Personal Relations. HEATHER MACALLISTER

ten forty-five, her hand shaking so much she couldn’t punch the number on the telephone, Brooke had to shut the door to her tiny office. She started to jog in place, hoping to work off some steam.

      Jogging didn’t cut it, even after she kicked off her pumps, so Brooke resorted to old-fashioned jumping jacks. The jumping part was fine, but her panty hose gave her trouble during the jack part. She was ready to take them off as well, when a sudden easing in pressure heralded a run in her stockings. At least something could run in this small place.

      Bare legs were better than a giant run, so Brooke ripped off her panty hose, tossed them in the wastebasket, did four more jumping jacks and breathlessly punched out Chase Davenport’s office number. While the number rang, she looked at the business card. He was a commercial property agent for the MacGinnis Group. In other words, a glorified salesman. A slick, glorified salesman, she added when she remembered the silver Porsche.

      Brooke got his voice mail, but didn’t want to leave a message and punched zero for assistance.

      “Mr. Davenport is at lunch,” the receptionist confirmed. “And is scheduled to go directly off-site from there.”

      “Off-site?” Brooke asked.

      “To visit one of our properties.”

      “Oh. And when do you anticipate his return?”

      “May I tell him who is calling?” the receptionist countered, frankly a little late for true professionalism in Brooke’s opinion.

      “I’m in the Haldutton personnel department. We’d like to check a reference.” Brooke’s face had heated even before she told the lie. Which wasn’t exactly a lie—not much of one, anyway. She was extremely interested in Jeff Ryan’s references.

      “It’s difficult to predict, but you could try back around three-thirty.”

      Brooke thanked her and hung up before the receptionist could ask for her name again.

      Three-thirty. There was no way she could do jumping jacks until three-thirty.

      Fortunately, she didn’t have to. She even managed to choke down a light carbohydrate-less lunch so her mind would be clear when she went to do battle.

      She was calm. She was focused. She was rational.

      And then the phone rang.

      “Hi, Brooke! Are you busy?” Courtney sounded way too happy.

      “What’s wrong?”

      There was a disgusted sigh. “Nothing is wrong. Why do you always think that?”

      “Where are you?”

      “With Jeff. Rehearsals were canceled while the choir director works with the soloists, so we thought we’d come downtown and go ring shopping! Jeff is getting the money from his brother right now. Want to come?”

      Ring! Unfocused, irrational thoughts bombarded her. “I—I have an appointment this afternoon,” Brooke said. “In fact, I should be leaving right now.”

      “Okay!” Courtney said breezily. “Just thought I’d check. You wouldn’t want me to settle for a ring that was too small, would you?”

      Brooke saw an out. Jeff would probably freak when he saw the price of diamonds. “Oh, most definitely not. After all, you’ll be wearing this ring forever. It’s got to be special. You don’t want it to look chintzy.”

      “Well, no.” Courtney sounded uncertain.

      “All your friends will see it.”

      “Yeah, they’re gonna be jealous.”

      “Just remember the four C’s.”

      “What are those?”

      “Cut, color, clarity and size.”

      There was a short silence. “That’s only three C’s.”

      “Well, the other one means size.”

      “Oh. It probably doesn’t begin with C because it’s the most important.”

      Brooke was too frazzled to contradict her. “Whatever. Have a good time.”

      “Okay, bye!”

      Brooke gripped the phone and tried to take deep, calming breaths, but only succeeded in making herself light-headed.

      Carat. The fourth C was carat. Oh, well, never mind. She’d planted the seeds of greed and it might make Courtney think twice about marriage.

      That didn’t sound right, but she wasn’t going to worry about it now. Grabbing her purse from the bottom file drawer at her desk, she headed for Chase Davenport’s office.

      “HEY, MAN, like, I need to borrow some major bucks.”

      Chase winced and tilted back in his chair. “How major?” he asked Jeff, keeping his voice deliberately casual. “Concert ticket major? Car major? Spring break trip major?”

      “Engagement ring major. You know, a real diamond.”

      Ice formed in his veins. “Jeff.”

      “And I’m not talking about a promise ring here. I want the real thing—like my mother has.”

      Zoe’s diamond size had increased with each marriage. The one she had now could serve as the practice rink for the Olympic ice-skating competition.

      “I see.” Chase straightened, thinking quickly. “Why don’t we talk about this when I get home tonight?”

      “’Cause Courtney and I are going ring shopping now. No rehearsal today, so we’ve got time.”

      “Jeff—”

      “Courtney’s asking her sister to come with us to make sure we get a good one. She said something about C’s and that size was important.”

      A red haze crossed Chase’s vision. “Make sure you inform Courtney and her sister that any major withdrawals from your trust account must be approved by me.”

      “Well…like, that’s not going to be a problem, is it? I mean, if you’ve got issues, I can always ask my mom.”

      Who would see nothing wrong with her son buying a diamond.

      Back off, back off. “Hey, it’s your money, but I couldn’t look your mother in the eye if I let you buy an inferior stone. You know how she is about diamonds. Just don’t buy anything without me seeing it first.”

      “Hey, no prob.”

      Yes, prob. Big prob.

      CHASE DAVENPORT worked in a nice, shiny building several streets over from Brooke’s own office building. She was able to reach it through Houston’s underground tunnel system, though she had blisters on the backs of her heels by the time she arrived.

      As she took the escalator from the tunnel and emerged through the atrium, she was relieved to see that his company, the MacGinnis Group, was, like hers, one of the last bastions of proper business dress, with none of this business casual nonsense. Brooke was very happy to wear a suit, thank-you-very-much. It gave her authority and kept her comfortable in an office that was air-conditioned ten months out of the year.

      When she reached the ground floor, she headed for the rest rooms and combed her hair, checked her makeup, and applied the Band-Aids she carried in her wallet to her blisters.

      She wanted to look mature—intimidatingly mature, since Chase so clearly wasn’t.

      The fact that he might not have returned to his office yet didn’t occur to her until she was actually asking for him at the reception desk.

      “Brooke Weathers,” she gave her name to the receptionist, who sat in the center of a round room with hallways leading off it like a spider in the center of her web. “Tell him it’s personal.”

      The receptionist