment, considered going downstairs and presenting herself. But that would violate Foster’s careful planning. He wouldn’t welcome the interruption to his schedule.
The pacing was only making her more agitated. She returned to her desk chair, reclined in it, closed her eyes, and utilized relaxation techniques she had taught herself while still a university student. After going days without a break from her studies, when her head was so packed full of information it couldn’t tolerate any more, she would force herself to lie down, close her eyes, do her deep breathing exercises, and rest, if not sleep. Practicing the technique helped. If nothing else, it slowed her down, made her admit to the limitations of mind and body.
Difficult as it was for her to accept, right now there was nothing she could do but wait.
As her agitation gradually abated, her thoughts drifted back to the events and circumstances that had brought her to this point in her life, to this day and hour, to hiring a total stranger to make a baby with her.
It had begun with the color of the uniforms…
Headlines on the business pages had blared the news when Foster Speakman, last in line of the prominent Dallas family who’d been made wealthy by oil and gas, bought the distressed SunSouth Airlines.
For years the mismanaged airline had been teetering on the brink of total collapse. It had suffered a lengthy pilots’ strike, followed by a blistering media exposé on its slipshod maintenance practices; then a disastrous crash took fifty-seven lives. Declaring bankruptcy had been the airline’s final hope of recovery, but unfortunately that last gasp hadn’t saved it.