The Man Behind the Mask Read online

  His breast pocket buzzed with text messages sent during the flight. Pulling out the phone, he read the top one on the call screen.

  Got your roses. Go to hell.

  At least she got straight to the point, unlike last night, when she insisted on going on and on.

  Why did women always want to talk late at night only to get all dramatic because he’d rather sleep than share his feelings? Seriously, what did Finland think he was going to tell her? The truth? He could imagine how well the truth would go over. Sorry, Fin, but I don’t have deeper feelings. I gave them up fifteen years ago. Here, in Boston. Talk about coming full circle.

  At that moment, the town car entered a tunnel, plunging the backseat into shadows. Jarred by the abrupt change, Simon’s mind jumped to a different darkness. Where you going, freshman?

  He shoved the voice from his head. He didn’t have time for this when there was so much riding on his performance.

  Damn, but the memories hadn’t hit him this hard in years. He hoped it wasn’t a sign of things to come.

  He ran a hand along the back of his neck, grimacing at the dampness under his fingers.

  “Headache bothering you? We could stop for some painkillers.”

  From her side of the car, Delilah watched him intently. For some reason, the concern in her blue eyes gave him the extra push he needed to regain control. “I’ve already taken more than I should. Another dose and my liver will stop functioning. Don’t worry. I’ll be all right. Bartlett won’t even know I’m under the weather.”

  “You better be all right because if I have to carry the conversation, the agency’s doomed.” She ran a hand around her ear. “I’m not very good at small talk.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be fine. You never seem to have a problem at work.”

  “Because I’m talking work and it’s with people I know. Take away my agenda, and I’m screwed.”

  Come to think of it, the two of them did seem to limit their conversations to business. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time they had had a personal conversation. His previous assistants shared everything. Delilah appreciated the value of reticence. Almost too much. He needed to remind her to speak her mind more.

  “Well, Bartlett made it very clear on the phone he doesn’t want to talk about business at all tonight.” Like a male Finland, he wanted to “get to know them as people.”

  “Yep, I’m screwed.”

  “I doubt you’re that bad. What about when you go out clubbing? You talk to people then, right?”

  She gave him a long, odd look. “If you want me to flirt, we’re in bigger trouble.”

  “I don’t want you to flirt.” He tried to picture his assistant as a femme fatale and failed. “Just be yourself. The key to good small talk is to find some common ground. Shared experiences, that sort of thing.”

  “What if you don’t have ‘shared experiences’?”

  “Then you put the attention back on them. People love to talk about themselves. And if you get really stuck tonight, you can always ask about beer.”

  Her response was too soft to hear. “What?”

  “I said we’re going to be doing a lot of talking about beer then.”

  “So long as they talk about something.” He rubbed the back of his neck again. Damn muscles were as tight as rods. “I don’t have to tell you how important signing this account is. With the economy off, clients are scaling back their ad dollars in all three offices. An account Bartlett’s size would erase the deficit and keep us from having to lay off employees.”

  “In other words, the agency’s financial future depends on how well you and I socialize over the next two days.”

  She could have been listening in to a conversation with the board of directors, she managed to quote his father so accurately. “You’re catching on.”

  “Great. So long as there’s no pressure.”

  She didn’t know pressure. Yet again, the expectations his father placed on him were almost insurmountable. Thankfully this time he had an ally. So long as she didn’t clam up from shyness. If he was going to survive visiting Boston, he needed all the support he could get.

  * * *

  Other than the insignia flag flying over the front door, the University Club looked like all the other brownstones lining the street—stately and old. Jim Bartlett stood on the sidewalk talking with another man when the cab pulled up. If Delilah were to describe him, she would say he looked like his product. Ruddy-faced, he had a shining bald head and a body shaped like a barrel.

  He greeted both of them with enthusiasm, clasping Simon’s hand between both of his. “Right on time, even with the baseball traffic. I’m impressed. I just finished betting Josh you were stuck downtown.”

  “Josh Bartlett,” his companion said, sticking out his hand. He was a younger version of his father right down to the barrel shape and matching blue blazer.

  “And don’t let him fool you. We were the ones stuck in traffic. It’s a pleasure meeting you in person, Delilah. My father’s mentioned you often.”

  “In a good way, I hope.” She hoped he wouldn’t notice the dampness on her palms.

  When she told Simon she didn’t do small talk well, she wasn’t kidding. Too many years of biting her tongue and walking on eggshells made her far better at saying as little as possible. Perhaps if she had a chance to put on the cocktail dress and pumps she packed, she might have more confidence. Unfortunately, thanks to a delay in landing, they were still in her suitcase. She was lucky to have had time to chew a mint and run a comb through her hair in the airport washroom.

  Thankfully, the younger Bartlett at least acted like he didn’t notice. “Promise, he said nothing but good things. We’re glad Simon brought you out to meet us.”

  “Yes, we are,” his father chimed in. “As I explained to Simon last night, I like to know the people I work with, contractors included. A lot of people can give a good sales pitch, but for me to hand over control of tens of millions of dollars, I need to know in my gut that I can trust the person. I want to know they’re going to care about Bartlett Brewing Company as much as I do.”

  “In a lot of ways, Dad still runs the company like a small family business, which means going by intuition.”

  “And I’ll continue running it that way as long as I’m in charge. My intuition made Bartlett Brewing Company what it is today.” He looked straight at Delilah. “I don’t care how impressive a man’s resume is. If he doesn’t sit well with me here—” he punched his breastbone “—then he’s not the right man for me.”

  “Then I hope I hit you in the right place,” Simon replied.

  The brewery owner gave an enigmatic smile. “We’ll find out, won’t we?” He gestured toward the front steps. “After you, Miss St. Germain.”

  * * *

  Delilah wasn’t sure what the inside of a private gentlemen’s club was supposed to look like, but if she were going to use her imagination, it would look like the University Club, right down to the dark paneled wood and giant lobby chandelier. A grand staircase, lined with presidential portraits—all Ivy League university graduates—led to the main dining room. Delilah tried to be blasé as she ascended, but it was hard. There were a lot of portraits.

  “It’s on purpose, you know.” Simon’s breath was warm on the back of her neck, causing goose bumps to ghost across her skin.

  “What is?”

  “The setting. Bartlett wants us to be intimidated.”

  “It’s working.” She felt more underdressed than ever. As if she’d shown up in jeans at a black-tie gala.

  Her discomfort got worse as the dinner wore on. In spite of what Simon thought, small talk was not easy. Conversation centered around food and restaurants at favorite vacation spots. Her exotic dining experiences were limited to special dinner dates. Mostly, dining out meant
heading to the bar near her apartment. Therefore, she mostly listened and while she did, realized exactly how few special dates she’d actually been on since moving to New York. She wished she could blame the drought on being too busy, but the truth was that none of the men she met were nearly as interesting as the man she worked for.

  Simon didn’t lie when he assured her his headache wouldn’t hold him back. Not only did he match the Bartletts experience for experience, but he also controlled the flow of conversation like a conductor. She watched, impressed as he continually returned the conversation back to the Bartletts and their interests.

  “Is this your first trip to Boston, Delilah?”

  Jim’s question caught her off guard. “Yes, it is.”

  “Pity you’re here such a short time. You won’t get to see very much.”

  “I’m seeing the brewery. What else is there?”

  “You have a point there,” Jim said with a chuckle.

  “How about you, Simon?” Josh asked. “I’m sure you’ve been the city a number of times.”

  Simon reached for his wineglass. “Actually, I haven’t been back in a long time.”

  Suddenly something Delilah read in his corporate biography popped into her head. “Didn’t you go to school in Boston?”

  If she didn’t know better, she’d swear her question caused his hand to stutter. “Yes, I did.” His voice sounded odd, as well. “Bates North.”

  “I knew you looked familiar!”

  Giving the table a firm slap, Josh sat back in his chair. “Talk about a small world. I think I might have been a few years ahead of you. You rowed, right?”

  “Rowing?” Delilah asked. “I thought you were on the swim team?”

  “I switched to swimming my sophomore year.”

  “Oh.” From the way Simon’s jaw muscle twitched as he raised his glass, she wondered if she’d said something wrong. Surely bringing up school wasn’t a mistake though. After all, he was the one who suggested she find common ground to discuss.

  Meanwhile Josh turned in her direction. “I played soccer myself. I wasn’t exactly the rowing type, if you get my drift.” He patted his stomach. “I had a couple friends on the team though. Rowed fours and eights.”

  “Fours and eights?”

  “The number of rowers per boat,” he explained.

  “I seem to remember some scandal involving the sports teams a few years ago?” Jim said.

  “Scandal?” Out of the corner of her eye, Delilah saw Simon reaching for his drink again, his lips drawn in a tight line.

  Josh nodded. “Some of the teams went overboard when it came to hazing the freshmen.”

  “What do you mean overboard?”

  “The school didn’t share all the details, but I seem to remember something about students being asked to—”

  There was a loud clatter as Simon’s glass spilled onto his plate.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “SIMON! WHAT HAPPENED? Are you all right?” The words rushed out of Delilah’s mouth in one giant sentence. At the same time Simon pushed away from the table. The glass lay on its side on top of his risotto, what was left of the contents pooling onto his plate.

  She reached out to touch his arm only to have him wave her off along with the waitress hurrying toward their table. “No harm done.”

  “Except to your food,” Josh said.

  “Serves me right for being such a klutz. Besides, the spill will keep me from overindulging.”

  “Wish a little spill would keep me from overindulging. I’d just treat it like wine sauce.”

  “Which is why the two of us are built like beer kegs, and he’s not,” Jim joked.

  All three men chuckled and conversation shifted to new topics. Delilah did her best to join in, but she couldn’t focus. Her brain was too busy replaying what happened. Not so much the spill, but Simon’s expression. She wasn’t sure if the others noticed, but he’d turned white as a sheet. Like he’d seen a ghost. Even now, while he was acting unruffled by the whole event, his complexion remained ashen. She wanted to ask him if he was ill, but didn’t want to make a bigger deal out of the moment now that it had passed.

  Still, her concern lingered. After four years of watching Simon interact with clients, she knew the difference between a full-on Cartwright charm offensive and simply going through the motions. Simon might be charming the Bartletts, but she could tell that the special Simon spark had disappeared.

  It was his eyes. Normally they reminded her of the prairie sky on a summer’s day, bluer than blue. But now the color had dulled, as though a cloud had blown in.

  Fortunately, the mishap occurred near the end the meal, and an hour later, the quartet was back on the sidewalk where they began, saying goodbye and making arrangements for the next day’s brewery tour. A hearty, two-handed shake accompanied Jim Bartlett’s farewell too, she noted, meaning they either didn’t notice the subtle change in Simon’s demeanor or that it didn’t matter. In fact, watching the enthusiastic exchange, she wondered if perhaps she’d let her imagination blow the whole incident out of control. No sooner did the Bartletts head up the sidewalk however, than the smile faded from Simon’s face killing her theory. Wordlessly, he opened the door to their town car and waited.

  She slid into the backseat, taking pains to move as far to the opposite door as possible. Although he never said anything aloud, based on how he hated being approached unaware, she assumed he preferred a lot of personal space as well, and since he never bothered to correct her behavior...well, she kept up the practice.

  A flash of movement caught her eye. Yet again, he was rubbing his neck. After biting her tongue all dinner, she had to ask. “How’s your head?”

  “Hurts.”

  That answered that question. “Would you like those aspirin now?”

  “What I could use is a drink.”

  “Really?”

  He turned toward her, his expression hidden by shadows. “You sound surprised.”

  “I am. Last time I checked, alcohol wasn’t the best cure for a headache.”

  “No, but it sure as hell cures other things.”

  Like what? Whatever it was that spooked him in the restaurant? She wished she had the nerve to ask. Even more so the nerve to erase the gap between them and let him know she was there for him. In the dimness, everything seemed more acute. The sound of his breath exhaling long and slow, the rustle of fabric as he sought to find a comfortable position. Tension radiated from his body. She longed to reach across the seat to rest her hand on his arm to soothe him.

  She could only imagine how well that gesture would go over. So instead, she did nothing.

  * * *

  When they reached their harborside hotel, Delilah assumed they would check in and go their separate ways. It surprised her then when Simon grabbed her wrist to stop her from heading to the elevator.

  “Aren’t you coming?” he asked.

  For the second time in less than a day, Delilah imitated a fish. “You want my company?”

  “Do you mind? I’m not in the mood for drinking alone tonight.”

  His smile was almost sheepish, so boyishly winsome, her insides turned soft and warm. How could she say no?

  Ten minutes later, she sat in a bamboo fan chair waiting on a glass of white wine. Being close to the water must have inspired the hotel decorator to try a Caribbean theme. With its potted palms and soft calypso music, the verandah bar resembled a tropical hideaway. A New England version anyway. Paper lanterns strung on wires swayed in the ocean breeze. Being a Thursday night, the room was only partially full, mostly small groups of professionals visiting the city on business. She and Simon were the only couple in the crowd.

  Only they weren’t a couple, she reminded herself. Just employer and employee sitting in a romantic moonlit setti
ng.

  She searched around, looking for a distraction. To her left, Boston Harbor stretched black, red and green lights guiding boats to the Atlantic. More lights dotted the horizon, the runway markers for Boston’s airport. Delilah watched as a line of planes made their way to their descent. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the waiter return.

  Simon slid her wine across the table toward her, then raised his whiskey in the air. The gesture forced her attention back to him. Not that she needed much force, seeing how she hadn’t completely stopped paying attention.

  “To getting through dinner,” he said.

  Delilah frowned at his choice of words. “Wouldn’t we be better off toasting to success?”

  “That depends on your definition of success.”

  “You don’t think tonight went well?”

  “Are you talking about before or after I dumped cabernet all over my tenderloin?” He took a long, healthy drink before speaking again. “I think we can both agree, I’ve had better performances.”

  “It wasn’t that bad. You recovered nicely,” she added, when Simon arched his eyebrow.

  “The idea is to not have to recover at all. Not with an account this size.”

  “Jim Bartlett didn’t appear too concerned.”

  Holding his tumbler by its base, he studied the contents of his half-full glass. “Didn’t your mother tell you appearances can be deceiving?”

  Her mother had been too consumed by grief to teach her much of anything. “So, what do we do?”

  “Nothing.” He set the glass down with a resounding thunk. “What’s done is done. We start over better and stronger in the morning.”

  “Well then we really should be drinking to putting tonight behind us,” she told him.

  “Funny. I thought we were.” He raised his glass. “To better tomorrows.”

  “To better tomorrows,” Delilah repeated.

  They clinked their glasses and Simon tossed back the rest of his drink. Inspired, Delilah took a healthy sip of her own, hoping the crisp dry liquid would help shake off her concerns.