“It’s late in London.” He looked sheepish but sober, with no swaying to his posture, no slur to his words. His gaze was clear, the red rims around his eyes attributable to jet lag and fatigue.
His suit was expertly cut, emphasizing the length and breadth of a man in excellent physical shape. The gray stripe in his tie matched the gray in his eyes. She would bet a hundred bucks there was a saleswoman’s phone number on the back of the receipt from wherever he’d bought it.
He came around his desk and held out his hand. Even with her in heels, he still had almost a head on her. “Victor Carlisle, from Wyndham House.”
Lacey forced herself to meet his clear gaze. All that it held was restrained curiosity. Not so much as a glimmer of recognition.
Unless he was an actor of Bradley Cooper caliber, Victor Carlisle didn’t remember her. He had no idea who she was. She squashed the flicker of hurt that tried to ignite. “I know who you are.” Her words came out snooty as his large hand encompassed her much smaller one.
“I’m impressed.” He slipped his phone into his pocket with an easy smile. “Unlike you, Ms. O’Connor, I’m a very small cog in the Wyndham wheel.”
Lacey’s hand dropped to her side. We met six years ago. You’re my cousin’s fiancé’s brother. The words were on the tip of her tongue, but she held them back. Emelia would have mentioned her, but if Victor hadn’t made the connection between his soon-to-be sister-in-law’s cousin and the Lacey standing in front of him, she wasn’t going to offer it up for free.
As for their other connection … Well, not even Emelia knew about that. A fact she was profoundly grateful for with all the water under that particular bridge.
“And what kind of cog are you, Mr. Carlisle?” Might as well get as much information out of him as she could before he realized who she was. Try and work out how much of a threat he could pose.
“Please, call me Victor. I’m an associate in Government Relations.”
In other words, a lobbyist. “Of course you are.” She hadn’t meant to say it out loud. But it was under her breath, so maybe he hadn’t—
His smile faltered. “Do you have a problem with that?”
“I guess that depends on exactly what your clients are trying to convince the government to do.”
Victor jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “Given that one of your photos is with the President of the American Gun Owner’s Association, I’m not sure you’re entitled to an opinion on that.”
“You really don’t want to debate the Second Amendment with me, Mr. Carlisle.” The President of AGOA had been a loathsome creep of a man, whose book she had only worked on under protest. It was also the only book she’d ever worked on that she’d held her breath and hoped wouldn’t make a single bestseller list, but there was no way she was sharing that information with this trumped-up piece of privilege.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.” Victor held both his hands up in surrender. “Can we call it a truce?”
The last time she had met Victor Carlisle, he had walked into a party a stranger, and he walked out of it with a piece of her self-respect. A truce was the absolute last thing she was signing up for.
It had taken Victor all of two minutes to put his foot in his mouth. Hardly an auspicious start to leaving this merger in a better position than he entered it.
Why had he been stupid enough to mention guns? Americans and their guns were like the British and football. Only a foolish person said anything definitive about either until you knew well and good what side the other person supported.
Lacey’s phone buzzed in her hands, and she glanced down at it. “We need to get back to the conference room. Meredith is about to speak.”
She hadn’t answered his question about the truce, but if that was an olive branch, he’d take it. Victor bet more than a few people had been professionally buried by underestimating Lacey O’Connor. He wasn’t going to be one of them.
Lacey turned and swept back up the hall without saying another word. Victor followed her, keeping a careful distance. The last thing he needed was her thinking he was a creep on top of whatever she thought about his unwelcome visit to her office.
As she walked back into the conference room, he realized that what he’d assumed to be a long black skirt was in fact a pair of trousers. Interesting. Every other woman in the room was wearing a cocktail dress. Very professional, classy cocktail dresses, but dresses just the same. What statement was she trying to make?
A New Zealand Prime Minister had once caused great furor by wearing trousers when she met the Queen. The random fact flickered into his mind. If Lacey met the Queen, would she be the kind of woman to wear trousers?
Victor watched as an entirely different person took the place of the fiery, feisty woman he had just sparred with, as if entering the conference room was crossing a portal into another world. Within seconds, she was chatting to a group of colleagues, champagne glass in hand, spinning a tale that ended with them all in laughter.
“So, who is she?” One of the PR associates for Wyndham, leaned against the wall next to Victor, glass of Scotch in hand.
“Who?”
“The blonde you walked into the room with.” Simon looked down into his glass and clinked the large boulder of ice around it. “Trust you to leave the room for ten minutes and return with a goddess, Carlisle.”
Goddess? He’d wasted so much of his life on the party circuit with models and B-list actresses that the phrase had ceased to have any meaning. He’d also discovered that most beautiful women hid a well of insecurity so deep the Atlantic Ocean couldn’t fill it.
“Oh, I see how it is.”
“How what is?” Victor had completely lost track of what Simon was saying.
“You’re not going to tell me who she is. That must have been some ten minutes.” The stupid kid actually looked pleased with himself at the moronic innuendo.
“Shut up, Simon.” Victor glanced to where Lacey was placing her still half-full champagne glass on a tray. The movement meant that the man with dark hair who had placed his hand on her arm had to remove it. Interesting. “She’s Lacey O’Connor, the director of publicity. She could well end up being your next boss.” When the waiter moved on, Lacey took another half step back, placing even more distance between her and the arm lingerer. Ex-boyfriend? Wannabe boyfriend? Current boyfriend in a lovers’ quarrel?
“She should be so lucky.” Simon tipped his glass in Lacey’s direction before knocking back the rest of the amber liquid.
Victor restrained an eye roll. Simon was yet another iGen with an inflated view of his own appearance and attributes. The truth was, Simon was a six both in looks and competence. Maybe a seven on a good day. But he thought he was a nine. Courtesy of being indoctrinated by a mother who thought her son was the most special snowflake who ever did sparkle.
Ignoring Simon, Victor let his gaze crisscross the room, assessing his competition. About ten people had already had too much to drink—voices too loud, laughter too pitched, posture starting to droop. He couldn’t imagine any of them being senior management contenders.
Another ten weren’t competition for the opposite reason. Faces pinched with stress, gazes darting everywhere, hands strangling glasses, the process taking its toll before it had even started. They would be the first to crack under pressure.