Natural Blond Instincts Page 4

  “You could come back and volunteer sometime,” Sarah said. “We always need help.”

  “Okay, sure…” Working at a senior’s center was one thing. Volunteering with sullen teens? She’d rather have root-canal surgery. She got into her car, waved when Sarah did, and drove off.

  But she couldn’t get the place, or Sarah, out of her head. The woman gave kindly to strangers, without strings. So utterly different than the world Kenna was driving to, and unexpectedly, the joy she’d found earlier in the records room of the hotel faded a little.

  Sarah’s world, riddled with poverty and injustice, suddenly seemed much more like the place for her, a place where she could make a difference, have an impact, put her ideas into action…

  But six months was six months, and she’d promised her father.

  She just really wished she’d at least taken the offered brownie.

  5

  WES PLAYED three-on-three basketball every Monday night. They played hard and won hard, and when tonight’s game was over, his team was only two victories away from becoming the rec-center league champions.

  And two aspirins away from pain relief. He walked to the parking lot with his teammates, each of them trying not to whimper at their various aches and pains. Victors didn’t whimper. Men on top of their world didn’t whimper.

  But, oh God, he wanted to.

  “Heading to the pub, Wes?” his buddy, Nick, asked him.

  The pub was where they ended up more often than not after a game. There, they either celebrated or commiserated, depending on how the game had gone.

  Tonight, there’d be a lot of celebrating, and for a moment, he was tempted. But duty called so he shook his head. “I have to head back to the office.”

  This was accompanied by boos and hisses, but as his teammates Nick and Steve were a doctor and an attorney respectively, who both put in even more hours than he did, he laughed them off.

  He drove to the hotel and parked in his designated spot, noting the one next to him had a freshly painted sign that read Ms. Kenna Mallory. At least it was vacant.

  The corporate floors were deserted. He’d given everyone the night off, including himself, but now that the hard play was over and some of his aggressions had been released, he wanted to get some work done. Especially since he’d spent most of the day soothing hurt egos and ruffled feathers. People resented the intrusion of Kenna Mallory at such a high level.

  Serena had been the most upset, a situation that gave him mixed feelings. She was a junior conference manager, and reported directly to him, and though she was decent at her job, he’d always felt she had more ambition than actual skill. Given the way she’d gone on and on today, she’d forgotten that she, too, had once been given her job because of her last name. No entry-level positions for Mallory family members.

  Either way, he hoped she’d gotten all her whining and pouting out of her system, because when Serena was on a rant, everyone around her paid.

  He sank to his desk and dug in. He loved his work, but he loved his time off as well, and wanted to make sure he got some this weekend, since he actually had a date and was looking forward to a few hours of mindless fun. He looked forward to everything he did these days, because though it had been years since he’d struggled to make something of himself, he’d never forgotten his humble beginnings.

  With his current salary several times over what he needed, he was able to do pretty much whatever he wanted. Since he wasn’t a frivolous man or one who needed luxuries, this mostly involved extreme sports or spoiling his family when they let him—buying his parents a house, sending them on vacations they’d never dreamed they’d be able to take, getting his brother through college—

  A blur of creamy skin, blond hair and an unforgettable fuchsia skirt passed his opened office door. He glanced at his watch. Ten o’clock.

  What the hell?

  Standing, he rounded his desk to peek out, but yep, it was indeed Kenna Mallory’s very fine back side wriggling its way down the hallway, her bare feet in those strappy little sandals that seemed suicidal to him.

  “So you’re not just a nightmare,” he called out, half hoping she’d vanish.

  Slowly she stopped, then pivoted to face him, her arms full of a variety of bags, all of which were overflowing with what looked like…stuff. Even as he watched, the blow dryer she’d slung over her shoulder started to slip. “It’s not late enough for night mares.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Maybe you missed the Mallory part of the San Diego Mallory.”

  “I meant,” he said dryly, “what are you doing in the offices this late?”

  “I wanted to grab some nighttime reading material before checking in—” She broke off to growl in frustration as things started tumbling from her arms.

  Wes scooped up the bag, but not in time to keep it from spilling out a magazine, a lipstick case, a styling comb, a compact mirror, a tube of mascara and two tampons.

  Hunkering down to help, he deliberately avoided touching the tampons and scooped up the magazine instead. Outside. This city girl read an adventure magazine? “I wouldn’t have pegged you for an Outside kind of girl.”

  “You couldn’t peg me for anything—” she snatched it back “—as you don’t know the first thing about me. And there happens to be a great article this month on relaxing beach vacations,” she relented. “If that matters to you.”

  Unfortunately just about everything relating to her was going to matter to him, since they were likely going to be joined at the hip for a while, until some other more appealing job came along and she fluttered off.

  On her knees, she started gathering things, tossing them back into the bag. “And anyway, at least until we establish some sort of routine…one that’ll keep us from killing each other—” she pointed at him with the article in her hand, a tampon “—just get used to seeing me around.” She stopped and stared at the tampon, then glared at him as if it was his fault she was using it like a pointer.

  “What makes you think we’re going to kill each other?” he asked curiously.

  She laughed. “Are you saying you’re welcoming me with open arms?”

  “I plan on welcoming you as I would any employee.”

  “Well, isn’t that a politically correct answer.”

  “Look, Ms. Mallory—”

  “Kenna. My name is Kenna.”

  “Kenna.” He picked up some of her loose change and handed it to her. “I think we can do this in a friendly manner.”

  “What? Vie for the next rung on the ladder?”

  Okay, he probably deserved that. Maybe he’d been a bit stiff earlier. “I’m just saying we’re stuck in this position together, and—”

  “I’m not stuck. I’m never stuck. I do as I please, when I please, and working here pleases me.”

  “For the moment.”

  She froze in the act of stretching for a rogue pen, her skirt rising incredibly high on a tanned, toned thigh, reminding him that she didn’t favor stockings. And being the weak male that he was, he wondered if her panties were as bright as the rest of her clothes. Like he needed to know that information.

  “Look,” she said. “I’m taking this job seriously. So do me a favor and take me seriously. Oh, and by the way, I’m…moving in.”

  When the words sank in, he raised his gaze to meet her unhappy one. “What?”

  “I’m going to be staying here. At the hotel.”

  Wes didn’t often find himself rendered speechless, but somehow he wasn’t surprised to find Kenna the woman to do it. “Why?”

  “Because that also pleases me.” She paused then muttered under her breath, “and it’s the lesser of two evils.”

  “Your father said you had to, right?”

  “Of course not.”

  “What did he do, threaten to cut off your credit card?”

  If he’d been any closer, her look would have fried him on the spot. “I don’t care about his money.”

  “
What do you care about?” he asked.

  “Not his money,” she repeated. “I earn my own. As for what I do care about…I care about my life. Living it how I want to, which until now has been very different than this structured, cutthroat business atmosphere. How about you, Mr. Roth?”

  “Wes.”

  “Wes,” she said with an acknowledging bow of her head. “What is it you care about?”

  “This structured, cutthroat business, for one.”

  She actually laughed and reached for the last item on the floor, a lipstick, and put it back into the bag. “Well, that’s going to make us quite the interesting pair.”

  “Yes. Yes, it is.” His gaze met hers, and…held. Humor still swam in her eyes, humor and intelligence and an easy love of life.

  Damn if that wasn’t suddenly, startlingly, abruptly attractive. He stood. Backed way up, giving her room.

  Giving himself room.

  “I can do this job,” she said softly. “I’m good at fiscal planning. Marketing strategies. Structuring business goals. Budgeting, including the remaining renovations, growth…all of it. The one thing I’m not good at is dealing with people who make assumptions about the outer package…” She tossed her blond hair and straightened her stripper’s body. “Don’t mistake the outer package, Wes.”

  “How about I won’t if you won’t?”

  “What?”

  He pushed up his glasses. “Are you going to deny you took one look at me and lumped me in with every other suit in the building, which, apparently, leaves a bad taste in your mouth?”

  “Not a bad taste necessarily.”

  “Then a bad attitude.”

  She laughed again, and it was an amazing laugh, a contagious one. “Okay, you got me. I lumped you in with all the dark conservative suits. Just tell me this…what’s wrong with color, Wes? Why don’t any of you wear any color for God’s sake?”

  He looked down at his black basketball shorts, black basketball shoes and black T-shirt.

  She laughed again. “You never even noticed that’s the only color around here, did you?”

  “No,” he said truthfully, and had to shake his head. “I swear I own a few things that aren’t black.”

  “Yeah? Prove it. Shock me tomorrow. And tightie whities don’t count.”

  He blinked.

  “Underwear,” she explained. “Plain white Jockey shorts don’t count as color.”

  “I don’t wear plain white Jockey shorts.”

  He wore plain white knit boxers, because a guy had to have room.

  “Whatever you say.”

  She was most definitely baiting him, but he absolutely was not going to get into a discussion about underwear. Not at ten o’clock at night, on an empty floor, with no one around save this laughing, sharp-tongued and shockingly attractive woman staring at him.

  No way.

  She stood up. “So…how about this? I overlook the fact that you look like a Mallory clone, and you overlook the fact that I might appear better suited for wet T-shirt contests than board-room discussions.”

  He thought about that. First the wet T-shirt—he couldn’t help that—then her proposal.

  She waited for a moment, then said, “Come on. I think that’s an excellent second compromise, if I do say so myself.”

  He felt his mouth curve in a smile, his first genuine smile when it came to Kenna. “Deal.”

  “Deal,” she repeated and, gathering her things, walked away. “’Night,” she called over her shoulder. “Sleep tight.”

  Sleep tight. He had a feeling he wouldn’t be sleeping tight at all, not for a long time to come.

  6

  THAT NIGHT, Kenna stayed up late, working in her fancy hotel room. From her little foray into the records department, she’d discovered something interesting. The projected analysis on the renovations, salaries, expenses, everything, had been carefully filled out, and yet there’d been no follow-up since adding this hotel to the Mallory fleet. Because of that, no one could see at a glance how things had gone.

  Had they overspent on the renovations done so far? Underspent? What? No way to tell.

  Employee contracts were up for renewal, but how could management go into negotiations without seeing how the last contracts had benefited them and not benefited them?

  So she spent the next two hours burning the midnight oil, working on her little laptop that kept freezing up—the poor thing was so old it could scarcely handle the spreadsheets and reports—working until she came up with articulate and concise thoughts on the matter.

  Only then did she get into bed, satisfied that for one day at least, she’d earned her keep.

  But one thing Kenna had never been able to do was turn off her brain. She lay there in her frou-frou room with the antique Queen Anne bed, staring at the ornately decorated ceiling painted in elegant cream and thought about what she’d done.

  Committed to six months in this place.

  Sure, the numbers and accounting would be fun, and so would torturing Serena with her presence, and maybe even a little torture thrown Wes’s way as well, but no doubt, being here would also take its toll.

  Although Wes had actually, genuinely made her laugh tonight. Shocking. She’d always had a thing for a guy who could make her laugh, and she had a sinking feeling that beneath Weston Roth’s fancy dark suits beat the heart of a sharp cynic.

  Call her sick, but she liked that, too.

  Okay, forget sleep. It just wasn’t going to happen. Tossing aside her covers, she looked around, wondering how to amuse herself. For the first time in recent memory she actually had luxury at her fingertips and she was just lying around. What a complete waste of her time.

  She drew herself a bubble bath in the decadent bathtub. Sinking into the hot water was heaven, and she lay back, wondering what tomorrow would bring, if people would appreciate her report…

  And if Wes was going to wear a color tomorrow.

  When she finally tried sleep again, slightly more relaxed now, she fell quickly. Unfortunately, somewhere near dawn, or what felt like it, the phone rang.

  “Okay, listen up, cousin,” Serena said when Kenna managed to get the phone to her ear. “We have a few things to discuss.”

  She blinked at the clock. Eight. In the morning. “Oh God.” She leapt out of bed. “I’m late.”

  “Well, duh.”

  “I didn’t want to be late.” She grabbed up the clock radio, which indeed had been set for the proper time, and had indeed gone off, and was at this very moment spilling out soft-rock music.

  Too soft-rock, apparently, as it hadn’t come close to waking her. She tossed the thing down and looked around. Clothes. She needed clothes.

  “Look, cuz, stay on page with me now. This call is about moi. Okay? So listen up. Stay away from him, he’s mine.”

  Kenna eyed a skirt hanging off the back of a chair that probably had seen the eighteenth century. “Stay away from who?”

  “Don’t be coy. Wes has the best ass ever. He’s a catch and I already have the catcher’s glove on.”

  “Weston Roth?”

  “Wake up, would you? Slap yourself, pinch yourself, something.”

  “I am awake.” Now, anyway. What to go with the skirt? “You make him sound like a piece of meat.”

  “Do I?”

  Kenna stopped in the act of stripping. “You’re serious. You’re going after him because he’s got a great ass.”

  “Why else?”

  Um, because he was smart. Because he had a job.

  Okay, because he had a great ass.

  But a good ass did not a good man make. Kenna required far more. Her cousin could have him. “How does he feel about this?”

  “Oh, please.” Serena scoffed. “If you’d thought of it first, you’d use him, too.”

  “I have no desire to use him. Or anyone.”

  “God, you are so sanctimonious, you know that? I know damn well—hell, the entire family knows damn well—you have this little secret fantasy of fi
tting in, of being like the rest of us. Now that chance is being dangled out in front of you like a carrot with this job, so don’t pretend you don’t care. You want Uncle Kenneth to see you, to see the real you, and be proud of that woman. And if Wes turns out to be able to help you with that, you’ll use him in a heartbeat. So. I’m telling you now. Back off.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “Fine. You don’t want to back off. Then may the best woman win.”

  “I’m not going to play that game with you, Serena.”

  “Whatever you say. But he’s going to be mine. Good luck today, cuz. Ta-ta.”

  When the dial tone rang in her ear, Kenna hung up and shook her head. Good luck? She was going to need it, but not for the reasons Serena thought. Yes, Wes was way too into Mallory Enterprises and all it entailed, but he was entitled to be the man he wanted to be, just as she was entitled to be herself.

  This wasn’t personal. She wouldn’t use him, not to fit in, not to do her job, not for anything.

  She was going to do this on her own.

  Hence the need for good luck.

  Hopping around, she shoved her legs one at a time into her skirt, imagining Wes checking his fancy watch. Well, at least she didn’t have to take the time to make her bed, she actually had maid service for that. Her heels were lower today, but not by much, as exceptional height gave her confidence. Her skirt was longer, too, but tighter, making long strides difficult if not a detriment to her health. The blouse, however, she prided herself on. It wasn’t exactly business-like with its sheerness, but the camisole beneath was a definite antique, and soft and creamy against her skin. In the ensemble she felt pretty and sexy, and when she was pretty and sexy she knew she could take on the world.

  So world, here she came.

  She left her room and got on the elevator, where she watched the glowing numbers descend, until she stepped off on the corporate floor, which opened into a large, fancy reception area decorated as the rest of the hotel was—sophisticated and refined.