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‘I may be wrong, but I swear you just called yourself my saviour.’
‘Take the advice or don’t. And just so we’re clear, the meeting has been rescheduled for tomorrow morning. If you’re not in my office at eight a.m., I’ll start playing dirty, too.’
I hung up before I lost it. Or let that sexy voice of hers wreak even more havoc on my self-control.
For the third time, I picked up the phone, this time to my assistant. ‘Trish, reschedule the meeting with the advertising team for eight a.m. tomorrow and tell them Miss Bingham will attend. Then send her an email to say I want the boutique contracts I sent her last week reviewed and couriered over by close of business today.’
‘Right away, Mr Mortimer.’
I replaced the handset and sat back, the throb of anticipation firing higher.
At five past five it’d turned to irritation. By five-thirty, I was pacing my office, my jaw locked in burning annoyance.
Striding to my desk, I hit the number for my assistant. ‘Anything?’
‘No, sir.’
‘The courier is still there?’
‘Yes, sir, he’s still waiting at the Bingham Industries reception. Should I tell him to leave?’
‘No. He stays there until I say otherwise.’
‘Okay. Um... Mr Mortimer?’
I paused. ‘Yes?’
‘Don’t forget you have the Art Foundation’s Annual Gala at seven-thirty.’
I smothered a curse. I’d forgotten about my next social obligation while indulging in games with Wren. Thankfully, I’d prepared my speech weeks ago. ‘Thanks for the reminder.’
‘You’re welcome. I’ve sent your new tux up to the penthouse and arranged for the car to be downstairs at seven.’
About to hang up, I tossed in one last question. ‘How many more to go until gala season is over?’ I asked, praying she’d say this was the last one.
‘Another two, and your cousin Graciela sent an email today about the next Mortimer Quarterly launch party.’
‘Thanks.’
After hanging up, I took several deep breaths. I was in danger of letting Wren unbalance me. As patron of several art foundations, I had a duty to attend this event. That it’d slipped my mind so completely made me grimace. The grimace intensified when I realised I’d been all set to track Wren down wherever she’d disappeared to instead of tackling the other time-sensitive deals I had piled up on my desk.
She was becoming an obsession.
Becoming?
I smothered the mocking inner voice and resisted the urge to call Trish again and find out whether the contract was on its way back to me. Instead I picked up a random file.
The knock on the door interrupted my focus an hour later. My pulse leapt but it was only Trish poking her head through the door. ‘It’s six-thirty, sir. And before you ask, no, the courier is still at Bingham’s.’
My lips flattened. ‘Tell him to leave. I’ll deal with Miss Bingham myself.’
Several ways of dealing with her reeled through my head, all of which were most definitely NSFW.
Three hours later, the speeches were done, I’d handed over a very fat cheque and worked the room twice to ensure all present and future donors were appropriately satisfied with my attention.
Then I called the number I’d been hoping not to use any time soon. It was answered on the first ring. ‘I need an address,’ I said.
‘Of course, sir,’ my head of security answered.