phone in Tracy's hand, then grabbed for it. "Hello."
"Cameron?"
"Yes."
"Can you stop by this afternoon? Around three?"
Ginger pushed herself to a sitting position and looped the spaghetti strap of her silky night top over her shoulder. "I'll be there," she croaked, her voice heavy with sleep, her brain still unable to accept that Beaumann was on the phone.
"Are you still in bed?" he asked, his tone an octave lower. "Did I wake you?"
"It's okay. I, uh, overindulged a bit last night."
"On something sinful, I hope." There it was again, that edge of hoarseness in his voice.
Ginger's breathing shallowed. Not sinful enough. Not as sinful as I could be. With you. "Hot dogs. Chocolate ice cream. And Kool-Aid."
"That's your idea of over indulgence?"
"Not always. Sometimes it's—" she stopped, not sure what she was about to say, but certain it wasn't the new, improved Ginger who was about to say it.
"Don't stop now. You've got my full attention."
"Bananas. I mean splits. Banana splits. I can really go to town on those."
"Ah."
Silence. One of those heavily pregnant ones.
"So... should I bring my presentation?"
"Pardon?"
"My presentation. Should I bring it with me?"
"No, just bring yourself." She heard him exhale. "Today that's all I can handle. See you at three." He hung up.
Ginger clicked off the phone. When her chest relaxed, and her heart found its normal pattern, she smiled so hard her cheeks hurt.
"Well..." Tracy urged, eyes wide. "What did he want?"
Ginger shot to her knees and bounced on the bed. "He wants me, Trace. He wants to see me."
Tracy plunked herself on the edge of the bed. "Hot damn. I'll get to meet this guy, yet."
Ginger stopped bouncing. "I've got to get dressed." She scrambled off the bed.
"You've got hours yet."
"Yeah, well my, uh, look takes some planning."
"Speaking of your 'look,' as you call it—"
"Don't start." Ginger tossed a pillow at her.
"The black suit, at least it fits," Tracy begged, fending off the pillow, then clutching it to her chest.
Ginger rifled her closet. "The tan skirt, I think. The one with the pleats."
"The pregnant hippo look. Sweet." More rolled eyes.
"It's in good taste and it's comfortable." And it's enough armor to stop a horny man from a mile off. Now was not the time to drop her guard and let Cal Beaumann slip in, figuratively or literally.
Tracy threw up her hands. "Okay, I know when I'm beat. Wear whatever you want, but don't plan on dandling my grandkids on your knee because you don't have any of your own." She flounced out, leaving Ginger to make the connection between pleated skirts and grandchildren.
In the shower, Ginger was excited—and smug. Maybe Trace didn't like her new image, but it had worked on Cal Beaumann. He'd clearly seen she was the best person for the job, and he didn't give a damn what she looked like.
Chapter 3
Cal, protected behind the fortress of his desk, figured things had gone okay. In retrospect he could have edited out the remark about tweed underwear, because right now she looked like a cornered badger with a toothache.
"Let me make sure I have this right. You want me to buy new clothes?" Ginger said, her voice lethally low.
"That's what I want."
"And getting the job depends on it?"
Cal nodded. He'd said his piece, and at this point the less foot he put in his mouth the better. The honey-haired woman glared at him, looked ready to combust. And while combustible women were sexy as hell, he preferred meltdowns in bed not his office.
Her skirt smacked her mid-calf as she paced in front of his desk. Cal frowned. He figured a woman's skirt should swirl, not smack. He tilted his head to get a better look at her legs. The six inches of them he could see between hem and ankle looked damn good. But an odd color...
"What are you looking at?" She sounded mad.
"Your legs." He squinted. "You're not wearing those support things, are you?"
If looks could kill, this would be a bloodbath. "You"—she jabbed a
"Cameron?"
"Yes."
"Can you stop by this afternoon? Around three?"
Ginger pushed herself to a sitting position and looped the spaghetti strap of her silky night top over her shoulder. "I'll be there," she croaked, her voice heavy with sleep, her brain still unable to accept that Beaumann was on the phone.
"Are you still in bed?" he asked, his tone an octave lower. "Did I wake you?"
"It's okay. I, uh, overindulged a bit last night."
"On something sinful, I hope." There it was again, that edge of hoarseness in his voice.
Ginger's breathing shallowed. Not sinful enough. Not as sinful as I could be. With you. "Hot dogs. Chocolate ice cream. And Kool-Aid."
"That's your idea of over indulgence?"
"Not always. Sometimes it's—" she stopped, not sure what she was about to say, but certain it wasn't the new, improved Ginger who was about to say it.
"Don't stop now. You've got my full attention."
"Bananas. I mean splits. Banana splits. I can really go to town on those."
"Ah."
Silence. One of those heavily pregnant ones.
"So... should I bring my presentation?"
"Pardon?"
"My presentation. Should I bring it with me?"
"No, just bring yourself." She heard him exhale. "Today that's all I can handle. See you at three." He hung up.
Ginger clicked off the phone. When her chest relaxed, and her heart found its normal pattern, she smiled so hard her cheeks hurt.
"Well..." Tracy urged, eyes wide. "What did he want?"
Ginger shot to her knees and bounced on the bed. "He wants me, Trace. He wants to see me."
Tracy plunked herself on the edge of the bed. "Hot damn. I'll get to meet this guy, yet."
Ginger stopped bouncing. "I've got to get dressed." She scrambled off the bed.
"You've got hours yet."
"Yeah, well my, uh, look takes some planning."
"Speaking of your 'look,' as you call it—"
"Don't start." Ginger tossed a pillow at her.
"The black suit, at least it fits," Tracy begged, fending off the pillow, then clutching it to her chest.
Ginger rifled her closet. "The tan skirt, I think. The one with the pleats."
"The pregnant hippo look. Sweet." More rolled eyes.
"It's in good taste and it's comfortable." And it's enough armor to stop a horny man from a mile off. Now was not the time to drop her guard and let Cal Beaumann slip in, figuratively or literally.
Tracy threw up her hands. "Okay, I know when I'm beat. Wear whatever you want, but don't plan on dandling my grandkids on your knee because you don't have any of your own." She flounced out, leaving Ginger to make the connection between pleated skirts and grandchildren.
In the shower, Ginger was excited—and smug. Maybe Trace didn't like her new image, but it had worked on Cal Beaumann. He'd clearly seen she was the best person for the job, and he didn't give a damn what she looked like.
Chapter 3
Cal, protected behind the fortress of his desk, figured things had gone okay. In retrospect he could have edited out the remark about tweed underwear, because right now she looked like a cornered badger with a toothache.
"Let me make sure I have this right. You want me to buy new clothes?" Ginger said, her voice lethally low.
"That's what I want."
"And getting the job depends on it?"
Cal nodded. He'd said his piece, and at this point the less foot he put in his mouth the better. The honey-haired woman glared at him, looked ready to combust. And while combustible women were sexy as hell, he preferred meltdowns in bed not his office.
Her skirt smacked her mid-calf as she paced in front of his desk. Cal frowned. He figured a woman's skirt should swirl, not smack. He tilted his head to get a better look at her legs. The six inches of them he could see between hem and ankle looked damn good. But an odd color...
"What are you looking at?" She sounded mad.
"Your legs." He squinted. "You're not wearing those support things, are you?"
If looks could kill, this would be a bloodbath. "You"—she jabbed a
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