Secretly, she’d already made up her mind.

It happened sometime between two and three o’clock after he’d taken off his shirt. On a good day Ben was hard to resist. On a day like today with the afternoon sun beating down on his broad back as he worked on her house—resistance was futile.

And why had she been resisting him?

“You mind if I get cleaned up before we move on to the office work? I could use a shower.”

Instantly Hilary had processed the statement and kicked into analysis mode. Ben was going to take a shower, but there wasn’t a “You want to join me?” invitation in his eyes. Chance of sex: 10%.

Hilary said in her best “of course I’m not thinking carnal thoughts” voice, “Sure. Be my guest.”

Ben brought in some clothes from his truck and then the torture began. First he closed the bathroom door, but she didn’t hear it click. Did she dare join him? Next there was the sound of water bombarding her with images of his strong, naked, taut body.

Following her urges, she went toward the bathroom. She could do this, of course she could. Chance of sex: 80%. Just as she shucked her T-shirt, the water turned off.

Damn.

Chance of sex: 0%. But the night was still young.

Dear Reader,

When my editor invited me to write for THE WRONG BED series, we brainstormed all the places where beds were found. I wanted to do something a little different—write a book about a place with a veritable treasure trove of beds: a mattress company. Immediately I thought of one of my favorite musicals, Once Upon a Mattress, based on the fairy tale The Princess and the Pea. But you know the thing about fairy tales? They’re always about the princess and never about the prince. Does that seem fair? Not to me. Every princess may have her day, but every prince has his story, and Ben was Hilary’s prince.

Hilary was so easy for me to write. I knew her pain and the distrust that always seemed to follow. Ben was more difficult. Oh, he was a prince, all right, but his world wasn’t quite the way he assumed it to be.

So, on to the story. I love to hear from readers, so please visit my Web site at www.kathleenoreilly.com.

Enjoy!

Kathleen O’Reilly

Books by Kathleen O’Reilly

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

889—JUST KISS ME

HARLEQUIN DUETS

66—A CHRISTMAS CAROL

Once Upon a Mattress

Kathleen O’Reilly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to the most disagreeable girl.

May she always be so contrary.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

1

BEN MACALLISTER STUDIED her from across the conference room table. “Bad breakup?”

“I beg your pardon?” she replied, lifting her head.

Hilary Sinclair wasn’t the sort of woman that men would notice at first glance. At first glance, a man might overlook her—dismiss her even. The second time, Ben had noticed the “I’m bookish” stiffness—the social difficulty that came from being highly intelligent.

The third glance turned his head and made him wonder why the world didn’t pay more attention to Hilary Sinclair. He settled back in his chair, the old wood squeaking under his weight. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you’re very hostile toward younger men and you certainly aren’t happy.”

Ben was new to his father’s company—MacAllister Beds—but Hilary was even newer. Ten days ago she’d come on board, and it was only in the past week that he’d begun to analyze her.

“You’ve sat around and contemplated what you’ve assumed is the absolute misery of my love life, and you’ve divined all this in the short time since I’ve started?” she asked, leveling her green gaze at him as if he was the scourge of the earth, which in a perverse way proved his theory.

“I’m intelligent, not completely understanding of the workings of the female mind, but I think that’s an impossibility. So, to answer your question, yes.”

“A woman must have a man to be happy. Is that what you think?” Her eyes flashed and came alive. He liked it when she was angry.

“No, but it doesn’t hurt.”

She arched a dark brow, not quite as well as he could, but the intent was there. “You’re absolutely right. And if you must know, I castrated him.” Then she took a sip from her Starbucks coffee cup, two drops leaking onto her shirt. She didn’t even notice, just put down her cup and stared determinedly at the blank sheet of paper in front of her.

He didn’t believe her for a moment, but protective male instincts made him press his legs together.

The conference room was quiet, the rain drumming on the old roof of the warehouse. He’d shown up early, to be prompt for what might be an important meeting, but also because he knew she’d be early, too.

Oddly enough, he found himself compelled to talk to her, compelled to garner her attention. “You know, I think I watched a movie about you on Lifetime.”

She lifted her head again. “Very funny. If you don’t mind, I don’t think the workplace is the proper forum for a conversation on my personal life.”

Ben shrugged. “I was curious, that was all.”

She tapped her pen on the long wooden table, not meeting his eyes. “Why did your father invite you to the product launch meeting? I wasn’t aware that the Director of Security would be involved.”

Ben winced, and he was sure she noticed. “With Sylvia’s broken leg, I think my dad wants everyone to pitch in and help cover for her. Even Security,” he added, more sarcastically than necessary, which ruined any effort at a nice recovery.

Director of Security, my ass. Being offered the gimme position had been a low blow, but he could prove to his father that he’d underestimated him.

He’d come back to Dallas to help his family out, thought that maybe he could make a difference. MacAllister Beds had never been Ben’s idea of excitement, but this time he was determined to sweat it out. He’d never cared much about the company; his family was the reason he was here instead of completing number thirty-seven on his “list of things to do before I die.”

“So you’re going to work on the product launch?” she asked, either overlooking his sarcasm or else not noticing it. He’d bet good money it was the latter.

“If I’m needed, sure.” The new Dreamscape line was scheduled for product launch at the ISPA trade show in Las Vegas three months from now. Ben had hoped to be a part of the project.

She nodded coolly and stared back at the paper, dismissing him.

But he wasn’t ready to be dismissed. Yet. “The new mattress is ready to go?”

“Certainly,” she said.

He wanted to ask more questions, ask how many lines were on that yellow legal page, ask her if she hated all men, or should he take it personally. Before he could annoy her further, his father walked in, and that was Ben’s cue to sit back and watch. Ben took out his notes for the meeting, not sure what he’d be doing, but he still wanted to be prepared.

Ben’s father was the undisputed head and Ben’s brother, Allen, was the heir apparent to MacAllister Beds.

MacAllister Beds, the last bed you’ll ever buy.

Too bad MacAllister marriages didn’t last as long as their mattresses.

Ben clenched his folder a little tighter.

Martin MacAllister sat down at the end of the conference table, situating his big frame into the old chair. His brown hair—the same light shade as Ben’s—had just now started to turn gray, but his dark eyes were full of humor and youth. He settled back, sighing in relief when he finally got comfortable.

Allen trundled in, late as usual, then sat down at their father’s right hand.

Martin MacAllister put on the bifocals that Ben knew he hated and looked at his meeting agenda. “Ben, glad you could join us. Got big plans today?”

“I thought I’d write some new security procedures,” he answered, almost as a joke.

“Procedures, huh? Good, good. Let’s get started, shall we?”

And for the next forty-five minutes, Ben might as well have been wallpaper. His father asked Hilary all sorts of questions about the launch, what time the press conference was scheduled, what media contacts they had, shipping timetables and meeting plans.

And absolutely nothing about security at all.

Ben carefully took his notes and folded them into a paper airplane.

He could be in Colorado right now, breathing fresh mountain air at the J&D ranch, number thirty-seven on his list of things to do before he died. But he’d put that off, because he thought it was important to be here—for the company, for his family.

He almost laughed.

While the others were occupied doing real work, he got up and walked to the windows. For a while he simply stared out of the diamond panes at the modern gray lines and squares that made up the skyline of downtown Dallas. He was slowly going out of his mind.

The constant drumming of the rain on the roof should have been relaxing, but instead his knee got stiff. The same knee he’d broken when he was working as a ski instructor in the Alps.

Absently he rubbed the stubborn ligament. He had thought coming back home would be the right thing to do. Helping out his mother and father, easing their burden while they went through such a painful divorce. Only, apparently, no one else thought it was a painful divorce.

For once he’d thought he could come back and help, take the painful job and try to pick up the pieces. But everyone in his family seemed smiling and cheerful, as if nothing had happened.

Everyone except Ben.

MARTIN MACALLISTER SAT DOWN in the chair across from his son, his glasses slipping on his nose. “You wanted to see me, Ben?”

His father didn’t look distressed; on the contrary, he looked more relaxed than he had been in years. Ben rubbed the ache at his temples and settled back behind his desk, remembering his purpose. “Yes. I want to do more with the product launch. Maybe I could coordinate, or manage, or just help.”

Martin frowned, which was a bad sign. “You do?”

“Well, yes,” Ben answered.

The room was silent, only the whirring of the air conditioner and then finally a long, painful squeak as his father shifted in the heavy chair. “I’m sorry. Sure, we’ll think of something. Glad you called me in here. I’ve been meaning to ask your advice.”

At last. Ben nearly sighed in relief. Instead he put on his serious I’m-listening face. “Yes?”

“You remember that fall you went to Alaska as a fishing guide? I’ve been thinking about going up there. Just me and the halibut, alone in the great outdoors.”

Running away. His father wanted to run away. Classic. “It’s a lot of fun, Dad, and I know that with what you’re going through now—”

“What?”

“The divorce.”

“Oh, no. I’m fine. Got a lunch date with your mom on Wednesday. We need to put the house on the market.”

What?

Ben struggled for calm. No, for today, he would be productive, happy, at peace. According to his sister-inlaw, Dr. Tracy MacAllister—the Love Doctor—he should put his anger behind him. Not that he put much stock in her advice. You’d think she could have stopped her in-laws’ divorce if she wasn’t such a quack.

Ben’s voice sounded completely normal when he asked why.

“It’s too big for just your mother and I’m going to get a Winnebago.”

Ben closed his eyes. The company had been in Dallas for eighty-three years. Three generations of MacAllisters and no telling how many mattresses had been passed through these walls. And now his father wanted to buy a motor home. “What about the company?”

“I’ve got some ideas.”

Ideas. Ben knew lots about ideas. Ideas were dangerous. Ben opened his eyes, but the pain still throbbed in his head. “What sort of ideas, Dad?”

“Nothing for you to worry about. Imagine this instead. In a couple of years, we’ll be out shooting wild game in Africa together. Bang…bang.” Martin’s watch alarm sounded. “Whoops. Got a meeting with Hilary to go over a couple more details on the new line. Great lady. Lots of potential. See ya, son.” He stopped in the doorway. “And remember, if you need anything, just ask. We’re all here for you.” Then his father disappeared.

Ben stared, wondering who the man was that had just left. Wild game in Africa? Hell, his father fainted at the sight of blood.

He paced around his small office, hands locked behind his back. So what was he supposed to do? If his father thought he wasn’t capable of helping out, his father was wrong.

No, he’d do this Director of Security thing, even if it killed him.

It was only a first step, and not a big one at that. Time to return to the family. Not that anyone seemed to notice that he’d been missing, of course.

Ben went back to the safety of his desk and popped two aspirin. Where to start?

He took the folder from the top of his desk and read the computer printout of the staff’s Internet access reports. There seemed to be widespread page views of Playboy on the fourth floor, and there was some dating instruction viewage on the third floor. Ben laughed. He should check into that. It wasn’t like security at Fort Knox, but there just wasn’t a lot going on.

The aspirin started kicking in, and he felt strong enough to tackle the more mundane part of the job. He tugged open his desk drawer and pulled out a book. Hacking Exposed: Network Security Secrets & Solutions.

He opened the book to the first page. Chapter 1. Casing the Establishment.

By page fifteen, he was ready for an afternoon nap. He locked his hands behind his head and eased back in his chair, studying the walls. Maybe he could patch up the spidery cracks that ran near the ceiling, then at least he’d have something to do.

He’d worked for a roofer in St. Thomas one year. Item number four—one summer in the Caribbean. Check. Ah, that had been the perfect place. While hammering away at the flat roofs of the villas, he’d had a hard time looking away from the crystal blue waters that sparkled as far as the eye could see.

Not like Dallas, where the five-day forecast this week was rain, rain, and more rain.

He shouldn’t be daydreaming. He should check out that Internet site. He clicked on his mouse and pulled up the page.

Top ten pickup lines. Ben started to laugh as he read.

“Hey, baby, do you believe in love at first sight, or do you want me to walk in again?”

Gag. Too clichéd. He could do better than that. He thought for a minute.

“Do I have a chance in hell with you? Don’t tell me if I don’t because I just gotta try,” he said to himself.

He never heard the person entering his office; he just had the feeling someone was behind him.

Ben clicked on the word-processing icon, but it was too late. He looked behind him.

Busted.

By Hilary Sinclair.

She smiled tightly, her lips curving in a smug manner.

Ben was quick—threw himself into things right from the start—but when she looked at him as if he didn’t belong here, it really ticked him off. One thing about Miss Sinclair, she knew mattresses. One thing about Ben, he didn’t.

To make matters worse, she wore this dark shade of lipstick that should have looked goth, but instead it looked inviting.

“May I help you,” he asked, not thinking about her mouth.

“Busy, Mr. MacAllister? Didn’t want to interrupt.”

Ben started typing away in the word processor. “Clearing my train of thought. Humor is an excellent stimulus when your cerebral cortex is overutilized.”

She pursed her midnight-dark mouth and her eyes narrowed. “Is that true?”

“No.”

Her green eyes narrowed even further. They were cat eyes, tilted at the corner, and now they were mere slits. “Your father asked that you help out with the travel arrangements for the team. I’ve put together everyone’s itineraries, and their airline requests.”

Ben’s headache returned. Travel agent was not on his list of things to do.

She tossed her long dark hair back from her face. She had the kind of hair that kinked in the wet weather, and now that he thought about it, it’d pretty much perpetually kinked since the first day she started at MacAllister Beds. That’s what ten days of solid rain did to hair.

Why did he let her get under his skin? Ben’s emotional Richter scale was usually on low to very low, but she spiked the needle, both in a figurative and literal sense.

Perhaps charm and a little bit of ignorance were in order. He could do both well. “Do we know what hotel to book?”

“The show is at the Paris Las Vegas. We’ll do the press conference there, as well.”

Ben jotted it down on his notepad. “Airline?”

“Iberia.”

He looked up. She didn’t crack a mandible muscle. Ben stood his ground. For a long time she stared him down. What she didn’t know was that he’d spent six months as a bouncer during his Stanford years. And that gave him the upper hand. Finally she broke. “That was a joke,” she mumbled.

“Yes, I’m sure it was. Airline?”

“Whatever’s cheapest. We’ll be flying out on Sunday evening, although Allen has asked for a Saturday flight because he wants to gamble. Your father wants to rent a motorcycle and ride around Vegas while he’s there, and I’ll be happy with whatever arrangements you make.”

“Window or aisle?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Would you and Allen like a window or the aisle?”

“Aisle.”

“Special dietary needs.” He quirked a brow, a blatant show-off gesture.

“I’d like a plate without processed meat.”

“Vegetarian?”

“No, thank you. Vegetables don’t agree with me.”

“Perhaps I could pack a peanut butter and jelly sandwich? It might be gentler on your system.”

She took a deep breath, her rumpled blouse rising and falling. In, out, in, out. His eyes followed her breathing, and damned if he wasn’t getting hard.

“Sarcasm is unbecoming in a professional environment,” she said, and he wondered if she’d think hard-ons were unbecoming.

Instead, he cleared this throat. “And I thought I was being considerate.”

“Shall I assume this task is not beyond your capabilities and that you can work it into your—” she shot a glance at his monitor “—busy schedule?”

Her voice was full of rebuke, as if she were a schoolteacher correcting a wayward student. Ben had never indulged in schoolteacher fantasies, but images popped into his brain—images that could get him in trouble with Hilary Sinclair.

For a moment he contemplated her prickliness. She wasn’t his type, not to imply that he limited himself to a type, but she had something that appealed to him. Here was someone clearly in need of a life adjustment. She didn’t smile enough, didn’t look happy at all. He’d never seen a woman more in need of rescuing than Hilary Sinclair.

And Ben, who’d never rescued anything in his life, was captivated.

Life was too short to ignore such heaven-sent opportunities. “I like your blouse, Miss Sinclair,” he said.

Finally, success. He was rewarded with a deep flush. Deep and decadent. In quite a disordered manner, the rigid Miss Sinclair pulled a tin from her pocket and popped an Altoids in her mouth, and then, remembering her manners, put the box on his desk.

Ben didn’t look at the tiny mints; instead he was fascinated by her curves. She had been all tight lines, straight back, narrow eyes, but now, as if by magic, her cheeks were rounded, almost plump, her eyes wide and liquid. She had the guilty look of a woman who’d been caught in the wrong bed.

Ben idly traced the rim of the desk with his index finger, imagining what lay underneath that rumpled white blouse. There was nothing like crossing the line to make things interesting. His smile grew wider, his hard-on harder.

“I need to leave,” she said, turning tail to run.

He watched the crinkled skirt as she rushed out the door.

“Oh, Miss Sinclair?”

She turned and leaned against his door frame, panic in those wonderful cat’s eyes. “What?”

“You forgot your mints.”

2

HILARY HAD NEVER liked wet spots. They were uncomfortable, unsightly and could lead to early onset of mildew. She stared up at her ceiling and watched the wet spot grow larger. Outside, the storms were raging, and inside apprehension was swelling, right along with the wet spot.

She turned on the radio, hoping to block out the internal turmoil. The soothing tones of Dr. Tracy, the Love Doctor, filled the air.

“Next caller.”

“Hello, Dr. Tracy, I’ve been having problems with my boyfriend…”

Boyfriend? It was such an innocent-sounding word. Hilary had had a boyfriend once, and she and Mark had encountered no problems. Of course, he had broken off their seven-year engagement, which some might consider to be a problem.

She liked to think of it as a blessing.

Now she was footloose and fancy-free, and if she really put her mind to it, she could do footloose and fancy-free. Yup, she was on her way to a new and improved lifestyle.

And any second now, her new and improved lifestyle was going to spring a leak.

Cursing her Realtor, she moved the rugs out of the way and stared at the slightly warped, wooden flooring beneath.

She had thought the softened appearance gave it character. She was a moron.

Hilary didn’t like insecurity. She knew she was capable and intelligent, a real go-getter. Yet, this afternoon when Ben MacAllister had flashed her a bit of his oh-so-abundant charm, she’d had a tremendous desire to go out and get her nails done.

Men like him didn’t notice women like her. He had charisma, was handsome and she’d heard the stories about all the places he’d been.

So why pay attention to her?

Inconceivable. No mere man would reduce her to such a quivering mass of spineless Jell-O. And thanks to Mark, men weren’t to be trusted—none of them, not one bit.

While she was contemplating her own gullibility, the first drop fell. Big and fat.

Hilary dashed to what was someday going to be her newly remodeled kitchen and searched frantically for a bucket. There, back at the far wall under the sink, she found the shiny blue plastic pail she’d salvaged from Mark’s place in Atlanta. She carried it back to the living room and, feeling rather cocky, placed it under what was now a steady stream of water. Then she put her hands on her hips, ready to battle the storm gods.

Take that.

It would require more than a puny drip-drip to poke holes in her future.

She dusted off her hands and sank down in front of the spot where the TV would eventually go. She couldn’t afford a TV yet—Mark had taken theirs in the breakup.

Twenty-seven inches, right there in front of the bay window. Twenty-seven inches in approximately ten days—as soon as she got her first paycheck from MacAllister Beds, thank you very much.

She listened as Dr. Tracy calmly explained to her caller that she was kidding herself about her new boyfriend. That he would never amount to anything and the caller should dump him.

Sage advice. So thrilling to be the dumper rather than the dumpee. So where had Dr. Tracy been when Hilary was in Atlanta?

In Dallas, of course.

That was Hilary’s home now, but it didn’t feel like it. Yet.

She loved her new house, she really did. It was situated in Kessler Park, a small suburb just south of Dallas. The house was small, like Mark’s house back in Atlanta. It had wooden floors that, when polished and disinfected, had a fresh, pine scent. Okay, perhaps it was a lot like Mark’s house, but this new and improved house had three little rooms rather than four. Living room, kitchen and, as soon as she moved all the boxes, she’d even have a bedroom. Of course, it did need a little work. But she was willing to do whatever it took to start over.

A new life, a new house.

Then she took a hard look at the ceiling and sighed. And a new roof.

She thought about calling the roofer, even went and picked up the phone, but then she thought of what repairmen charged these days. Her credit card was in a world of hurt. No, she thought as she put down the phone. She’d wait out the storm, wet spot and all. Again she studied her ceiling. Really, it didn’t look that bad. If she were lucky, the storm would pass soon.

Thunder boomed and she jumped, still a little nervous about being alone. What she needed was company. She went to her would-be bedroom, rummaged through the boxes until she found the old paper box that she had treasured since her childhood. She popped open the lid and at last pulled out her friend, her confidant, her constant. The storms raged around her, and Hilary held tight to her musty, yet still pristinely preserved, stuffed Benjamin Franklin doll.

When your father was in the air force, some guy in a red cape and the likes of Barbie just didn’t cut it. Thomas Jefferson, Betsy Ross, John Wayne—those were the stuff of legends.

She padded back to the living room, feeling a little better with Benjamin at her side. This was the first time she’d truly been on her own, and although she was off to a shaky start, things would work out.

She hoped.

Hilary stared at the wise man sitting in her lap. Of course they will, won’t they, Ben?

If only it would stop raining.

An ominous creaking sounded deep in the bowels of her roof.

She didn’t want to see this.

Crack.

That made her look. One truss jutted right through the middle of her ceiling, drywall drooping like a weeping willow. Above that, there was only the dark gray sky.

And of course, rain.

Her mother had always punished her for cussing—a lady never cusses—but this time Hilary swore up and down in a manner that her father, retired Air Force Colonel Douglas Sinclair, would have approved of.

Just for good measure, she swore again.

Benjamin stared back at her, his blue eyes laughing at her behind his wire-frame spectacles.

“You keep that up, I’ll put you back in the box.”

She found the first water-removal ad in the yellow pages and picked up the phone to dial.

But there was no dial tone.

Unbelievable.

BEN SHUFFLED through the papers on his desk, not that it helped. Nine at night, and he hadn’t made it through the first diagram yet. The internals of a bed. He had been an English major, not an engineer.

The Cowboys game on TV called to him. Ben, you don’t really want to read that, do you? Come watch me.

Why did football have to have such a seductive voice? He groaned and took another sip of his cola.

No, he was not going to accept defeat at the hands of an innerspring. He propped his elbows on his desk and tried to concentrate.

Not that it helped.

MacAllister Beds wasn’t about security, it was about a mattress. And if Ben was going to succeed here, he really needed to understand how a mattress was put together.

He blew out a breath, staring at the springs.

What the hell was a helical anyway?

AFTER A THOROUGH CHECK of her closets for ax murderers, Hilary knew the dead phone line was not a plan to kill her, merely another step to wrecking her new and improved life.

With half a tank of gas, she wasn’t going far, and gas stations open in Kessler this late at night were hard to find. She found a hotel nearby, a by-the-hour establishment, but decided against it.

At two in the morning, she found her way to the familiar confines of MacAllister Beds.

Thank God. Tired and exhausted, she was ready to discover if the company’s advertising claims were true.

The office was dark and gloomy, shadows creeping along the wall. Hilary clutched her herbal-extracts pillow to her chest, letting the scents of lavender and barley soothe her senses. Her backpack was filled with tomorrow’s clothes, toiletry bag, mini-alarm clock, one breakfast bar and a new tin of mints. Only two more days until the weekend. Thank God. Maybe she could spend the time waterproofing her house.

The rain pounded, but there were no drip-drip-whoosh sounds of a roof about to collapse, merely the rather loud whirring of the ancient air-conditioning system.

The Future Products and Research Testing area was on the third floor, and she was relieved to see the old metal elevator waiting for her. They had said she could have after-hours access—anything to keep their workers happy and productive. Right now, Hilary was too exhausted to think about work. Just a few hours of sleep was all she needed, and the research testing area was the perfect place.

The elevator shuddered to a halt, and she slid back the iron gate. First she looked to make sure the hallway was empty, and then she crept toward the open glass doorway that housed the next generation of MacAllister Beds.

At last.

Inside was another long hallway lined with eight doors. Each room housed a bed, a small television set, a nightstand, and a small hospital-style bathroom. Not quite the comforts of home, but there were no leaks, no standing water, and best of all, no room charges.

Hilary wandered from room to room, examining each bed closely. Over the years, she’d learned the power of a good mattress.

Five years ago she had graduated from the University of Tampa with a degree in industrial engineering. First job out, and she started in the sleep products industry. Twelve months later, she’d discovered she loved it, even with the uninvited remarks from the occasional yuckster: sleeping on the job, or sleeping with her boss. Everyone thought they were comedians.

She finally settled on the last room at the end of the hallway, number eight. First, she set her alarm for five o’clock—didn’t want to get caught. Next, she bounced on the mattress for a moment, then kicked off her shoes and sank onto the bed.

Ah. Bliss.

For a long time, she stared at the ceiling, wondering about her roof, wondering about her job, wondering about her $9,337 Visa balance, but gradually the lavender did its job, the barley cleared her worries away, and Hilary fell into a deep sleep.

BEN LIFTED HIS HEAD off his desk and opened one eye, the morning light way too bright in his office. Immediately the hammer in his head pounded with a vengeance. Ouch. Why in a building full of beds had he chosen to fall asleep at his desk?

“Mr. MacAllister!” It was the voice of a drill sergeant.

And now he was wide-awake. His latest temporary secretary, Helga Von Schmidt, was punctual, efficient and possessed no visible sense of humor. He hated her.

“Security registered motion detection in the testing center last evening and no trials were scheduled. I thought you might want to know, as security is your job.” She lifted one dark eyebrow as if he were completely inept. James Bond he wasn’t, but for God’s sake, it was a mattress factory. What were they going to steal?

“I’m on the case, Helga. You can relax now.”

She humphed and stalked out the door without so much as a cheerful smile to start the day. Ben wondered if the temporary agency would be annoyed if he called and requested a new secretary.

Probably. He seemed to be annoying a lot of people lately.

Still, security was his job. Or at least his latest job.

And it was time to check out the facts. Down at the research center, Ben looked into each room, wondering if he should test for fingerprints.

Nah. By the time he entered room number eight, he knew that no fingerprints were necessary.

There was a new smell that permeated this room. Pleasant, comforting. Not at all what they normally used in the testing lab, where antiseptic deodorizer was de rigueur.

The bed looked completely unused, and yet…

He sat down on the bed, a new test unit for the Dreamscape line. The innersprings gave way just as they’d been designed. He leaned back, letting the warm smell wash over him. Without thinking, he rested his head on the pillow, the scent of, what was that smell? Something with flowers and something else. It was soothing, relaxing, yet oddly elusive.

Something sharp poked his spine and he reached behind him, looking for a clue. But there was nothing.

Someone had lain here, he was sure of it. But why? A little catnapping on the job, or a little catnapping on the side?

What a perfect setup for an affair. No hotels necessary, just use the company’s product.

Ben sat up. For the first time the weight of responsibility was resting on his shoulders. With a scowl that would have made Helga proud, he strode out of the room.

Tonight he would discover just exactly what was being researched in the testing center.

Or who.

3

BEN WANDERED through the hallways late into the night, hoping he looked like the proprietary owner rather than a paranoid Director of Security. No one seemed to think it strange that Ben, who never worked more than thirty hours a week before, was now stalking the halls like a man bent on worldwide domination.

That was a laugh. All he wanted was his family back together.

Worldwide domination was probably easier. Actually, getting his family back together looked pretty much impossible. His mom acted too accepting of the divorce, his father was ready to audition for Fear Factor. MacAllister Beds was all that was left.

Gradually, the plant had emptied, the parking lot vacated. Now it was time.

He went to the research center and picked his spot carefully. The bed across from room number eight.

It sounded like a bad cable movie. Typical Thursday night fare.

He shook his head, tossing the thought aside, then he shut off the lights. Instantly, the room turned black as pitch, empty. He settled himself on the bed, crossing his arms across his chest.

Eleven…midnight. Still nothing. He tossed on the mattress, wishing for the familiar bed in his apartment. Another storm raged outside, the cooling masses pressing against the heated air. Nothing to worry about.

Finally, convinced he was paranoid and all was actually right with the world, Ben fell asleep, dreaming of lavender and the green eyes of a cat.

DETERMINED TO HAVE a solid alibi, Hilary decided to work in her office until midnight, or until her body quit, whichever came first. To be honest, the world was getting a little hazy and she wasn’t exactly sure what was what.

Could be the early onset of a cold. She should have stocked up on Vitamin C.

She made due with two cold tablets sans water. Her throat had expanded and she wasn’t sure that the water would have gone down. Her voice had dropped two octaves since this afternoon and soon it would be gone altogether. She liked talking to herself as her voice disintegrated—pretending she was Mae West. After all, a woman needed role models.

Feeling a little giddy, she did a short bump and grind to get into her sleep shirt and shorts.

By the time she reached the third floor, she was pretty well wiped. Walking like the zombie she was, she thought she’d returned to the room she’d been in the night before. Pulling her pillow from her backpack, she inhaled the soothing barley with a heavy sigh. At least she could still breathe.

She collapsed on the bed and then climbed under the crisp sheets. Her eyes felt so heavy, sleep was so close. Thank God for MacAllister Beds.

THERE WAS A HAND on her breast. A possessive hand. Hilary smiled drowsily at the familiar warmth. Mark always did have a perfect sense of timing.

The alarm began to beep, and Hilary reached over to shut it off.

Then she rolled closer to him, basking in the heat that radiated from him. Ah…he felt so good. Slowly her fingers crept underneath his pajama shirt to find hard muscles beneath.

It must be the gym. She had told him it would pay off.

His lips trailed over her neck, and she could smell his new cologne. It was milder than what he usually wore, but underneath she could smell him. Strong, bold, masculine.

She tried to open her eyes, but she felt too lazy, too adored. Diving into this warm pool of hedonism, Hilary simply let him dally at her neck. Never had she felt so hot. It was like fire everywhere his lips touched.

She wrapped her arms around him, bringing him fully on top of her. With a contented sigh, she absorbed his weight, his strength. Her hands splayed over his back, over his butt. There she lingered, wondering why she had never noticed exactly how built he was.

Tomorrow she would tell him. Or today. Maybe she could tell him yesterday. Oh, she was getting silly.

Then his lips took hers in a kiss that gave no quarter. She had never let him kiss her before she had brushed her teeth, but today she didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to leave this marvelous world where kissing was so much fun.

And soon she was responding to his kiss and forgot all about her morning breath. It felt amazing to just live in the moment.

He pushed up her shirt, and she felt cool air against her overheated flesh. But soon his hands were there, hard and daring.

Everywhere they touched her, she responded. It was as if she was new, unfamiliar.

His hands cupped her breasts, and his fingers stroked her eager nipples. She arched her back, wanting more of his ardent attention. The air felt thick and heavy, the blackness like a balm. All was quiet, except for the sound of his breath. Steady and strong.

She felt detached from her body, the sensations so intense that she could no longer separate each new touch.

His hips pressed against her and she moaned. A heavy ache beat like a pulse between her thighs. Feeling very Mae, she wrapped her legs around him and ground her hips tight.

THE LINE BETWEEN reality and his dream was getting all blurred now. Ben’s logical brain was shouting for him to wake up. His primordial brain had abandoned all principles and just wanted more.

Her hands were not shy at all, exploring his chest and his stomach with a sureness that made him burn. She was a flame that he held in his arms; everywhere she touched, his skin turned to fire.

And against his neck, her lips whispered a promise of paradise.

He could smell her, smell the lavender, the barley, the musky arousal that even her perfume could not mask.

Her magic fingers unbuttoned his fly and then slid beneath his briefs, and she laughed, low and husky. “Mark,” she whispered against his neck, as if just his name delighted her.

Mark?

Mark?

Ben opened his eyes and stared into wanton green eyes that glowed fever-bright with desire.

He had tasted the heat of her lips. He had felt her breasts heavy in his hands. Still, her voice played in his head.

Mark?

With legs slightly unsteady, Ben ignored all his instincts, climbed out of the bed and turned on the lights. The sight of her bare golden skin was mesmerizing. His stubble had left red streaks on her skin. Marks of possession.

Ben wasn’t a man who thought in terms of possession, hell, he prided himself on having as few as possible, but this morning there it was. His mark.

He could do nothing but stare, his body protesting the space between them. He was a fool.

The fog lifted from her gaze and her face froze in horror. “Mr. MacAllister,” she gasped, pulling her shirt down and gathering the covers around her. She looked the picture of naive innocence. Ben remembered the way she had stroked him earlier and thought the Victorian modesty bit was way overdone.

“I think you can call me Ben,” he said with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Unfortunately, her eyes flashed sexual harassment. What was the law, anyway?

She pulled the sheet tight around her, an extra layer of protection over her shirt and shorts. “Let’s just forget this moment ever happened. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get dressed.”

Oh, please. “You are dressed,” he said in a calm, non-threatening voice. “Look, this was nothing more than a case of mistaken identity.”

She tried to climb out of the bed, but the sheet kept coming untucked, and she wouldn’t let go. He held a hand, but she scooted away from him. “Don’t touch me.”

As if he were some sort of monster. Jeez, who had climbed into bed with whom here? And why was she here? “Look, I’m sorry. Okay? But this isn’t that big a deal.”

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood. Then she braced a hand behind her on the bed and closed her eyes. For a second he thought she was going to faint. But not Miss Hilary Sinclair. She opened her eyes again, emerald sharp, and took a deep breath. “Not a big deal? You are such a man.”

He jammed his hands into his pockets. “A fact you were perfectly happy with about fifteen minutes ago.”

Direct hit. Her faced flushed fire-engine red. “I expect a co-worker to behave with a bit more decorum, but obviously in your case, that’s too much to ask. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m leaving.”

She shuffled out the door with quite a bit of dignity for a woman sporting humidity hair, dragging a sheet behind her.

BEN SPENT the early-morning hours locked in his office, waiting for a decent hour to make a call. Tonight, when he had a cold beer in his hand and a cold shower nearby, he would linger over the surprising aggressiveness of Miss Hilary Sinclair and her bodacious breasts, but right now he needed to put MacAllister Beds first. He picked up the phone and dialed, hoping he hadn’t screwed up too badly.

“Danny, this is Ben. Listen, I need to ask you a lawyer question.”

“Shoot.”

“It’s about sexual harassment laws.”

“Did you get yourself in trouble?” Danny asked quietly.

“God, I hope not. I don’t think so. It’s Dad’s company, not mine. Last thing I want is to mess it up.”

“Um, this a consensual situation?”

Now that was the million-dollar question. He had no idea. Ben told Danny what had happened and then sighed as he wrapped up the sorry tale. “Could I get her to sign a waiver or something?” he asked, and immediately thought of her nonexistent sense of humor, and figured it’d be easier to herd cats than get a signature from her, but he’d do whatever he had to.

“A waiver? Ben, relax. You’re fine. If she starts making noises, call me back. But I don’t see a case there.”

Ben let out a long sigh of relief. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. Haven’t seen you since you got back in town. What are you up for next?”

“Cowboy.”

“Rodeo? Whoa, dogies.”

“Nope. Just roping and stuff.”

“Still, pretty cool. Hey, what are you doing tomorrow? The guys are going to OutdoorLand to check out their hiking gear. Got a big trip planned in a couple of weeks. You gotta come.”

Ben leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk. Hiking, now that he could handle. “Sounds like fun.”

“See you on Saturday,” Danny said, and then hung up.

One bullet dodged.

Ben put down the phone and swiveled his chair to face the window. What was he doing here? Downtown Dallas. Rain. Buildings everywhere.

Being a businessman really was the pits so far. Out on the range, there was only the wind and the sky. And the last thing a cowboy had to worry about was sexual harassment.

Damn.

4

TWO HOURS LATER Ben was driving in the downpour, with squeaking windshield wipers and all. Miss Hilary Sinclair had disappeared from MacAllister Beds, last seen exiting to the parking lot, leaving one rumpled bedsheet behind her. He peered through the rain, scanning the painted numbers on the sidewalk.

Her personnel file listed her address as just south of the river in Kessler Park, a small community full of young families that were remodeling the older homes. Finally he found what he was looking for, although when he looked carefully, he wondered if he’d made a mistake.

The grass was knee-high and in sore need of weeding. Of the three concrete steps that led to the front door, two were cracked, and one was missing. The house was kind of cute, with an A-line roof and the dark red bricks so popular long ago. But still…

Ben knew Miss Sinclair was a little messy, but this seemed extreme. He pulled up the collar of his overcoat and then made his way to the front door.

He nearly laughed at the little horseshoe that was hanging over the door knocker. Jeez, this house needed more than a horseshoe, but he didn’t think Miss Sinclair would take kindly to having him laugh at her house. He put on his best poker face and rang the bell.

“Hello?”

“Miss Sinclair, it’s Ben MacAllister.”

She cracked her door open and peered at him suspiciously. “Mr. MacAllister, what are you doing here?”

“Could I come in?”

For a moment he thought she would refuse, not that he could blame her, but then the door swung open. She was dressed in an old terry-cloth robe, and her nose looked red and irritated.

Had she been crying? He started to touch her, and realized that’s what had gotten him in trouble in the first place.

“Are you all right?”

“Why are you here?” she asked, her voice raspy, and he realized she was sick. He felt the first stirrings of what he hoped was sympathy. It was a depraved man who felt desire for a woman who looked to be running 103° temperature. He cleared his throat. “I came to apologize.”

Hilary didn’t say a word, but when she walked inside, he assumed it was an invitation to follow.

And then stopped.

It was a nightmare of Bob Villa proportions.

A truss had sheared through the side wall and was embedded like a pickax. Rain was pouring into a small bucket that looked about to overflow. There was a ladder and tools set up, a home improvement book lay open on the top step of the ladder. Gently, he shut the front door, afraid to be the cause of any more new disasters.

She looked up at him defiantly, waiting for a wiseass remark.

“You’ve got a leak,” he said, trying for honesty.

She sneezed. “Magnificent deduction. I can see why you’re in charge in security.”

If she thought she’d get a rise out of him, she was mistaken. He wasn’t up to kicking puppies or insulting sickly women with leaking roofs. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, apologizing more for her roof than anything else.

She waved a hand and then eased herself into a chair. “Forget about it. I would offer you a seat, but most of them are soaked.”

“Is that why you’ve been sleeping in the research center?”

Hilary winced but didn’t deny it. “Sorry. You won’t say anything, will you? I just need to get this fixed.”

Ben shook his head and then took a good look around. Something definitely akin to sympathy tugged at him.

Altruism wasn’t one of Ben’s finer qualities, but suddenly he realized he wanted to help. Here was someone who needed him. “Want a hand?” he asked, hoping she’d say yes.

“Know a roofer?”

He blew out a breath. “I could fix it for you.”

“And what would you want in return?”

She didn’t make altruism easy, but he wasn’t going to give up. “Is it just me, or do you not trust anyone?”

She crossed her arms over her chest and stared up at him. “Just the ones who’ve had their hands on my breasts.”

Automatically his fingers flexed in memory, but he held on tightly to thoughts of altruism. “Let’s not go there right now. It’s raining in your living room. I can fix it for you. No favors necessary.”

Her green eyes looked a little bleary, but they still held suspicion. “Swear?”

“Swear.”

For a moment he thought she was going to say no, but finally she nodded agreement. “All right. How are you going to fix it?”

“We’ll put up some plastic sheeting first, and that’ll dry things off some. After that, a couple of two-by-fours, and you’ll be in business temporarily. It’s nothing more than a patch, but it’ll hold for a while.”

Hilary wiped her eyes with a tissue. “You’re all right.”

“Got any chicken soup?”

“Hungry?”

“No, but you look like you could use some. I could go to the store if your cupboard is bare.” She looked like a woman with bare cupboards.

“You trying to get on my good side?”

“Do you have a good side, Miss Sinclair?”

Hilary smiled, a little wobbly, but bright enough to stop the rain. “If you’re not careful, Mr. MacAllister, I’m going to change my opinion of you.”

Quickly Ben climbed up the ladder, suddenly needing to study the hole in her ceiling.

On a more rational day, it would have been easy to stay away from Hilary Sinclair. She was prickly and arrogant and obviously didn’t like him. But for the past few months, he’d felt decidedly irrational. Ben stole a quick look down, and caught her smile.

Whoa. Definitely irrational.

HILARY SAT CURLED UP on the corner chair, sipping hot tea and watching as Ben worked on her ceiling. The cold medicine she’d taken was starting to make her woozy, but she didn’t want to sleep, she just wanted to sit here and watch him in action. He didn’t say much, which surprised her. She had figured the Ben MacAllisters of the world didn’t understand the value of silence.

She knew about those charming types who always had a joke or an insincere compliment. The guys that liked to regale the world with the tales of their exploits.

Before today she would have bet her Visa bill that Ben was one of them.

But she was wrong about him.

Being wrong never sat well with Hilary, and eventually it bugged her so much that she turned on the stereo, just to fill the silence that was far too comforting. At six o’clock, the calm, melodious tones of Dr. Tracy filled the house.

“Do you mind listening to her?” she asked, liking the way he moved as he worked. His shirt hung loose on his frame, and she could see the strong lines of his arms and back as he lifted the boards into place.

Ben picked up a nail and began to hammer. “Dr. Tracy? She’s a little opinionated, don’t you think?”

“Sometimes, but I don’t think it hurts to take a stand on things.”

“No, I guess not,” he said, a smile playing around his mouth.

He was humoring her. Hilary didn’t take humoring lightly. “I bet you think she’s too old-fashioned,” she shot back.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“She’s my sister-in-law.”

“No kidding? That’s so amazing.”

Ben shrugged. “I’m surprised Allen didn’t tell you the first day you walked in the door. That’s what he does to just about everyone else. He’s real proud of her. Thinks she knows everything.”

“Because she does. You should try doing her job sometime,” Hilary snapped. Guys like him thought everything was so easy. Life was just one big piece of chocolate cake. Dr. Tracy knew better.

Their eyes met, hers daring, his amused. “Okay, we’ll play advice counselor. Turn up the volume.”

Hilary adjusted the knob and they both listened to the female caller’s voice.

“Dr. Tracy, I’m eighteen, and I’m in love with a great guy. We’ve only known each other for about six months, but I can tell that he’s the one. We’ve been talking about marriage, but I know my parents won’t approve. What should I do?”

Hilary muted the radio and shot a curious look at Ben. “So, what is your advice, Dr. MacAllister?”

He put down the hammer and leaned on the top step of the ladder. “Elope. Skip the confrontation with the parents and just go for it. Et tu, Dr. Sinclair?”

Just as she had suspected. Fly-by-night. Entirely irresponsible. She took a sip of tea, mulling over her response. “What about college? What about learning what this guy is about? What if he’s a deadbeat?”

Ben lifted another board and she got a little dry in the mouth in the presence of such amazing biceps.

She nearly missed his response. “What about love?” he asked.

At that exact moment in the world, she was sure that some little porker had just sprung wings. “You’re a romantic.”

“No, just practical.”

“How so?”

“If things don’t work out, a divorce, no harm, no foul.”

Trust a man to be so slapdash about marriage. Mark hadn’t been slapdash. “They should wait. Take their time. Eighteen is too young to get married, and divorce is not an option.”

He shot her a curious look. “Catholic, Miss Sinclair?”

Hilary raised her chin. “No, I just have high standards.” Too late. She realized that she might have put her foot in it. “Have you been married before, Mr. MacAllister?”

“Nope.”

“So you have loads of experience to draw on?”

“Have you been married before, Miss Sinclair?”

“No.”

“What about Mark?”

Instantly Hilary was back in Atlanta, back in the condo, eating Thursday-night lasagna and playing poker. Mark couldn’t stand to lose, so she would always let him win. In seven years, he never caught on. He just thought she was a crappy player. She drew up her knees tightly, reluctant to talk to Ben about Mark. She’d already mistaken him for Mark once and look where that got her. “You almost done up there?”

Ben picked up the hammer once more and began pounding. “Yeah. Just a few minutes.”

They were as different as two men could be. Mark had dark hair, cut in a short, practical manner. Ben had light brown hair that never seemed to stay in place. Mark was steady and reliable. But Ben MacAllister was a 24/7 candy store that believed in free samples. The man coasted on a wink and a smile.

Yet there was Mr. Unreliable, stuck on a ladder fixing her ceiling.

How did that work? Hilary shook her head, feeling too tired to contemplate the possibility of being wrong twice in one evening.

She leaned her head back against the soft cushions of her chair and listened as Dr. Tracy dispatched words of wisdom—agreeing with Hilary, of course—and gloried in the amazing power of Mr. Unreliable’s biceps.

IT WAS ALMOST TEN o’clock before her roof was somewhat restored. The boards looked pretty unsightly, unfinished pine over mangled Sheetrock, but it was a small price to pay now that it no longer rained in her house. If it really got to her, she supposed she could paint it a fashionable shade of purple. Ben finished packing up her tools and collapsed on her couch.

“Why don’t you get some sleep?” he said, pushing wayward hair out of his eyes. “You look wiped.” Actually, she thought he was being kind. She felt miserable, but she couldn’t quite force herself to stop watching him. It was like staring after a car wreck. You hate yourself for doing it, but you can’t bring yourself to avoid it, either.

“You’re sitting on my bed.”

It was as if she’d told him he was sitting on nitro. He jumped up, and then took a good look around the place. She was too drained to be embarrassed, but her toes curled anyway. She’d never been an incredibly material person, but she did have some pride.

“You don’t own anything, do you?” he asked, now leaning against the back of the couch, his hands jammed in his pockets. She watched her pride flutter out the window.

“I manage,” she said, tossing her head in a very Mae manner.

“Yeah,” he answered, a wealth of disbelief in the word, the Mae gesture completely wasted.

It was an odd moment. She knew he should leave, and he knew he should leave as well. Yet, both of them continued talking, trading barbs, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. An insidious memory crept into her mind, the feel of his mouth at her breast. Suddenly the soft material of her robe became unbearable.

He seemed to feel the tension as well. “Stay at home tomorrow. Get well.” He picked up his overcoat and started to the door.

“I have a conference call scheduled in the morning,” she said, willing him to stay.

“I can get Helga to reschedule it for you,” he answered, shrugging into the coat.

“No. I want to renegotiate the rate we’re getting for cotton batting, and I’ve finally gotten on the calendar with a VP at Masters Bonded Fibers.”

“Then I’ll take the call for you.”

He sounded serious. Even in the drug-induced haze of her brain, she recognized the sincerity in his voice. Curious, she studied him, searching for the punch line. But there didn’t seem to be one. “No offense, but I can handle it.”

His face cleared, all sincerity gone. Instead, he assumed the vacant look that he seemed to have perfected and shook a warning finger at her. “Fine. Take the call, be stubborn, but if the entire company comes down with the flu, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

“I don’t have the flu,” she said, mainly because she felt like crap and didn’t like listening to lectures.

Ben stopped in the doorway, then swore softly and turned around. “You do have blankets, don’t you?”

“There are a couple in the back room.”

“Go lie down then,” he said, with a gesture at the couch.

While he retrieved the bed linens, Hilary sank gratefully onto the long, leather couch. Her bones felt as if they were made of water, and as she lay down, she sighed in relief.

A warm blanket covered her, her herbal pillow placed under her head. She closed her eyes, comfortable for the first time in days.

For a moment he stroked her hair with a gentle hand. “Good night, Hilary Sinclair.”

“Good night, Ben MacAllister.”

There was a click as he flipped off the lights, and the room was shrouded in the night, the rain no longer a miserable thing, now it seemed more like a friend.

He walked toward the door, and she lifted her head up, watching his silhouette in the darkness. “Ben?”

At her voice, he stopped, and she stared after him. Another time she might have asked him to stay, but it wouldn’t be this night. He wasn’t the right man, so “Thank you” was what she ended up saying.

“Don’t mention it,” he replied, and left.

Once more Hilary was all alone. After she heard the whir of his engine, and she was sure he was gone, she crept back into her bedroom and took Benjamin Franklin from his box.

She crawled back under the blankets, Benjamin securely at her side.

THE NEXT MORNING, Ben had scavenged all the documentation he could on MacAllister Beds. The Hacking Exposed book was stowed far back in his desk drawer. He had bigger plans, now, not that they were going so well. He could do more than security. In only one week he’d gotten a rudimentary understanding of mattress design, next up was finance. He was slugging through the quarterly statement when Hilary walked into his office.

Today she didn’t wear her usual skirt and hose; instead, she was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. And he would have been remiss not to notice the two coffee blotches on the T-shirt front and center. She could look like death warmed over, but God forbid, apparently didn’t skimp on the coffee.

Stubborn woman. “I thought I told you to stay home,” he said, trying for a tone of authority.

Rather than answer him, she went to his white board and wrote, I can’t talk.

Ben stalked over to the white board and wrote back. Go home.

I have the call, she wrote.

He put down his marker. “Go home. I’ll reschedule it for you.”

Hilary stared at him, murder in her eyes, and shook her head.

Stubborn, he scrawled, underlining it heavily.

I need your help.

Ben stared at the lopsided words that she had scribbled and smiled. How had she managed in Atlanta?

Oh yeah—Mark. That’s how she had done it. Still he couldn’t help the leap in his voice, couldn’t stop the simple hope. “What do you want?”

Take the call on the speakerphone. I can write what you need to say.

He rocked back on his heels, frustrated that she had so little trust in him. “Okay, but at least tell me what you want to do, so I’m not blindsided by anything.”

She studied him, looking ready for battle, but apparently she saw the futility in a white-board debate. She nodded and picked up the marker. Here’s what we need to do.

It took about an hour and a half, but by the time she was done, Ben was feeling pretty good. She simply wanted to renegotiate the rates and volumes for the cotton fiber. He could do that, and he even had a few more ideas, but he kept those to himself.

At noon, she was situated in his office and he dialed out.

“John Spears speaking.”

“John, this is Ben MacAllister from MacAllister Beds.”

“Oh, hello Mr. MacAllister. I had thought we were scheduled with Ms. Sinclair, but of course we’re always happy to talk with the owner.”

Click…click…click. Ben watched as Hilary repeatedly capped and uncapped the marker. Finally she wrote. Owner, schmowner.

Ben was actually starting to enjoy her loss of voice. Just to tick her off, he smiled broadly and resumed his conversation.

“Ah, yes. Now what we’re trying to do is—”

Furiously she scribbled on the board and Ben repeated what she wrote. “…evaluate the value proposition with Masters, and to be honest, we’re not sure we’re there yet.” Getting a little confident, he started to put in things on his own. “In these times, we just need to stay aware of the market and what’s driving it. Customer commitment, that’s what makes MacAllister Beds, and primary among those commitments is price.”

Hilary rolled her eyes. He winked back at her.

“Well, of course, aren’t we all? But we’re already giving you the best numbers we can.”

Hilary scribbled and Ben read. “We’ve found some more competitive pricing from Midwest Cotton and before we make any changes, we wanted to give Masters an opportunity to match the quotes.”

There was some hemming and hawing on the line. “Well, of course, our quality can’t be beat. You don’t want to put shoddy fiber into your mattresses.”

Again Hilary picked up her pen and wrote. Midwest was rated number one by The National Institute of Fiber. Can’t argue with that. I believe Masters was number five.

Ben looked at Hilary with appreciation. Good job, he mouthed, and then read the information to Spears.

“Perhaps we can do something about it,” the man answered.

Hilary folded her arms across her chest and smiled, completely confident in her abilities. For the first time in his short time at MacAllister Beds, Ben felt the thrill of the chase. “And while you’re at it, John, maybe you can re-evaluate those contracts for the organic cotton for our hypoallergenic line. Just due diligence after all.” Hilary’s eyes widened and she shook her head. Ben ignored her.

“We’ll do that, Mr. MacAllister. I’ll be back in touch on Monday with a new quote.”

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