Free Holding the Dream by Nora Roberts

Georgia.”
    â€œIt’s not necessary to have an accountant in the same location. If you’re satisfied with his or her work, there’s no need to change.”
    â€œThat’s the way to drum up business, kid. I also have a habit of eating,” he continued. “If you need help along those lines, I can tell you that you start by dipping your spoon into the soup.”
    â€œI’m not hungry.”
    â€œThink of it as medicine. It might put some color back in your cheeks. You not only look unhappy, Kate, you look tired, beaten down, and closing in on ill.”
    Hoping it would shut him up, she spooned up some soup. “Boy, now I’m all perked up. It’s a miracle.”
    When he only smiled at her, she sighed. Why did he have to sit there, acting so damn nice and making her feel like sludge?
    â€œI’m sorry. I’m lousy company.”
    â€œWas your business meeting difficult?”
    â€œYes, as a matter of fact.” Because it was soothing, she sampled the bisque again. “I’ll deal with it.”
    â€œWhy don’t you tell me what you do when you’re not dealing with difficult business problems?”
    The headache at the edges of her consciousness wasn’t backing off, but it wasn’t creeping closer. “I deal with simple business problems.”
    â€œAnd when you’re not dealing with business?”
    She studied him narrowly, the mild, polite eyes, the easy smile. “You are coming on to me.”
    â€œNo, I’m considering coming on to you, which is entirely different. That’s why we’re having a basic conversation over a bowl of soup.” His smile widened, flirted. “It also gives you equal opportunity to consider whether or not you’d like to come on to me.”
    Her lips twitched before she could stop them. “I do appreciate a man who believes in gender equality.” She also had to appreciate that for a few minutes he’d taken her mind offher troubles. That he knew it, yet didn’t push the point.
    â€œI think I’m beginning to like you, Kate. You are, I believe, an acquired taste, and I’ve always enjoyed odd flavors.”
    â€œThat’s quite a statement. My heart’s going pitty-pat.”
    He laughed, a quick, full-throated, masculine sound that appealed, however much she would have preferred otherwise.
    â€œYeah, it’s definite. I like you. Why don’t we expand this conversation thing over a full meal? Say, dinner. Tonight?”
    She was tempted to agree, for the simple reason that being around him made her think about something other than herself. But . . . She set her napkin beside her bowl. She thought it would be best to err on the side of caution with a man like Byron De Witt. “I don’t want to form habits too quickly. I have to get back to the office.”
    She rose, amused when he automatically got to his feet. Gender equality or not, she decided, he was southern gentleman through and through. “Thanks for the soup.”
    â€œYou’re welcome.” He took her hand, held it lightly and enjoyed the faint line that popped up between her brows. “Thanks for the conversation. We will have to do it again.”
    â€œHmm,” was her best response as she slid the strap of her briefcase over her shoulder and walked away.
    He watched her go and wondered what problem, business or otherwise, had made her look so devastated. And so alone.
 
    The rumor mill was working overtime at Bittle and Associates. Every tiny, underripe fruit plucked from the grapevine was chewed lavishly at the water cooler, the copy room, the storage closet.
    Larry Bittle and his sons, Lawrence Junior and Martin—just call me Marty—continued their closed-door meetings with the other partners every morning. Copies of accounts were delivered to the group by Bittle Senior’s tight-lipped, sharp-eyed executive assistant regularly.
    If she knew