Bad Influence, page 33
“I’m going to help you improve the library’s reputation,” he corrected.
The man exuded confidence. It wasn’t simply the way he dressed in a suit that fitted like a dream, or the way his crisp, white shirt contrasted with his lightly tanned skin. It wasn’t even the imposing height or the masculine breadth of his shoulders. It was the way he looked at her—direct without being confrontational, as though he knew he didn’t need to intimidate to get what he wanted. One glance and the other person would hand their soul over without protest.
No doubt that glance made women melt into a puddle at his feet.
As much as her insides were reacting to his magnetic energy on some basic level, she was determined not to be one of those puddles. “Improve our reputation?”
“Yes. People in the community don’t see libraries being worthy of taxpayer dollars. They think they’re old fashioned and a waste of money.”
While part of her knew he must be right—why else would they be struggling for funding and donations?—she couldn’t help bristling at the statement. It sounded a hell of a lot like he thought they were a waste of money.
“Libraries aren’t old fashioned.”
“Yes, they are. With the internet, who needs books?”
“I have one on etiquette and manners that you might benefit from,” she said archly.
A sly smile quirked his mouth, making her blood boil—fast. “Manners are overrated and etiquette…well, you’re not exactly convincing me this place isn’t old fashioned.”
Who did he think he was, insulting her passion? “Tell me then: If our reputation is so bad, how are you the right person to help us?”
She’d been hoping for some reaction—a tensing of his jaw, a blaze in those bottomless, brown eyes. Something to show she’d hit her mark. Instead, he looked at her with utter nothingness.
“What do you mean by that?” he asked, his voice as neutral as his expression.
“Well, from everything I’ve read, you haven’t been able to keep your own reputation in check. Why should I trust you with ours?”
* * *
Frustration ripped through him like a freight train. Did every single person in New York think he was a social delinquent?
Somehow, by not offering women anything more than sex—which they readily agreed to at the time—he was a horrible human being. And now this prickly little librarian was giving him attitude. As if coming to this blasted place for a meeting wasn’t bad enough.
Darcy cocked her head, as if challenging him to bite back. Over his dead body. Reed McMahon was not a loose cannon; everything he did was calculated, strategic—purposeful.
“And how do you know about that?” he asked.
Her hands knotted in front of her. Each finger was long and slender, graceful. She wore no rings, no nail polish. No adornments—anywhere. Her face was bare of makeup and she wore no other jewelry. And despite that spare styling, there was something unabashedly feminine about her long, dark lashes and full, pillowy lips.
“I’ve been following the articles about you,” she said.
“You and every other woman in New York. And they’re blog posts, big difference.”
She shrugged a shoulder.
“Everyone in this city knows my name. They may not appreciate how I go about my life, but, if you haven’t noticed, I draw attention,” he said smoothly. He resisted a smile when dots of pink colored her cheeks. “You need that attention.”
“We need money.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Attention won’t pay for our programs or new computers.”
“Money won’t come without attention.”
“So I guess you’re of the belief that all publicity is good publicity then?”
That wasn’t necessarily true, especially given his current situation. He’d have much preferred to get on with his job without the constant ribbing from his colleagues. The little trophy wasn’t the only surprise he’d found in his office. He’d walked in after lunch one day to find a vibrator hidden under a stack of papers with a bow tied around it. No doubt Aaron or one of his cronies had snuck in the second Kerrie had stepped away from her desk.
Reed wasn’t the kind of guy to go running to HR over a practical joke, but he was over being the center of attention.
“People won’t support what doesn’t interest them.” He looked around at the walls decorated with colored-paper shapes and posters illustrated crudely with markers, and had to force himself not to shudder.
God, he hated libraries. All that false cheer and insincere kindness felt like an overdose of candy—it made him jittery, uncomfortable.
“We need to make this place interesting,” he added.
“I have to say ‘interesting’ hasn’t really been at the top of our priority list, what with all the focus being on education and community enrichment,” she said sharply. The girl had an acid tongue and a defensive shield that would be harder to scale than a forty-story building. Not that he was the kind of guy to back down from a challenge, mind you.
“No matter. That’s why I’m here.” He fought back a laugh as she rolled her eyes.
“Glad we’ve got someone to show us where the real priorities are.” Her tongue darted out to lick her lips and he caught a flash of silver. A tongue piercing.
Christ. The unexpected detail stopped him in his tracks. She’d hit the On switch to his nervous system and a low hum started up like the first twig lighting up in a bonfire. His eyes skated over her lithe figure, over the almost-masculine jeans and combat boots, over the black shirt where the cuffs stopped just shy of her wrists, allowing some elaborate ink to peek out. He wondered how much of her body was covered with it.
So much darkness, and yet there was a light and earnestness in her face that struck him deep in the chest. Curiosity skittered through his brain. He wondered what the piercing would feel like running over his skin.
Stop that right fucking now.
“I’m not the enemy, Darcy. I’m here to help you. But I’m also not going to give you some rose-colored-glasses bullshit.”
“Why are you helping us?” she asked. “Apparently, you’re offering your services for free. We don’t exactly seem like your regular kind of client.”
“How would you know that?” he asked, enjoying the narrowing of her eyes.
“I can tell from all this”—she waved her hand in his general direction—“that you’re not in your comfort zone.”
He looked down at his custom suit, a purchase made from one of his favorite tailors, and stifled a grin. The number of zeroes on that bill had made his eyes water, but it was all a necessary part of the Reed McMahon image. The real him—the boy who’d come from nothing—wouldn’t appear until he was home and hanging up his public identity in his modest bedroom.
Not that people like Darcy would ever assume there was more beneath the surface.
“Is this your way of telling me I’m not in Kansas anymore?” he drawled.
“Correct. And don’t go thinking I’m Glinda the Good Witch or some pushover munchkin.” She walked past him with her nose in the air. “If I think you’re going to do anything to make our situation worse, I’ll get all Wicked Witch of the West on your ass.”
* * *
After Reed listened to Darcy talk for an hour about all the things that needed fixing in the library, two things were clear. One, she was incredibly passionate about her job. Two, he would need to end this conversation now; otherwise, he’d be here all night. The sexy little librarian had written her own version of War and Peace in the form of a detailed spending plan for the funds raised.
“This is all very interesting, but I honestly don’t care how you spend the money.” Reed checked his watch. “The public doesn’t care either.”
Darcy narrowed her eyes. “Why would they donate money if they don’t know how it will be spent?”
“Because computers and curriculum aren’t interesting.”
“There’s that word again,” she muttered.
“Why are you so afraid to be interesting, Darcy? You should try it some time. It’s so much fun.” Lord help him, he couldn’t resist tugging on the strings of someone as prickly as her. His reward was an irritated huffing noise. “People care about feelings.”
“That’s an interesting assessment coming from a guy who doesn’t seem to have any.”
“You shouldn’t believe everything you read on the internet,” he said. “And computers don’t make people feel anything. They want to know that their money means a brighter future for little Jimmy down the road.”
“Did I not just talk about the after-school program?” She folded her arms across her chest and the action made the buttons strain on her black shirt.
Focus, McMahon.
“That’s exactly what’s going to help the kids in our community,” she added.
“But we’re not selling them on the program. We’re selling them on little Jimmy. We’re going to appeal to what they care about, which is themselves.”
“You think people only care about themselves?” she scoffed. “Not that I should be entirely surprised by that…”
“I never said they only care about themselves. But they do care about themselves first.” In all his years dealing with people’s image problems, he knew one thing for certain: people were a hell of a lot more selfish than they wanted to admit.
“That’s incredibly cynical.”
“Maybe. But it’s accurate.” He sucked in a breath. For a situation where he was offering his expertise for free, he was certainly having to explain himself a hell of a lot. “Think about it this way. It’s a caveman thing, self-preservation. We all take an interest in what’s best for ourselves and, therefore, so long as our needs aren’t in direct competition, we’re all better off.”
“What does this have to do with asking people for money?” she asked.
“Because helping little Jimmy have a brighter future means an improvement to the community. Educated kids means less crime and better job prospects. They’ll grow up, have educated kids of their own, and give back to the community. Success begets success.”
“So we appeal to people by showing them how improving the library will benefit the community—a.k.a. them—in the long term?”
“See, I knew you’d be a good student.” He grinned when she shot him a murderous look. “Now, let’s talk about a possible venue for the fundraiser.”
“I thought we would have it here.”
“No.”
He looked around the library and tried to resist the automatic lip curl. This was one area where he wouldn’t be budging. Fundraisers weren’t meant to depress people, and that meant the venue couldn’t be in some run-down building painted entirely in baby-puke beige.
“What do you mean, no?” Darcy looked at him incredulously. “Do you think we’ve got spare cash lying around to pay for some fancy function room?”
“You don’t need to pay for a venue—that’s Fundraising 101. I’ll use my contacts to secure us an appropriate place willing to donate the space in exchange for some good press.”
“I still don’t see what’s wrong with having it here.”
He resisted the urge to ask her if she’d prefer to run the event on her own without his help, because he suspected he knew what her answer would be. But he wasn’t going to let Kerrie down just because some snippy librarian wanted to question his approach. He knew what worked best to get the dollars rolling in, and therefore, he knew what was best for this library.
“I get that you’re really passionate about this place,” he said, using the sincerest tone he could muster. “I really do. But this is what I do for a living. I promise if you trust me to take care of the library, you’ll be able to get everything you need to keep this place running the way you want.”
Darcy’s tongue darted out to moisten her lips and he caught that sinful flash of silver again. Her vivid-blue eyes watched him, assessing and cool. Her distrust was palpable.
“I’m no saint,” he added. “But you don’t need a saint right now. You need someone who can convince the world to eat out of the palm of his hand.”
“And you think you can do that?” She cocked her head. “Even when the whole city thinks you’re an asshole?”
“I’m good at my job, Darcy. And the fact is, I don’t see anyone else lining up to help you out.”
“Maybe I don’t need help,” she said stubbornly, but the hardness had leached out of her voice.
“If you truly care about this place, you won’t take that chance. But I’ll put the ball in your court. If you want me out, I’m gone.”
It was ballsy. She was about as warm and fuzzy as a porcupine and he hadn’t exactly started out on a positive note. But he knew the best way to reel someone in was to show you were confident enough to walk away.
“Fine,” she said after a painfully long pause. “I’m willing to hear your approach. But I don’t want this to be some flashy, grand event. That might be how you do things in your world, but that’s not how we operate here.”
“Got it.” He stuck out his hand. “So we’re working together now?”
She hesitated for a moment, and when she slipped her small hand into his, a little thrill of accomplishment ran through him. The buzz of convincing someone to do what he wanted never faded. If he were a more philosophical guy, he might have contemplated what that said about him.
“I guess we are,” Darcy said. “I hope you don’t make me regret it.”
“Regret is for chumps.” He flashed her his most winning smile. “We, Darcy, are most certainly not chumps.”
Chapter 5
“Don’t go there with Reed. Just don’t.”
—TheOtherMonica
Darcy hated herself for the prickle of attraction she felt toward Reed since she knew what kind of guy he was. Okay, so the attraction was more like being struck with defibrillator pads. But still, the guy was cocky beyond belief.
Cocky and pushy and utterly gorgeous.
He had the kind of charisma that an awkward turtle like her would never embody. A confidence and comfort in his own skin that she would kill for.
Ever since their meeting, she’d been distracted by the fact that they would be working together. The weekend had ticked past slower than usual, and she’d found herself unable to concentrate. Even her favorite comfort read hadn’t been able to get her in the zone. Then she’d awoken to an email on Monday morning requesting she meet him that evening at a potential venue for their fundraiser. Some place with a difficult to pronounce name. Some place that was exactly not what she’d wanted.
Now she was being forced to spend another evening with him. A dinner, no less.
“Do my eyes deceive me?” Remi poked her head into Darcy’s bedroom. “Are you wearing…a color?”
“Very funny, Rem.” She smoothed her hands down the front of the deep indigo blouse.
“Clearly I’m mistaken.” Remi leaned against the doorframe. Her long legs were encased in a pair of lilac leggings and pink legwarmers. “It must be some new shade of black I don’t know about yet.”
“We can’t all dress like a My Little Pony.”
“It’s the parents-and-kids class today. The little ones get pissed if I don’t wear pink.” A dainty hand patted the edge of her plump ballerina bun. “Where are you off to? That doesn’t look like your usual attire for a night on the couch. Have you got a date already?”
“No.” The word shot out of her like a missile. Dinner with Reed was strictly business. “It’s, uh…a work thing.”
She hadn’t been able to bring herself to tell the girls about Reed. Her poker face was shitty at the best of times, let alone when talking about someone who’d made a surprise appearance in the form of an unusually sexy dream. Highly unusually sexy. To make matters worse, Annie had sent a screenshot of one of his latest reviews to her yesterday with a string of laughing-crying emojis. Needless to say, that had sealed Darcy’s decision to keep her new colleague’s identity a secret.
“I’m looking at a potential venue for the fundraiser. I can’t turn up in my old jeans and T-shirt, you know.” God, could she sound any more nervous? Clearly a career in acting wasn’t in her future. Hopefully she could keep it together in front of Reed.
“Right.” Remi nodded, a curious twinkle in her eye.
“Do you think I look…” Her eyes flicked to the mirror. “Appropriately dressed?”
The blouse was old, but it hadn’t been worn. Darcy had originally purchased it for her honeymoon, thinking it looked like something a wife should wear. She realized now that was a stupid concept, and she shouldn’t have been planning to change herself simply because she’d gotten married. So she’d ripped the tags off and now it was just a blouse.
The silky fabric was sheer on the arms, enough that a faint glimpse of her tattoos could be seen through it. A single gold button dotted each cuff.
“For a work function? Sure. It’s gorgeous.” Remi’s gaze drifted down to Darcy’s feet, but she didn’t say anything.
Dark jeans and black, lace-up combat boots probably weren’t the best accompaniment to a silk blouse. But high heels were Darcy’s sworn enemy. At five feet nine inches, she didn’t need them anyway.
“I don’t want to wear heels, so don’t even suggest it.”
Remi’s eyes lit up as she raised a finger to signal Darcy should wait a moment. If she were a cartoon, a big lightbulb would have appeared above her head. A few seconds later, she returned with a pair of pointy-toed black flats, the edges decorated with gold studs.
“What about these?” She held them out as if offering a sacred gift. “I thought they might be a nice compromise…and they’re Valentino.”
“I’m going to assume that’s a good thing.” Darcy reached down and unlaced her boots.
