Paolo appeared shocked. Before he had time to respond, the hired car pulled through the gates. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me.” He needed to get out of there. Now. He strode to the car, flung open the door, and slid inside.

What a fucking disastrous day. And it wasn’t even noon.

Chapter 7

Monica finished her fifth call of the morning when Stella walked into the office carrying an enormous vase of flowers. A profusion of freesias, peonies, and lilies filled the air with their sweet aroma.

Stella placed them on the small credenza across from the desk. “These came for you.” She adjusted the vase this way and that before handing over an envelope bearing Monica’s name, written in a bold scrawl.

Cal. Monica dropped it on her desk like it was radioactive. “Thanks.”

“Well, aren’t you going to open it?”

“Yep.” She gave Stella a pointed look.

“Fine, I’m leaving,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I assume it’s from that sexy British guy?”

“More than likely.”

“Monica, my dear, I’m going to give you the same advice I’d give my own daughter, if I had one. Get out and have fun. The girls”—she pointed to her chest—“they only stay perky for so long. Take advantage of it.”

As soon as she left the office, Monica picked up the card—probably an apology for acting like an ass last night, for giving her the third degree in the middle of one of the busiest casinos on the Strip. You weren’t exactly tactful yourself, Campbell, blaming him for your foolish choices. Well, there was that. Perhaps there was the slimmest chance she owed him an apology too.

Monica ripped at the adhesive flap and pulled out the note. She glanced over the words written on the heavy cardstock, then read them again. It wasn’t an apology. She looked at the check. One hundred thousand dollars to the foundation.

Hope this helps. —Cal

Of course she was thrilled about the donation. But still, no apology, no request for forgiveness. Not a word about a second date. She would have turned him down, of course, but Calum Hughes had just taken another bite-size chunk out of her ego.

Monica’s gaze returned to the flowers. Why send them? If he wasn’t sorry, why send an arrangement that was damn near as tall as she was—what game was he playing?

She set the check aside and was about to drop the note into the trash can, but instead slipped it into her desk drawer. She’d have Stella send Cal a thank-you note from the foundation. A personalized note. He’d given her his phone number last night, but she wasn’t going to use it. Ever. That would just be asking for trouble.

Monica worked steadily throughout the day. As she accomplished tasks, she crossed them off her list—and stared at those flowers. Every time the phone rang, her body tensed as she wondered if Cal was on the other end. Every time her email pinged, she checked it.

But he never called, never showed up. Then it occurred to her that maybe he wasn’t playing a game. If he’d taken her at her word and was leaving her alone, good. Great.

Then why did she feel so restless? Monica shook her head at her own stupidity. What was wrong with her? What wasn’t wrong with her? If Monica started cataloging all of her character flaws, she’d be here all night, but falling for Calum Hughes wasn’t going to be one of them.

At six, Stella walked in carrying three plastic takeout bags.

“You must be hungry tonight. These things weigh a ton. Don’t stay too late.”

It smelled divine. Chinese food, if Monica knew her Szechuan. Garlicky and spicy. Her stomach rumbled. “I didn’t order anything.”

Stella shrugged on her way out the door.

Monica peered into one of the sacks. Resting on top sat a hand-wrapped fortune cookie. She plucked it out and gave it a wary gaze, then broke the cookie in half. Cal’s handwriting.

I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I got a little bit of everything. Have a good evening.

She pulled out containers filled with spicy beef, chicken, a steamed vegetable dish, and rice. There were egg rolls and dumplings and cartons of soup—easily enough to feed the entire office.

She’d refused to call Cal this afternoon to thank him, but now she had no choice. She was simply being polite. It had nothing to do with the fact that she wanted to hear that deep, raspy voice of his.

Who the hell are you trying to convince, here? Fine, she wanted to hear his deep, raspy voice. But nothing would come of it. Just a simple thanks, and she’d hang up.

Monica dug into her purse and retrieved Cal’s number. Nervously scraping the surface of her thumbnail, she dialed and waited. When she finally heard his voice-mail message, disappointment hit her, swift and sharp. Where was he? On another date? A tight coil of jealousy wrapped around her chest and squeezed.

Whoa. Time to slam on the brakes. What Cal did, and with whom, was none of Monica’s business.

Thanking Cal should be just another item on her to-do list, but she couldn’t be objective. Last night had been much more than a good-night kiss. It had left her shell-shocked. If he could make her feel this fluttery and possessive after a semiclothed fumble, what would happen if they actually had sex?

Grateful—that’s what she should feel. Grateful he hadn’t answered the phone with that growl that left her stomach feeling like it was made of Jell-O.

Monica left a hasty, impersonal message, thanking Cal for the flowers, check, and food. There. Done. No need to think about him again.

Except that with every bite she took, he floated through her mind. His smell, his skin’s texture. The way he’d touched her breasts and fondled her pussy. And she’d thought that kiss five years ago had been unforgettable.

Disgusted with herself, Monica boxed up the rest of the food and stuck it in the break-room refrigerator. As she walked back to her office, she eyed the flowers. She may not have had any contact with Cal, but he’d definitely made his presence known.

Bastard.

* * *

Over the next three days, Monica didn’t hear from him. At least not directly. But on Wednesday, he provided a catered lunch for her staff. She texted him a quick thanks. He never responded.

On Thursday, he sent her a beautifully wrapped package, rectangular and only about seven inches long. Was it a bracelet? If so, she was sending it back. Jewelry seemed too personal and inappropriate.

Monica held it up to her ear and gave it a light shake, but nothing rattled. Her pulse faltered as she untied the pretty gold bow. Inside the flat box she found a pen covered in pink Swarovski crystals. It was tacky and sparkly and she adored it.

Oh, he was so calculating. She knew exactly what Cal was up to—trying to soften her up. Well it wasn’t going to work. Again, she texted a short thank-you, but didn’t receive a response. He probably figured that not answering her calls or texts would drive her crazy. He figured right. Every time she looked at the flowers or wrote with the pen, she thought about Cal.

Friday morning, she received an email that a generous gift had been made in her name. The money would be used to provide health care at a women’s clinic in Kenya.

Son of a bitch, he was good.

His diabolical plan actually worked. She couldn’t stop thinking about him. Monica had reread his card so many times, she knew his sloping handwriting by heart. He was wearing her down, day by day.

Grabbing her phone, Monica speed-dialed his number. This time, after the fifth ring, he answered. “Hey,” she said. Now that she’d heard his voice, she felt tongue-tied and jittery, like she’d mainlined three shots of espresso.

“Monica. What’s up?” He sounded casual, almost indifferent.

She grabbed the pink crystal pen and wiggled it between her fingers. “Um, I just wanted to thank you, you know, for everything.”