This time, he deliberately turned his back and walked away. He sat at his desk, put his drink on the blotter, and began clicking away at the keyboard like she was some type of lowly, annoying gnat he’d just batted away. Princess? Was he kidding?
Disappointment flowed. He was going to be a real prize to work with, but she’d better wrap her head around it and deal. Morgan shut the door with a decided click, noting he didn’t even bother to look up to see if she’d left. His brother was correct: he was an asshole.
She walked back over to the desk and waited. After a few moments, he stopped typing and looked up. His brows snapped together in pure annoyance. “You’re still here.”
Morgan smiled. “Yes. I don’t think you understand, Mr. Pierce. I’m not interested in any other companies. I want Pierce Brothers. I’m also going to need to go over the initial plans with your architect and make sure we can start immediately. The house must be done by the end of fall. Mr. and Mrs. Rosenthal need to be settled in Harrington on their estate in order to be ready for filming. I can imagine how full your schedule is, but once you see my proposal, I’m sure we’ll be able to work something out.”
He seemed to break out of his fog and realize she wasn’t going away. Satisfaction cut through her, until that hard gaze began at the top of her head and raked over her figure all the way down to her peekaboo shoes that showed her tasteful pink polish matching her fingernails. Morgan also noticed he seemed to spend way too much time on the thrust of her breasts from her very proper blouse, and the length of her calves, since the white business suit stopped at the knee in a perfectly conservative way. Morgan prepared herself to feel harassed or bullied, but instead, her skin tingled with anticipation. So odd. She should be positively insulted and disgusted by his male behavior. What was it about his smoky eyes that stripped her clothes from her body, saw everything underneath, and made her feel like a sexual wanton? And why, oh, why did she like it?
Her brain misfired along with her hormones, but Morgan held tight to her stance and met his stare head-on. She’d learned men respected strength. She usually won her battles by keeping her stubborn silence, waiting them out, and presenting a professional front.
Too bad inside her clothes she felt all itchy, turned-on, and completely nonprofessional.
But Caleb Pierce never had to know.
Those full lips twitched in a half smirk. Almost as if he guessed her thoughts and figured it might be fun to toy with her. Too bad for him she’d gone through tons of confrontations with arrogant billionaires, diva celebrities, and demanding teen pop stars who wanted their way and refused to compromise. Morgan had learned from the best. A simple contractor wouldn’t get in her way.
“You have mud on your skirt.”
She never lost a beat. “I encountered the two Cujos in your foyer and realized they wanted to kill me in a way I wasn’t prepared for. We wrestled, and I won.”
“Never heard Balin and Gandalf called Cujos before. You’d be in more danger of being licked to death.”
“Tolkien fan, huh? Nice. Still, I wouldn’t term them a great welcome committee for new clients.”
“I don’t want any new clients, so they work great for me.”
“You won’t need any other clients after you take the Rosenthal job. You’ll be able to pick and choose to your liking.”
“I’m in a bad mood, princess. Sure you want to take me on now?”
She tilted her head and regarded him thoughtfully. “Why don’t you try me, Charming?”
His gaze narrowed. Oh, yeah, that got his attention. She tried not to get sucked into the depths of those amazing eyes, but she was fascinated at how quickly they could turn from smoke to cold steel. She wondered briefly what they’d look like when he was buried deep inside a woman. Whoa, what was that thought? Was she insane?
“What did you just call me?”
Morgan smiled at his slightly shocked tone. “Charming. If I’m playing the passive princess, you can play the part of the stud with brawn but no brains. Personally, I think the horses were the most interesting part of those stories.”
He shook his head. “Who the hell are you again?”
Morgan decided this was a great time to grab the chair opposite his desk and sit down. Both of her feet wept in relief. “Morgan Raines. I’m a personal interior design artist hired by the Rosenthals. In case you haven’t seen a movie in the past five years, let me remind you they’re the darlings of Hollywood, and Slate was nominated for an Academy Award last year. His wife is the face of Glimmer makeup. Maybe you’ve seen her in half a dozen commercials while you’re watching the Kardashians?”
Was that the grinding of his teeth or just her imagination? Oh, she hoped it wasn’t her imagination. “I’ve heard of them. Why is a design artist trying to hire me to build a house?”
Morgan went to cross her legs, felt his gaze drop to the exposed skin of her thighs, and remained still. She clasped her hands on her dirty white skirt and gave her spiel. “I’m much more than an interior designer, Mr. Pierce. My clients hire me to be their voice and vision and oversee the entire project of their dream home. I work with the contractors while the house is built and am the only one they deal with during the construction. I’m the one involved with every tiny detail, from the faucets and tile all the way to what type of doorknobs I want installed. I’m present every day and work closely with the builder on all aspects to completion.”
He fell back into the chair and let out a humorless laugh. “You gotta be kidding me. Basically, your job is to babysit all the spoiled, wealthy clients so they can show up to a completed house built to spec.”