walking away and through an intimidating set of doors. She needed to make her decision quickly.
She had to stay. She could not lose the Aura factory.
“I’ll see you on Monday,” she called.
Mr. Sage turned. “You’ll see Malcolm.”
“Yes.” She nodded. “Absolutely.”
She glanced to Jean, the receptionist, who was busy looking up phone numbers on a printed list of names.
Kristin needed to prepare herself for this Malcolm person. She wouldn’t leave until Jean had called him and set up an appointment.
* * *
M ALCOLM CLOSED DOWN his spreadsheet and leaned back in his chair. He keenly felt the frustration from weeks of massaging numbers, and the numbers still refusing to give him what he’d wanted them to.
Numbers are always right. They do not lie.
That fact was a solid rock to hold on to in a hostile and dangerous world.
He stood up and stretched his arms, his attention drawn, as always, to the large but delicately painted oil landscape mounted over his desk. His sister’s work. She had an amazing talent. The rolling green hills and glens and the deep, sparkling loch where he’d been raised were faithfully reproduced in such a way that the place looked mythical.
He’d hung the painting there because it was his touchstone. The reason for everything he did—whether good or bad.
He’d been gazing at it for six weeks now. It had aided his conscience—necessary, because he was a man in a business where a conscience wasn’t of much use.
Yet again, he touched the edge of the envelope he needed to mail. The note inside, on official letterhead, had taken him a while to compose so that the message was delivered just right.
He couldn’t save Kristin Hart’s factory for her. There was no possible way to keep that facility open without continuing the financial bloodbath that Jay Astley had started. The only sensible decision on Jay’s part had been to sell the brand. Malcolm didn’t feel guilty for his acquisition; he never would.
But Kristin...she’d be devastated once the plant closed. He knew how deeply this would hurt her. And it tore at him.
His gaze shifted to the painting. His sister had once possessed a similar personality to Kristin; long ago, she’d been a free spirit, too. A free spirit crushed was a horrible thing. That wouldn’t happen to Kristin—not if he could help it.
Damn it. He paced his small, window-lined office, tearing his hands through his hair. He hated that Kristin had affected him, hated that he’d let himself get close to her, and that the thought of her had prevented him from doing his job with his normal, brutal efficiency.
He was being tested, literally, and his feelings for her were making him fail.
He picked up the letter and placed it in the front pocket of his dress shirt, beside his necktie. He had come up with a solution to his problem, and the letter was it. By now, she would have learned the news. She wouldn’t see it—people never did—but the closure would be the best thing for her.
Kristin was talented. She was smart. And she wasn’t fulfilled where she was—even he could see that, and he’d only known her for one day. His proposal would nudge her into doing something better for herself. Bring her out into the wide world.
And he could help her with that.
He pressed his palms into fists. He hated needing this so much—this desire to see her do well. It wasn’t safe for him. It was a threat.
But, the smile on her face when he’d recited the Burns poem to her couldn’t be forgotten. That little moan in her throat when he’d kissed her had stayed with him.
The sweetest hours. He returned to them again and again. In his life, he didn’t have a whole lot of times like that to rest with and think of.
He retrieved his suit jacket from the back of the chair and shrugged into it. Even on a Friday afternoon, Malcolm had a long stretch of meetings ahead. He pulled together a folder containing the financial reports that the company officers had
She had to stay. She could not lose the Aura factory.
“I’ll see you on Monday,” she called.
Mr. Sage turned. “You’ll see Malcolm.”
“Yes.” She nodded. “Absolutely.”
She glanced to Jean, the receptionist, who was busy looking up phone numbers on a printed list of names.
Kristin needed to prepare herself for this Malcolm person. She wouldn’t leave until Jean had called him and set up an appointment.
* * *
M ALCOLM CLOSED DOWN his spreadsheet and leaned back in his chair. He keenly felt the frustration from weeks of massaging numbers, and the numbers still refusing to give him what he’d wanted them to.
Numbers are always right. They do not lie.
That fact was a solid rock to hold on to in a hostile and dangerous world.
He stood up and stretched his arms, his attention drawn, as always, to the large but delicately painted oil landscape mounted over his desk. His sister’s work. She had an amazing talent. The rolling green hills and glens and the deep, sparkling loch where he’d been raised were faithfully reproduced in such a way that the place looked mythical.
He’d hung the painting there because it was his touchstone. The reason for everything he did—whether good or bad.
He’d been gazing at it for six weeks now. It had aided his conscience—necessary, because he was a man in a business where a conscience wasn’t of much use.
Yet again, he touched the edge of the envelope he needed to mail. The note inside, on official letterhead, had taken him a while to compose so that the message was delivered just right.
He couldn’t save Kristin Hart’s factory for her. There was no possible way to keep that facility open without continuing the financial bloodbath that Jay Astley had started. The only sensible decision on Jay’s part had been to sell the brand. Malcolm didn’t feel guilty for his acquisition; he never would.
But Kristin...she’d be devastated once the plant closed. He knew how deeply this would hurt her. And it tore at him.
His gaze shifted to the painting. His sister had once possessed a similar personality to Kristin; long ago, she’d been a free spirit, too. A free spirit crushed was a horrible thing. That wouldn’t happen to Kristin—not if he could help it.
Damn it. He paced his small, window-lined office, tearing his hands through his hair. He hated that Kristin had affected him, hated that he’d let himself get close to her, and that the thought of her had prevented him from doing his job with his normal, brutal efficiency.
He was being tested, literally, and his feelings for her were making him fail.
He picked up the letter and placed it in the front pocket of his dress shirt, beside his necktie. He had come up with a solution to his problem, and the letter was it. By now, she would have learned the news. She wouldn’t see it—people never did—but the closure would be the best thing for her.
Kristin was talented. She was smart. And she wasn’t fulfilled where she was—even he could see that, and he’d only known her for one day. His proposal would nudge her into doing something better for herself. Bring her out into the wide world.
And he could help her with that.
He pressed his palms into fists. He hated needing this so much—this desire to see her do well. It wasn’t safe for him. It was a threat.
But, the smile on her face when he’d recited the Burns poem to her couldn’t be forgotten. That little moan in her throat when he’d kissed her had stayed with him.
The sweetest hours. He returned to them again and again. In his life, he didn’t have a whole lot of times like that to rest with and think of.
He retrieved his suit jacket from the back of the chair and shrugged into it. Even on a Friday afternoon, Malcolm had a long stretch of meetings ahead. He pulled together a folder containing the financial reports that the company officers had
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