LITMIR.BIZ

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CFO, had assured her this was her only option. Her last, best hope to salvage anything from Biedermann’s.

      Still, the thought of selling the company twisted her gut into achy knots. Beidermann’s had been in her family since her great-great-grandfather had moved to New York from Germany and opened the first store in 1868. For her, Biedermann’s wasn’t just a company, it was her history, her heritage. Her family.

      But it was also her responsibility. And if she couldn’t save it herself, then she’d hand it over to someone who could, even if doing so made her stomach feel like it was about to flip itself inside out.

      She should be more comfortable sitting at this table than most people were in their own bedrooms. And yet she found herself strumming her fingers against the gleaming wood as she fought nausea.

      Beside her, Marty rested his hand over hers. He seemed to be aiming for reassuring, but his touch sent a shiver of disgust through her.

      He stroked the backs of her fingers. “Everything will be all right.”

      She stiffened, jerking her hand out from under his. “I beg your pardon?”

      “You seemed nervous.”

      “Nonsense.” Still, she buried her hand in her lap. She didn’t handle sympathy well under normal circumstances. Now it made her feel like she was going to shatter. He looked pointedly at the spot on the table she’d been drumming on, to which she replied, “I’m impatient. They’re seven minutes late and I have a reservation for lunch at Bruno’s.”

      Marty’s lips twitched. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

      Something like panic clutched her heart. So, he thought he saw right through her. Well, others had thought that before. “Don’t be ridiculous, Marty. I’ve been pretending to be interested in your conversations for years. I’m certainly not going to stop now.”

      For an instant, a stricken expression crossed his face and regret bit through her nerves. Dang it. Why did she say things like that? Why was it that whenever she was backed into a corner, she came out fighting?

      She was still contemplating apologizing when the door opened and Casey stuck her head through. “Mr. Ford Langley and Mr. Jonathon Bagdon are here.”

      Awash in confusion, she nearly leaped to her feet. “Ford Langley? Is here?”

      Then she felt Marty’s steady hand on hers again. “Mr. Langley’s the CEO of FMJ. He’s come in person for the negotiations.”

      She stared blankly at Marty, her mind running circles around one thought. Ford Langley.

      He was here? He was the CEO of FMJ? Impossible. Ford Langley was an ignorant cowboy. She’d left him in Texas and would never see him again.

      She must have misheard. Or misunderstood her assistant just now. Or misremembered the name of the stranger she’d slept with. Or perhaps through some cruel trick of fate, the CEO of FMJ and the stranger shared the same odd name.

      Each of these possibilities thundered through her mind as she struggled to regain her composure. Mistaking her confusion, Marty must have spoken for her and told Casey to show in the people from FMJ.

      She barely had time to school her panic into a semblance of calm before the door to the conference room swung open and there he was. Fate had pulled a much crueler trick on her than merely giving two men the same name. No, fate had tricked her into selling her beloved company to the same man to whom she’d already given her body.

      What had he expected?

      Okay, he hadn’t thought she’d jump up, run across the room and throw her arms around him. But he sure as hell hadn’t expected the complete lack of response. The coolly dismissive blank stare. As if she didn’t recognize him at all. As if he were beneath her notice.

      Her gaze barely flickered over him as she looked from him to Jonathon. Then she glanced away, looking bored. Someone from Biedermann’s had stood and was making introductions. Ford shook hands at the right moment, filing away the name and face of Kitty’s CFO.

      She looked good. Lovely, in fact. As smoothly polished as the one-dimensional woman in the Nagel painting poster he’d had on his wall as a teenager. Beautiful. Pale. Flat.

      Gone was the vibrant woman he’d danced with in The Well two months ago. By the time the introductions were done, one thing had become clear. She was going to pretend they’d never met before. She was going to sit through this meeting all the while ignoring the fact that they’d once slept together. That he’d touched her bare skin, caressed her thighs, felt her body tremble with release.

      Which was exactly what he should do, too. Hell, wasn’t that what he had planned on doing?

      Just as Jonathon was pulling out his chair, Ford said, “Before we get started, I wonder if I could have a word alone with Ms. Biedermann.”

      Jonathon sent him a raised-eyebrowed, do-you-know-what-you’re-doing? kind of look. Kitty’s CFO hovered by her side, like an overly protective Chihuahua.

      Ford gave the man his most reassuring smile while nodding slightly at Jonathon. He knew Jonathon would back him up and get the other guy out of there. Jonathon wouldn’t question his actions, even if Ford was doubting them himself.

      Something was up with Kitty and he intended to find out what it was.

      Kitty watched Marty leave the conference room, fighting the urge to scream. An image flashed through her mind of herself wild-eyed and disheveled, pulling at her hair and shouting “Deserter! Traitor!” like some mad Confederate general about to charge into battle and to his death, all alone after his men have seen reason and fled the field.

      Clearly, she’d been watching too many old movies.

      Obviously her time would have been better spent practicing her mental telepathy. Then she could have ordered Marty to stay. As it was, she couldn’t protest without Ford realizing how much the prospect of being alone with him terrified her.

      The moment the door shut, leaving them alone in the room, he crossed to her side. “Hello, Kitty.”

      She stood, nodding. Praying some response would spring to her lips. Something smart. Clever. Something that would cut him to the bone without seeming defensive.

      Sadly nothing came to mind. So she left it at the nod.

      “You look …” Then he hesitated, apparently unsure which adjective best described her.

      “I believe ‘well’ is usually how one finishes that sentence.” Oh, God. Why couldn’t she just keep her mouth shut?

      “That’s not what I was going to say.”

      “Well, you seem to be having trouble finishing the sentence,” she supplied. “Since I’m sure I look just fine and since I’d much rather get this over with than stand around exchanging pleasantries, I thought I’d move things along.”

      He raised his eyebrows as if taken aback by her tone. “You aren’t curious why I’m here?”

      That teasing tone stirred memories best left buried in the recesses of her mind. Unfortunately, those pesky memories rose up to swallow her whole, like a tsunami.

      As if it were yesterday instead of two months or more, she remembered what it had felt like to be held in his arms. Cradled close to his body as they swayed gently back and forth on the dance floor. The way he’d smelled, musky yet clean against the sensory backdrop of stale smoke and spilled beer. The way her body had thrummed to life beneath his touch. The way she’d quivered. The way she’d come.

      She thrust aside the memories, praying he wouldn’t notice that her breath had quickened. Thankful he couldn’t hear the pounding of her heart or see the hardening of her nipples.

      Hiding her discomfort behind a display of boredom, she toyed with the papers on the table where she’d been sitting. She couldn’t stand to look at him, so she pretended to read through them

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