She entered the elevator, then froze with her finger on the button.

Wait a minute. She had this all wrong. She shouldn’t be fighting them. What better way to demonstrate the error in their thinking than to go along with it? Ms. Chantal wanted to take over the ball? She could bloody well take over the ball. It would take less than twenty-four hours for her to get into a mess. Sinclair wouldn’t argue with the president. She’d graciously step aside. She’d take the day off and leave Chantal with just enough rope to hang herself.

When Sinclair came back tomorrow, hopefully they’d be ready to listen to reason. As the elevator dropped, Sinclair drew a deep, bracing breath.

It was all but suicidal. But it would be worth it.

Ha!

Roger wanted to give Chantal a chance to shine? Sinclair would graciously step aside. When she came back tomorrow, hopefully they’d be ready to listen to reason.

As the elevator dropped, Sinclair warmed to the idea. When she got back to her office, she informed Amber they’d have the files back in a couple of days, and that she was going home to paint.

A few hours later, with U2 blaring in the background, Sinclair’s frustration had translated itself into a second coat on most of one wall. She was busy at one corner of the ceiling when there was a banging on the door.

She climbed down the ladder and set her brush on the edge of the paint tray.

The banging came again.

“I’m coming,” she called. She wiped off her hands, then pulled open the door.

It was Hunter, and he was carrying a large shopping bag.

“I’ve been buzzing you downstairs for ten minutes.” He marched across the room and turned down the music. “Thank goodness for the lady on the first floor walking her dog.”

“I was busy,” said Sinclair.

Hunter dropped the bag onto the plastic-covered floor. “What happened?”

“I decided I should spend the day painting my living room.”

“I talked to Amber.”

Sinclair shrugged, picking up her paintbrush, and mounting the ladder. “What did she tell you?”

“That you were painting your living room instead of working.”

“See that?” she gestured to the brushes, paint cans and tarps. “All evidence points to exactly the same thing. I am, in fact, painting my living room.”

“She also told me you haven’t taken a day off in eight years.”

Sinclair dipped the brush in the can on the ladder and stroked along the top of the wall. “Meaning I’m due.”

“Meaning you’re upset.”

“A girl can’t get upset?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “What happened?”

“Nothing much.” The important thing now was to get the painting done, then go in tomorrow and see if her plan had worked.

“Do I have to come up there and get you?”

She laughed, dabbing the brush hard against the masking tape in the corner. “Now that would be interesting.”

“Quit messing around, Sinclair.”

She sighed in defeat. Being micromanaged was embarrassing. “You want to know?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Hunter. “I want to know.”

“Roger gave Chantal my Valentine’s Day ball files. She needed to review them because, apparently, we’ve all recognized her talents.”

“We have?”

Sinclair dipped the brush again. “Therefore, she’s ready to be the PR assistant. No. Wait. I think she’s ready to be the PR manager.”

“What exactly did Roger say?”

“Not much. He just gave her the files. He seems hell-bent on involving her in every aspect of my job.”

“Oh.”

There was something in Hunter’s tone.

Sinclair stopped painting and looked down. “What?”

He took a breath then paused.

“What?” she repeated.

“There’s something we should discuss.”

“You know what’s going on?”

“Maybe.”

Sinclair took a step down the ladder. “Hunter?”

He dropped his arms to his sides. “I have a theory. It’s only a theory.”

She climbed the rest of the way down. “What is it?”

Hunter took the brush from her hand, setting it on the paint tray just before it dripped on the floor. “Chantal asked if you used the mousse.”

He lifted the shopping bag. “I think that might be what Roger’s picking up on. Chantal’s, well, pizzazz.”

A sick feeling slid into Sinclair’s stomach.

Roger thought Chantal knew better than Sinclair?

Hunter thought Chantal knew better than Sinclair?

“You have to admit,” Hunter continued. “She’s the demographic Luscious Lavender is targeting.”

“You sure you want to keep on talking?”

“We both know she’s not you. We both know you’re smart and talented and hard-working.”

“Well, thank you for that.”

He opened the bag to reveal the full gamut of Luscious Lavender products. “I think you should try these out. See what you think, maybe-”

“Right. Because all my problems will be solved by a good shampoo and mousse.” Her problem wasn’t a bad hair day. It was the fact that Roger, and maybe Hunter, too, preferred beauty over brains.

Hunter attempted a grin. “Don’t forget waxing.”

She reached down for the paintbrush. “I’m forgetting all of it.”

“Will you at least hear me out?”

“No.” Without thinking she waved the brush for emphasis, and paint splattered on the front of his suit.

Her eyes went wide in horror. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she quickly blurted out.

“Forget it.”

“But I ruined your suit.” She could only imagine how much it had cost.

“I said to forget it.”

How was she supposed to hang on to her moral outrage when he was being a gentleman?

“It’s more than just a good shampoo,” he said. “It’s about relating to your customers. Having your customers relate to you.”

She started up the ladder.

“They relate to Chantal in a particular way,” he said. “They see her look as an idealized version of themselves. These are people that put great stock in the value of beauty products to their lives, and they want to know that you put great stock in them, as well.”

“You’re suggesting I could replace an MBA and eight years of experience with a good makeover?”

What kind of a man would think that?

“Yes,” he said.

She stopped. She couldn’t believe he’d actually said it out loud.

“But,” he continued. “I’m also suggesting you’ll blow the competition out of the water when you have both.”

“You think Chantal is my competition?”

“I think Roger thinks she’s your competition. I think you could do a makeover with your eyes closed. And I think she’s only a threat to you if you let her be a threat to you.”

“So I’m choosing to have this happen?”

All she’d ever done was her job. She’d shown up early every day for eight years. She’d written speeches and press releases, planned events, supported her coworkers, solved problems and taken the message of Lush Beauty far and wide. If her performance evaluations were anything to go by, she’d been more than successful in her role as PR manager.

“You’re choosing not to fight it,” said Hunter.

“I shouldn’t have to fight it.” When had hard work and success stopped being enough?

“Too bad. So sad. Are you going to let her win?” He paused. “Do you want your career path to end?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She loved her job.

“I’m the one being ridiculous? Chantal’s nipping at your heels, and I’m the one being ridiculous?”

“Why do you care?”

There were a few seconds of silence. “Why do you think I care?”

Sinclair didn’t have an answer for that, so she finished climbing the ladder.

“I’m not saying it’s right,” he spoke below her. “I’m saying that’s the business you’re in. And you’re the PR manager. And, yes, I’m sorry, but it matters. And, as for why I care.”

He stopped talking, and she held her breath.

“I like you? I slept with you? You’re an asset to Lush Beauty? You’re family? Take your pick. But I’m about done fighting, Sinclair. If you don’t want my help, I’m out of here.”

She dipped her paintbrush, feeling hollow and exhausted. Hunter’s words pulsed in her ears, while paint dribbles dried on her hands. She pretended to focus on the painting while she waited for the door to slam behind him.

Emotion stung her eyes.

She didn’t mean to fight with him.

It wasn’t his fault that Chantal was prancing around the city like a poster child for Luscious Lavender. It wasn’t his fault that Roger was interfering in her management of the PR department. And what did Sinclair want from Hunter, anyway? For him to intervene with Roger?

Not.

She could take care of her own professional life.

Sort of. Maybe.

Because a tiny, little voice inside her told her some of what Hunter said made sense.

She focused on the paint, stroking it into the corner, listening for his footfalls, for the door slamming, for him walking out of her life.

“I’m sorry,” his unexpected words came from behind and below her. “I should have approached that differently.”

She stopped midstroke. Shocked, relieved and embarrassed all at the same time. She set down the brush.

“No,” she spoke to the wall. “I’m the one who’s sorry.”

Silence.

“Will you come down then?”

She gave a shaky nod. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him as she started down the ladder. Maybe all of what he said made sense. Maybe she’d been hasty in dismissing a makeover. After all, what could it hurt to try?

What exactly was the principle she was standing on? She’d always wanted the world to take her seriously. She hadn’t wanted a free ride because of looks and glamour. But did she want to put herself at a disadvatange?

“I suppose,” she said as her foot touched the floor and she turned toward him. “It wouldn’t kill me to try the shampoo.”

“That a girl.” His voice was full of approval.

“It’s just that I never wanted to cheat,” she tried to explain. “I never wanted to wonder if a promotion or a pay raise, or even people’s reactions to me were because of my looks.”

“You’re not cheating. You’re leveling the playing field. Besides, being beautiful has nothing to do with makeup and mousse.” He shrugged out of the ruined jacket and tossed it on the floor. He whipped off his tie. “You’re beautiful, Sinclair. And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”

Her heartbeat thickened in her chest, wondering what would come off next.

But he rolled up his sleeves. “Okay, let’s get to work.”

That threw her. “We’re going to the office?”

“We’re painting your walls.”

“You want to spend the afternoon here?”

“You bet.”

By late afternoon, Sinclair’s arms were about to fall off. Her shoulders ached, and she was getting a headache from the paint fumes. Her latest can was empty, so she climbed down the ladder to replace it.

Hunter appeared, taking the can from her hands.

“You’re done,” he said.

“There’s another whole wall.”

He pointed across the room. “See that bag over there? Full of bath oil, shampoo and gel?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I want you to take it into the bathroom and run a very hot, very deep bath. In fact-” he set down the paint can and propped up his roller “-I’ll do it for you.”

Before she could protest, he picked up the shopping bag and marched into the bathroom.

She heard the fan go on and the water gush from the faucet. She knew any self-respecting woman would fight against his high-handed behavior. But, honestly, she was just too tired.

After a few minutes, he returned to the living room. He didn’t talk, just unplugged her CD player and gathered up the two compact speakers. He popped out U2 and replaced it with Norah Jones.

Then he was back to the bathroom.

Curiosity finally got the better of her, and she wandered in to find her tub full of steaming, foamy water, and three cinnamon-scented candles flickering at the base of the tub. They’d been a Christmas gift from somebody at the office. But she’d never used them.

“I never have baths,” she admitted.

“Why not?”

“Showers are more efficient.”

“But baths are more fun.”

“You have baths, do you?” she couldn’t help but tease.

He faced her in the tiny room. “Guys don’t take baths. They want girls to take them. It makes them all soft and warm, and in the mood to get beautiful.”

She gave a mock sigh. “It’s time-consuming being all girly.”

He grinned. “Piece of cake being a guy.”

“Double standard.”

“You know it.”

“Still.” She glanced down at the steaming water. “It does look inviting.”

“That’s because it is.” He reached across her shoulder and flicked off the light.

“Time to take off your clothes,” he rumbled.

A sensual shiver ran through her, and she reflexively reached for the hem of her T-shirt.