Billionaire With a Twist(9)
Both Chuck and Hunter sat up visibly higher in their seats, intrigued, but Harry just sneered. “So your big idea is just to copy what other people have done? Guess this is what you get when you ask a woman for something original.”
Next to him, the other Douchebros shifted, clearly uncomfortable. It was one thing to insult me when I was on my own, with no way for me to back up any allegations I might want to make. It was apparently another thing entirely to do it in front of a potential client, who might decide not to go with our company at all if Harry kept this up. Poor Douchebros—they wanted to back up their alpha male, but they also wanted to keep their jobs. It must be so difficult being an *.
Meanwhile, Hunter’s glare could have frozen lava. “You’ve had your turn.” He directed his gaze back to me, dismissing Harry completely. “How would you suggest we implement your plan, Miss Bartlett?”
I smiled sweetly, forcing myself not to dwell on my nemeses. “Well, obviously we’d need to do in-depth research of your company, get a look at all the first-hand documentation we can find,” I explained. “This won’t work with just the info we can pull off Wikipedia. Of course, we will need to use the internet—basically, I’m thinking we begin to establish an online presence, reaching out to fans with fun messages while also creating a historical archive that we’ll be updating. Are you familiar with George Takei’s online presence? A good sense of humor mixed with some real feeling, plus a talented PR team that took him from ‘obscure original Star Trek actor’ to ‘Internet celebrity’ overnight. I really think we could take a page from his book.”
“I’m sorry,” Chuck interrupted, “but a historical archive? That’s just not sexy. That’s not going to sell.” The Douchebros murmured in agreement, but I refused to back down.
“With all due respect,” I said, setting my jaw. “If you go with the sex angle, you’ll only be drowning yourself in a sea of identical alcohol ads. You need something that stands out from the pack, something that’s at once both culturally relevant and timeless, something classic, something that says…” I paused, grasping for exactly the right word, every set of eyes in the room glued to me. And then, what Hunter mentioned earlier about Knox being a ‘family business’ came rushing back. “That says legacy,” I finished. The room went silent.
“Legacy. You’re absolutely right,” Hunter said, standing abruptly and holding out his hand. A warm smile spread itself across his face. “I love it. You’ve got the job.”
For a second I could only stare at his hand in shock, as if I expected it to disappear. I had put together the strongest case I could, and I’d hoped I could succeed, but this was so sudden—my heart was suddenly going a million miles a minute, a buzzing filled my ears—
I had the job.
I had the job.
I had the job!
I realized his hand was still hanging there, and I grabbed it. A tingle of electricity shot through me at his firm grasp, and the warmth of his skin. His honey eyes were so warm, so inviting…his thumb brushed lightly over my palm…Oh God, was I blushing?
I pumped his hand heartily to try to distract from my rapidly reddening cheeks. “Thank you, Mr. Knox! I won’t let you down!”
Now all I had to do was keep that promise.
#
“Miss Bartlett!”
I was brought up short by Hunter’s deep, honeyed voice. For a second my mind flashed to an alternate reality where we’d spent the entire evening in bed; there was something incredibly seductive about the idea of him staying entirely formal even as our naked bodies intertwined, whispering ‘Miss Bartlett’ even as his fingers trailed down my back, slid between my—
“Miss Bartlett.”
And suddenly that voice was a lot closer. I almost choked, and fighting down a blush that could have started a forest fire, turned to face him: “Yes, Mr. Knox?”
Oh good, that sounded almost normal. Barely like I wanted to rip his shirt off at all.
He frowned slightly, and pulled me to the side, far enough away from the rest that they couldn’t overhear us while we talked quietly. In a low voice, he said, “I’m really sorry that I—well, if I’d known that you were here for this bid—”
“No, don’t apologize, I mean, I should’ve asked your name—” I smoothed my skirt awkwardly. “I mean, that’s not normally my style, to just—well.”
“No, it’s certainly not mine, either—that is, well, it has been in the past, but I have always believed in treating women with respect, and you certainly deserve respect and I wouldn’t want you to believe for a second that I chose your pitch for anything other than its merit, and—”
He was starting to sound more flustered than a preacher in a whorehouse, and I took pity on him.
“Don’t worry about it, Mr. Knox. It was a clearly a one-time thing for both of us. I don’t think it will be an issue. We can be professional and move on, can’t we?”
“Of course,” he said after a pause. “That’s exactly the right course of action.” Yet somehow he didn’t sound as relieved as I thought he would.
I looked up at him sharply, about to ask if professionalism was really what he wanted, but he was already looking over my shoulder, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Hmmm…what’s the plural noun for a group of vultures?”