“Ms. Lambert?” Arlene inquired softly.
The words should have indicated to Megan that her agitation was far too obvious. When had Arlene ever called her by anything but her first name? “Yes, all right. I can see Mr. Bennett for a few minutes.”
She clicked off the intercom and tried to gather her thoughts, but they escaped from her mind like whimsical fireflies, shooting off into a million directions. She thought to stand up, then changed her mind and sat back down, her decision based largely on the seeming inability of her legs to support her. There wasn't nearly enough time to prepare herself for facing her nemesis, before he strolled through her door with all the arrogant self-assurance she remembered.
He shut the door behind him. She fell victim to eyes the color of, and as multi-faceted as, topaz. He looked at her for an interminable moment before saying softly, “Hello, Megan.”
“Mr. Bennett.”
Rather than seeming put down by her chilly greeting, he appeared amused. But then she remembered that everything in life seemed to amuse him. As always, his smug condescension irritated her, and the anger he'd always engendered began to simmer again. She was glad for it. At least now she was no longer held in the grip of the catatonia that had seized her the moment she'd heard his name.
She assessed him with as much objectivity as possible. Physically he hadn't changed since she'd seen him last—at her husband's funeral.
If anything, the additional silver in his dark hair made him more magnetically attractive than ever. He possessed an animal appeal that wasn't exactly sinister but certainly was dangerous. It made a woman both curious and wary, as though she would be gambling with her virtue to be left alone with him. How well Megan knew how he used that appeal. It was all she could do to keep her lip from curling with distaste.
His tall body was still trim, hard, and powerful. Apparently he continued to work out at a gymnasium each day, while driving his employees at a pace that prevented them from taking care of themselves as well. She resented each honed muscle that curved beneath the perfectly tailored charcoal-gray suit and soft blue shirt.
He stood just inside the door with the calm self-confidence with which he handled every situation. She had no choice but to extend the common courtesy. “Won't you sit down, Mr. Bennett?”
“Thank you,” he said with a scrupulous politeness that made her blood boil. Just once she wished he'd show his true colors and laugh contemptuously at the world instead of playing his cat-and-mouse game with its lowly inhabitants. She knew that was how he really felt. The universe and everyone in it were his playthings, and he toyed with them at will, like a decadent god.
His amber eyes surveyed her insolently as he sat down across from her. Slowly he analyzed the soft, cinnamon-colored hair that feathered back from her cheek and jaw. His eyes met hers for a brief moment before moving downward to her mouth and resting there for an uncomfortably long time. She was almost grateful when they continued downward, until she felt them grazing her breasts beneath the yellow voile blouse, with its dainty vertical tucks and small pearl buttons. To her horror, she felt her nipples pouting as though obeying a softy spoken command. Why hadn't she left on the jacket to her dove-gray suit?
“You're looking well, Megan.”
“Thank you.”
“But then, you always did,” he said quickly, as if she hadn't spoken.
She made a busy project of thumbing through the folders Arlene had brought in to her earlier that morning. “I have a full schedule today, Mr. Bennett. What—”
“That's funny,” he interrupted, arching an eyebrow in the manner that caused havoc in the hearts of women. A scar jagged through his eyebrow's thick curve and made it daringly masculine. “Your secretary said your calendar was open today. That's why she granted me this interview without an appointment.”
Megan's jaw ached from the force with which she held it clenched. Putting down an urge to lash out at him that her calendar was none of his damn business, she asked tightly, “Is there trouble with how we're handling one of your clients’ accounts?”
“No, none at all,” he said easily, unbuttoning his suit coat and hoisting an ankle up to rest on the opposite knee.
His casual posture increased her vexation. If her heart was pounding and her hands were growing slippery with perspiration, the least he could do was look a little bit discomposed. Uppermost in her mind was the thought that he mustn't know how he bothered her. But he probably did know. He knew the devastating effect he had on women, and used it ruthlessly. No doubt he remembered the night when she had succumbed …
“Are you familiar with Seascape?” His question whipped her back into the present.
“Seascape? Yes, the new resort on Hilton Head.” She wanted to compliment him on his agency's outstanding publicity for the lavish new facility on the resort island off the coast of South Carolina. Extravagant ads for the soon-to-open resort were now being seen everywhere, on billboards and in magazines. However, she refrained from expressing he
r appreciation. She'd never give Joshua Bennett credit for anything except destruction. “Your agency has purchased an extensive package of television-advertising time for it.”
“That's what I want to talk to you about.”
Her heart plummeted to the pit of her stomach. The amount of television time sold to Seascape had been astronomical. Was he going to withdraw a chunk of it? All of it? It would be just like him to do something so perverse. He had been accused of being many things, but predictable wasn't one of them.
Megan had confidence in her abilities. She'd been given the sales-manager job two years ago because of her sales record. There was untold pressure associated with the job, both from petulant clients and impossible-to-please management. If she met one budget, even surpassed it, they gave her a higher one. Yet she had handled every challenge capably.
She had control over those matters. But some aspects of her job she couldn't control. The economy, for instance. Or decisions made by other people. If the NFL players went on strike and there was no football season, she lost thousands of dollars in revenue from clients who would have advertised on the football games. She also had no control over the dirty politics that were sometimes involved.
If Joshua Bennett arbitrarily pulled that plum of an account out from under them, there would be little she could do about it. Unless he made a demand of her. She shuddered even to think about what that demand might be.
With all the cool detachment she could muster, she said, “Well?”
He grinned sardonically, that lopsided, satanic grin that he must know would be sexually arousing to a woman who was less discriminating than Megan. “Ms. Hampson is handling the account for WONE.”