“Yes, sir.”
“There’ll be no business over dinner. The Japanese don’t work that way. So you can relax for a while, Stockton.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
She was already dismissed, his concentration back on the pages in his hand.
The way he could switch on and off was little short of incredible, Tessa thought, as the evening progressed. He was tense and silent, inwardly focused, until they reached the bar in the main building. In an instant he was emanating goodwill and fellowship. Over dinner he was a charming host, telling jokes, swapping stories, affable and interesting, controlling the conversation with enviable ease and mastery. The moment they walked out of the hotel, he closed into himself again, tense and silent.
They were halfway back to the cottage before he spoke, and that was only to use Tessa as a sounding board for his thoughts.
“We’ve got a real problem. The way things are shaping up, I can’t see the Japanese getting ringi,” he said abruptly.
“What’s ringi, sir?” Tessa asked. She had never heard the term before.
“Their seal of approval. Every delegate has to give it before the project can go ahead. It’s a symbol of their complete dedication and commitment to the project. A totally different system to ours. I can make a unilateral decision and force it through. Saves a lot of time and trouble. But they won’t move without consensus.”
The impatience and frustration in his voice told Tessa what he thought about that system. But then Blaize Callagan was obviously a born dictator. Tessa thought the ringi system was a lot fairer than orders from on high. Less open to abuse. But she kept her opinion to herself.
“Stockton, what happens when you run into an immovable object at full speed?”
“You get hurt, sir.”
“Don’t be a fool, Stockton. I’m talking about me.”
This left Tessa feeling confused. Did Blaize Callagan think he was invulnerable to hurt? Was he? “I don’t know, sir,” she said. It seemed the safest comment.
“There are only two things to do, Stockton. Run into it and get hurt, as you suggest. No point in trying to shift it. That’s impossible. The far better thing is—get around it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m going to sidestep ringi,” he said decisively.
“Yes, sir.”
By this time they were walking up the steps to the cottage.
“Need to write a memo, Stockton.”
“Yes, sir.”
As soon as they entered the living room, Tessa went straight to the computer, switched it on and sat down, readying herself for his dictation. He paced up and down the room, gathering his thoughts.
His suit coat came off. It was tossed onto a chair. His tie made its exit, as well. Four buttons on his shirt were flicked open, revealing a dark sprinkle of hair below his throat. Tessa was beginning to feel a bit tight around the throat herself.
He paused, frowned, then started to dictate, setting out the strategy he had decided upon in clear precise terms. Tessa’s fingers flew to keep up with him. There was another long pause for more concentration. He removed his cuff links and rolled his shirt sleeves up to his elbows. His forearms were indeed muscular. Tessa hoped the undressing was going to stop there. It was getting very, very distracting.
“There’s a lot of nervous tension here, Stockton,” he remarked.
“I’ve noticed that, sir.”
The dark eyes stabbed at her with amused appreciation. “I’m glad you have more words in your vocabulary than ‘yes, sir,’ Stockton. It comes as a relief.”
“Yes, sir.”
He dictated further points for the memo then came to stand behind her chair to read the monitor screen. “Turn it back to the beginning, Stockton,” he directed.
“Would you like me to print it out, sir?”
‘‘No. Just roll it through the monitor for me. I’ll tell you what to add or delete as we go.”
“Yes, sir.”
How Tessa held her concentration together she didn’t know. Several times he leaned over her to point out a place in the printing on the screen, thrusting his bare forearm right in front of her eyes, making her overwhelmingly aware of male flesh and muscle...and the long supple fingers...and the warmth of his breath near her ear... and the scent of his strong masculinity.
Several times her fingers fumbled and she had to correct her mistakes. He made no critical comment. He patiently waited until she was ready to go on. At last they came to the end of it. Then he asked her to turn it to the beginning and roll it through again.
“Very tense, Stockton,” he commented. “I think we should do something about it.”
Tessa had no suggestions. She didn’t know if he was commenting on her or him or the memo. She couldn’t even bring herself to say, “Yes, sir.” She sat there in piano-wire tautness, waiting for his next instruction, hoping she could carry it out with some air of competence.
She felt a hairpin being drawn out of her topknot. Then another one. And another one. She stopped breathing. Her heart slammed around her chest. After several moments of blank shock—and the loss of several more hairpins—Tessa’s mind dictated that she should start breathing again because her chest was getting very constricted and her heart was protesting quite painfully. Her mind added that she ought to say something, as well. But before she could find some appropriate words, he spoke.
“Nice hair, Stockton,” he said as her ponytail fell down and his fingers drifted through the silky weight of the thick tresses. He leaned over her shoulder and placed a bundle of hairpins on the table. Then he went to work on the rubber band, gently untwining it to release her ponytail. “You’ll feel a lot better with your hair down,” he said.
“Mr. Callagan...” Tessa almost choked on his name. She decided it was best not to make an issue of her hair at this late point, but to get his mind—and hers—firmly directed onto business. “Would you like this memo printed out now?” “No.”
The rubber band was tossed on top of the pins. His fingers lifted her hair away from its former constraint, fanning the long tresses out in all their glossy glory before sliding through them to gently massage her scalp. “Do you want to make more changes to the memo?” she asked, beginning to feel quite desperate about his absorption with her hair.
“Perhaps later. Needs thinking about. Feeling less tense now?”
“Yes. Thank you.” It was a terrible lie, but what else could she say?