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track of the numbers. She was the one who approved all the purchase orders. She knew he was holding money in reserve. She didn’t micromanage—how could she when Dick was always dragging her off on three-day weekends? All that mattered was that sales were up at the end of the accounting year.
    But Mark had been holding out until he found just the right line. It wasn’t just about redeeming himself, making up for last year’s mistake. It was bigger than that. Mark had a hunch about Dick. Against all logic, the worse Harrington’s sales were, the happier Dick seemed to be. What he’d give to see Dick’s reaction if they didn’t just meet last year’s sales, but blew them out of the water.
    Harrington’s had fifty-some mall leases across the country. Everyone knew that malls, in general, were declining. Mark had been trying to tell Gloria that for a couple of years, but she’d been slow to adapt. If she would only close the non-performers, their overall bottom line might improve. But she didn’t want to hear that, and Dick, who knew better (or should), wanted to stay on her good side, so he refused to come to Mark’s defense.
    Pulling into the diner fifteen minutes early, Mark backed his top-of-the-line Audi into one the spaces farthest away from the restaurant, the way he always did when he wanted to downplay his affluence. When the time came to leave, he’d pull out last, so no one would notice his one concession to the interest earned on the nest egg his mother had left him. His design obsession spilled over to cars. Hey, he was a guy. And his mom’s bequest could potentially be dwarfed by his share in the stores . . . if they picked up traction soon.
    Besides, that space gave him a good view of the whole parking lot. He switched the ignition off and sat listening to the insulated silence, waiting. The brown leather case holding his tablet, downloaded with his purchase order forms, lay on the seat next to him, ready to go. He lifted his wrist to scan Granddad’s gold Patek Philippe. Nine-forty-six.
    He exhaled through pursed lips. Tapped impatiently on the steering wheel. Picked up his phone and double-checked the address, then took another glance at the time. Twelve minutes ’til ten.
    He thought about checking his e-mail when the glint off a stack of metal encircling a slender arm that was emerging from the cab of an older-model pickup had him leaning in to the windshield, holding his breath. There couldn’t be that many young women coming to a diner alone, at the exact time she was supposed to.
    He scrutinized her hard. Those ratty jeans and that bright floral halter top were right out of the seventies. Only a model-shaped body like that could make it work. Mark wondered where the tats were. Because there would be tats. It was a given.
    Unbuckling the Philippe in a move that had become routine since the breakup of his marriage, he lifted his hips to access his front pocket, all the time keeping his eye on her as she walked around to the truck’s jump seat. There she pulled out a red plastic tackle box and a small artist’s portfolio.
    He let her get a head start and then followed her into the restaurant, watching the sway of her narrow hips. Just inside the entrance, he held back while she lifted the flap of the portfolio and pulled out a folder, laying it on the Formica tabletop.
    Annnnnnd—go.
    â€œMeri?”
    Round eyes that glittered like polished green glass in a perfectly oval face looked up into his. She was clearly nervous.
    Then she smiled.
    And gorgeous.
    Oh, no. Oh, shit . Criminally talented and a babe. He was nowhere near ready for that. He’d vowed to steer clear of pretty women—relationships, anyway—for one solid year, to focus on the business. He still had four months to go.
    Worse, he could tell from the truck and her clothes that she wasn’t high on the income ladder, either. And he was definitely not