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When The Earth Moves
By Roxanne St. Claire Harlequin Enterprises, Ltd.
Copyright © 2005 Harlequin Enterprises, Ltd.
All right reserved. ISBN: 0-373-76648-3
Chapter One
Cameron McGrath never missed the first pitch of a Yankee game. He considered it low class, bad luck and downright disrespectful to a near-holy tradition. So when the receptionist announced that a woman waited in the main lobby of Futura Investments and insisted on seeing him, he swallowed a colorful curse.
"I don't have any more appointments today, Jen." To be certain, he flipped open his PDA and checked the calendar. Of course he wouldn't schedule anything past six on a game night. Especially when the Yankees were playing Boston. "Who's she with?"
"Uh, she's alone."
He smiled, and silently forgave the young girl's mistake. Jen had personality and charm, and that's why she was out front. "Did she say what company she's with? One of our clients? Or is it some kind of sales call?"
No doubt it was. Since he'd taken over as the top attorney at Futura Investments, it seemed he spent far too little time practicing law and way too much time over-seeing the legal department. He hadn't gotten dual graduate degrees in law and business to baby-sit junior lawyers and make decisions on office equipment, although it seemed he'd done a lot of both lately.
"She's not with any company, Mr. McGrath." The receptionist lowered her voice. "I think this is personal. I mean - she looks like someone, like maybe she's ... she looks personal."
Personal? Amanda? She could be relentless when ignored. It had only been a week since he'd called her - or was it two? Geez. He'd been perfectly honest from the beginning of their short relationship, but that didn't stop any marriage-starved Manhattan woman who had her sights set on a new last name. His.
He glanced at his watch. He'd take her along to the game. At least he wouldn't be late and she'd count it as a date. "Tell her I'll be out in a minute. Hope she's dressed for a game."
Jen's laugh sounded more like surprise than humor. "I guess it depends on what you're playing."
With Amanda, he'd place his bets on a short leather skirt, a skimpy but painfully expensive top, and heels as high as the Chrysler Building. He smiled. She could be relentless, all right. And sometimes that worked in everyone's favor.
The smile was still on his face as he loosened his tie and turned the corner toward the Futura lobby, ready to greet the former model he'd met at a fund-raiser two months earlier.
But as he glanced through the glass doors of the reception area, he froze midstep and slack-jawed.
That was not Amanda.
She stood with her back to him, studying the panoramic city view out the floor-to-ceiling windows. A pair of worn, faded jeans hugged a heart-shaped backside, with one cowboy-booted foot tapping the carpet, either in impatience or to a tune that played in her head. A thick mane of reddish-brown hair covered most of her back, just about kissing the top of those sinful-looking jeans. And on her head she wore a black cowboy hat.
She looked like one long, lean, bull-riding machine.
Did he know this woman?
As he opened the lobby door, she slowly turned, tipped her hat back on her forehead and answered that question with one heart-stopping gaze. Nope. He would never have forgotten that face. Wide-set eyes the color of copper pennies, buttercream skin and a mouth that demanded hours of close scrutiny.
And, he noticed with a bit of surprise, not a speck of makeup. He'd never even seen Amanda without makeup - or at least the remnants of it.
"Mr. McGrath?" She took a few quick strides toward him, the sound of her boot heels on the marble floor echoing the beat of his increased pulse rate.
"I'm Cam McGrath." He extended a hand in greeting. "Can I ..." Help? No, help was not on the list of things he wanted to do to and for her.
"Jo Ellen Tremaine." Her handshake was solid, but her gaze held a question, a sense of anticipation. Was he supposed to recognize her name? Was she opposing counsel on a Futura case? He was drawing a blank. Or maybe that was because his brain cells had shut down in deference to an alternative organ.
He forced himself to focus on her face, but she hoisted a tote bag over her shoulder, the action pulling her shirt a little to the side and revealing the translucent skin of her throat and collarbone.
"I know you're off to a meeting," she said. "So I won't take but a second of your time."
"No problem. It's nothing urgent." Had he just told her the Yankees and Red Sox were not urgent? He had to get a grip. Pretty women could be found on every street in New York. They just didn't generally dress for the rodeo. "What can I do for you?"
She glanced toward Jen, who hadn't missed one second of the brief interplay. "Could I speak with you privately?"
He weighed his options. Spend some time talking to this gorgeous cowgirl. Be late for the Yankees. Cowgirl. Yankees.
"My office is right down the hall." He tilted his head toward the door in invitation.
She took off her hat and shook out her hair, causing some silky strands to fall over her shoulders. His gaze dropped to her pale-blue button-down shirt, complete with silver snaps.
Yeehaw.
Holding the door, he managed a good long look at the fitted back pockets of her jeans again. The Yankees would play at home eighty-one times this season. A jaw-dropping version of Dale Evans would only appear in his office once. He had definitely made the right choice.
"Can I offer you something to drink, Ms. Tremaine?" he asked as they entered his office and he closed the door.
"You can call me Jo. And unless you have an ice-cold Bud on tap, I'm fine."
He chuckled a little. "Wouldn't you know it? My office tap is out." He suddenly remembered the six-pack of Amber Bock in his refrigerator at home. Intended for Saturday's softball game, but easily replaced. "Or we could go somewhere else."
"No, thanks." She stood in the middle of the room, her gaze direct and unwavering. "This won't take that long. I hope."
He heard an infinitesimal catch in her voice, something only a lawyer trained to sniff out half-truths and cover-ups would notice.
He gestured toward the sofa in the sitting area of his office. "Please. Have a seat."
She folded herself into one of the chairs, her faded denim and black boots looking oddly out of place on the chrome-and-leather divan he'd had designed when he took over the massive corner office.
"Are you from around here ... Jo?" The name suited her. She wasn't feminine. Womanly, oh, yeah. But nothing fluttered in her movements, not her fingers, not her eyelashes. Jo. He liked it.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from When The Earth Moves by Roxanne St. Claire Copyright © 2005 by Harlequin Enterprises, Ltd. . Excerpted by permission.
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