Best Laid Plans (Dearly Beloved) by Silver James Page A

about it. In his early fifties, his dark hair was laced with a few silver streaks that made him look distinguished. Suntanned, athletic, tall. Very tall.
    She made a note to start wearing high heels— very high heels—around him. Height had its advantages and since she was vertically challenged, she needed every advantage she could command. She waited to see if he’d speak. He didn’t.
    He turned on his heel and marched out. Moments later, his voice barked from somewhere deeper in the huge house. “My office, Ms. Vitale. Now.”
    “Ha. He wants to confront me on his own turf.” She rearranged two of the place settings on the magnificent dining room table. She and Laurel had been choosing the china for the bridal dinner when Mr. Grant interrupted them with his pronouncement.
    Taking her time in order to plan what she would say to him, she scooped up the stack of gift cards sitting on a silver tray and slid them into her planner. She would record them later as a reminder for Laurel to write thank you notes. She stopped at the Georgian side table in the entry hall and rearranged the vase of fresh flowers commanding the center of its marble top.
    Then she considered stopping by the kitchen to ask for a cold drink. Or coffee. Yes, coffee would be better. It would take longer to fix.
    ****
    “Sometime today, Ms. Vitale.” Nick’s sarcastic tone brooked no argument. He used it effectively on all his subordinates, especially the tardy ones.
    She appeared at the door to his office. His inner sanctum wasn’t the luxurious study of some dilettante. He often worked from home, given his world-wide holdings. Computers, faxes, phones—these were the decorations of his Spartan space, and that’s just the way he wanted it.
    Ms. Vitale braced her shoulder against the door jamb, one hand on her hip. “You barked?”
    Nick stared. He didn’t quite know what to do with her. She amused him. Frustrated him. And made him wonder what she’d look like if he took the pins out of that old-maid bun to allow her hair to tumble about her shoulders.
    She arched a brow and managed to look down her pert little nose at him. Considering their height difference, that was a feat. He waved a negligent hand toward the chair parked haphazardly in front of his desk. “Sit.”
    “I am not your dog, Mr. Grant.”
    “Obviously not, Ms. Vitale. My dog obeys my commands.”
    The corners of her eyes crinkled as she fought the smile threatening to break her poker face. “I’m afraid I flunked obedience school.”
    Since she made no move to take the chair he indicated, Nick settled on the front edge of his desk, leaned back a little, and folded his arms across his chest. “You interest me, Ms. Vitale.” She blinked. Score one for him. “Not many people stand up to me.”
    Something that sounded suspiciously like a snort escaped from her but she still didn’t speak. “For a woman who had a great deal to say a few minutes ago, you are strangely silent now. Marshalling your courage to beard me in my den?”
    “Beard you in your den? Please tell me you didn’t just say that. What century did you grow up in?” She pushed off the door jamb and advanced on him.
    He noted with curiosity that his heart rate increased and certain parts of his anatomy stirred with interest.
    Stopping directly in front of him, she fisted both hands on her hips, which did interesting things to the neckline of her blouse. “Ahem. Eyes up here, buster.”
    Rather than show his guilt, he trailed his gaze down, taking in her lush figure before meeting her eye-to-eye. “Buster? And you talk about my use of archaic language?”
    Her full lips curled into a parody of a smile—one that didn’t come close to reaching her eyes. He would not want to meet her across a boardroom table. Her reputation as a tough negotiator was well-deserved.
    “What do you want, Mr. Grant? I still need to calm Laurel down and get her to make a decision on the china for the reception dinner.” She