“We just got a call from the Delgado Foundation. They want to set up a time to meet and discuss the acquisition.”
Shock jolted inside him. “Is this a joke?”
She shook her head and held out an index card. “Cameron Delgado asked to speak with you specifically. No one else.”
He grabbed the card and stared at the numbers and letters written in the usual felt tip marker. As the words infiltrated his muddy brain, he looked up at Susan. “That’s Cam Delgado’s direct line?”
“Uh-huh. She called first thing this morning. I didn’t even have a chance to stow my purse before I was writing down all the particulars. How’d you convince her? Was it the roses? I told you. No woman can resist three dozen red and white roses.”
He left Susan to prattle on and take credit for his breakthrough while he pushed himself into his office. The truth was, he had no idea what made Cam change her mind, but he doubted a thousand flowers would have affected the ice princess he saw last night.
For God’s sake, she’d ruffled his hair—like he was a street urchin in a Dickens Christmas play. Tiny Tim, all grown up and still a lame beggar. A ball of bile rose in his throat, and he swallowed hard while closing his office door. The bitter aftertaste made him grimace. He removed his jacket, hung it on the low hook set on the coat rack in the corner, then made himself comfortable behind his desk, leaving the index card atop the folder with the building’s info at the side of his keyboard and monitor. As he stared out the window at the traffic on the avenue five stories below him, a sharp rap sounded on his door. The office receptionist, Rachel, swept in with a steaming mug of coffee.
She placed the white ceramic mug on his desk next to the folder.
“I’ve told you before, you don’t have to do that,” he said.
Shrugging, she stepped away. “If I’m getting one for me, it’s rude to not get one for you at the same time.”
He gave her a disgruntled look. “You don’t drink coffee.”
“Maybe not right now, but I’m trying to acquire a taste for it.”
He stifled the urge to shout that he didn’t need her pity, but he understood she meant well. She wanted to help without embarrassing him. While her intentions were noble, he resented she felt the need to take care of him without letting him know she was taking care of him. As if he wasn’t aware of his limitations. Still, he couldn’t get angry.
He’d spent the first six months of his recovery lashing out at everyone who came near with an outstretched hand. Only intense counseling had reminded him that assistance, whether wanted or not, indicated people cared. And he couldn’t punish them for caring, or in Cam’s case, for not caring.
“Thanks, Rache,” he said instead.
She smiled. “Any time. Besides, you’re gonna need the caffeine. Don’t forget. You’ve got a ten o’clock with Ernest Tallmadge.”
He groaned. “Right.” Ernest Tallmadge owned a string of laundromats and was seeking a site in SoHo to open a new one. The man was a whirling dervish of brawn, astute business acumen, and endless energy. He didn’t believe in cutting Jordan any slack just because he was confined to a wheelchair.
The irony didn’t escape Jordan’s sense of humor. While he often resented Rachel’s habit of treating him with gentle consideration, he also grew annoyed with Tallmadge for not allowing him some small concession.
Once Rachel left and closed the door again, he sipped the brew while going through the papers in the Delgado folder. When he finally had a handle on what he planned to say, he picked up the phone and called the number on the top of the card. To his surprise, she answered on half a ring.
“Delgado Foundation, this is Cameron.”
“You answer your own phone. How...down-to-earth of you.” He could’ve bitten his tongue the second the scathing remark left his lips. No sleep and a hectic runaround meeting to commence within an hour made him more obnoxious than usual. Or maybe Cam brought out the worst in him.
“I also negotiate my own deals,” she shot back. “So, when it comes to investing the foundation’s money, no matter how large or small a sum, I answer my phone. How are you, Jordan? It was good to see you last night. You should have contacted me earlier. I would have made sure you were on the guest list for the gala. I’d imagine many of your former teammates would’ve loved to see you again.”
Was that a verbal slap? A reminder of the hard feelings he’d engendered when he’d left the Vanguard team so precipitously? He gritted his teeth, biting back a quick retort for the second time in as many minutes. He didn’t want to spar with her. He wanted a deal. But a little drawn blood might gain him the upper hand after last night’s hair rustling incident.
“How’s your mother, Cam?”
Thwap! The ball landed in her court again. A sharp hiss on the other end of the phone told him he’d aced her.
“She’s fine. She remarried last year. Andrew Ellison. He’s the CEO of Cooper Industries. They make... widgets or something. I don’t know.”
The tension in her tone didn’t escape Jordan’s notice and for a moment, he felt a pang of sympathy. He hadn’t heard about the new marriage, and her mention of another wedding for the Delgado widow sliced too close to the bone for comfort.
If Cam was the ice princess, her mother, Laurel, was the fiery dragon who imprisoned her daughter in a tower of insecurity and crippling self-hate. Laurel Delgado Wallace Kiernan Moffit now-Ellison had spent decades beating down Cam’s self-esteem until she never felt good enough for any man’s affections. Not even the one who swore he’d love her forever and backed it up with a perfect square-cut solitaire. He still had the ring, tucked in the breast pocket of the
