High Stakes. Barbara Dunlop

checked behind the maître d’s desk and found a pen.

      “What are you planning to do with all this?” he asked as he returned to the table and set the napkins down in front of her.

      “Contract amendments.” She scooped the pen from his outstretched hand. “The wainscoting for the stain and the crown molding for the carpet.”

      She printed on a napkin for a moment.

      Derek sat down.

      “Sign here.” She pushed it across the table.

      “This is ridiculous.”

      “Dated and signed by both of us. It ought to hold up in court.”

      “We’re not going to court.”

      “I’m not taking any chances with my Safavid carpet.”

      “I’m a man of my word.”

      She folded her arms across her chest and smiled. “Then you have no reason not to sign, do you?”

      Since her crossed arms brought her breasts up against the scooped neck of the dress, and since he could most definitely see soft, pigmented skin peeking out, he did as she asked.

      “Perfect.” She smiled, scooping up the napkin. “We’re finished with those two items.” Then she blinked her long lashes. “Any other areas you’d like to discuss?”

      He decided then and there to take her along for the next labor negotiation. While he wasn’t prepared to say she’d beaten him, he definitely wanted her on the team when the going got tough.

      “The light fixtures,” he said, deciding it was time for him to win one. He had to concentrate to keep his gaze from dropping to her chest.

      “The bronze and stained glass exudes character and history,” she began. “When customers enter the Lighthouse, that fixture will be the first thing they see. They’ll be overwhelmed by it’s grandeur and style. It’s a classic. It’ll highlight the wine rack—”

      “It’s a light,” he said dryly.

      “It’s not a light.” She looked affronted. “Well, yeah, okay, of course it’s a light.”

      “I nearly fell out of my chair when I read the price.”

      “But, it’s not just a light. It’s an antique.”

      “Get a reproduction. Nobody will know.”

      “You’ll know.”

      “I won’t care. I’ll be too busy spending the money we saved.”

      Candice leaned forward.

      Derek nearly groaned at the cleavage she presented. It ought to be illegal.

      Of course, he could tell her, and she’d probably cover up.

      Nah.

      “I’ll know,” she said. “I’ll care.”

      “And that’s supposed to keep me awake at night?” It wouldn’t. Not like the thought of her breasts would.

      “Okay. How about this. Restaurant reviewers will know.” She leaned back and smiled, obviously appreciating her own brilliance. She lifted her wineglass. “You want them to write about the cheap reproduction or the fine antique.”

      Derek paused. He needed to succeed in at least one of these side deals, to salvage his pride if nothing else.

      “I’ll give you the tiles,” she said. “The tiles for the light fixture.”

      “But, I like the tiles.”

      “Okay.” She shrugged. “Suit yourself.” She began writing.

      “What are you doing?” he asked.

      “I’ll keep the light fixture. You keep the tiles.”

      “Wait a minute—”

      “Why don’t you get the chocolate mousse?” She looked up at him and smiled sweetly. “I wouldn’t want to hurt my feet.”

      “YOU’RE CORRUPT,” said Derek as Candice savored the first bite of her chocolate mousse—creamy rich, melting smoothly over her tongue. He should seriously consider a career as a chef.

      “Why?” she asked, licking every little morsel off the tip of the spoon.

      “You got it both ways on the last deal.”

      “That’s because you were so busy talking to my cleavage.” She grasped the top of her dress and tugged it up a little.

      His spoon froze in midair. “You knew?”

      “Please.”

      He might be a great cook, but subtlety was not his middle name. The man saw a flash of skin and he was hopeless.

      “That’s cheating,” he said.

      “Cheating how?”

      “You should have…” He made a lifting motion with both hands.

      “You could have told me.”

      A slow, secretive smile grew on his face. “Then you would have covered up.”

      She smiled back, just as secretively. “Then you wouldn’t have signed away a fifty-thousand-dollar light fixture.”

      “For fifty thousand dollars, you should have to strut around looking sexy all night.”

      “Not in the contract.” She patted the two signed napkins.

      “My mistake.”

      She chuckled. “It’s cleavage, Derek. Every woman at the reception tonight showed off the same thing.”

      “Not my mother or aunt Eileen.”

      “Every woman under the age of fifty.”

      “It’s not the same thing.”

      “Why not?” she asked.

      “There’s that opening again.”

      “Are you trying to flirt with me?”

      He stared into her eyes for a long, silent moment. “You want me to?”

      Danger signs flashed through her mind. No way she was walking into that one. “I want leather upholstery for the dining-room chairs.”

      “That’ll put you over budget.”

      “How can you know that?”

      He tapped his forehead. “Mind like a steel trap. I remember the cost and the square footage required, and the outrageous labor charges.”

      He did, did he?

      She reached up and pulled a couple of pins from her hair, raking her fingertips through the tangled curls. Maybe she could get him to reconsider….

      He watched in silence, his gaze following her every movement. His nostrils flared. “It won’t work. But nice try.”

      “Taking down my hair wasn’t a bribe,” she lied. “I’m tired, and my head’s getting sore. It’s after midnight.”

      His eyebrows crept up. “Uh-huh. Another nice try.”

      “How long’s it been since you had a date?”

      “A what?”

      “A date. You’re sure susceptible to a woman who’s sitting here doing nothing but minding her own business.” She fought a grin.

      “I’m not susceptible to anything.”

      “Uh-huh.” She scooped up a small amount of the chocolate mousse with her index finger, then placed it in her mouth, swirling her tongue around the rich cream, then slowly pulling the fingertip back out through her pursed