Bette walked through the outer office, devoid once more of an assistant, then hesitated at the door to the inner office. She stared, unfocused, at the wood panels, before giving a small shake to her head.
Don’t be an idiot. What is there to be nervous about? You’re going to go in there to straighten out Paul Monroe, once and for all. Make him see he can’t tie Top-Line Temporaries into knots this way. Make him see he can’t tie Bette Wharton into knots this way.
Methodically, she peeled off her leather gloves.
Who are you kidding? He did tie you in knots.
Maybe.
Maybe? You were a pretzel! Not an hour ago you were wishing for just this chance to see him, to hear him and—let’s be honest—to touch him. So here it is, now take it.
The hand she stretched out toward the door trembled a little, but she commanded it to grasp the knob and turn it slowly, smoothly. She must have succeeded because the door opened without a sound, and she was inside without betraying her presence to Paul.
He stood in front of the shelves to the left of his desk, consulting a volume so big he’d propped its open spine on the edge of a shelf. He was bending a little to study the page, his light blue shirt molded across his shoulders and upper back, emphasizing their strength. The rolled-back sleeves showed forearms toughened with muscle and sinew under a fuzz of hair the same glinting color that rode over the collar of his shirt. The khaki slacks were conservative, well-fitted and yet hinted at the power beneath them.
Uh-oh. Bette could hear the blood pounding in her ears, almost like a warning. Facing Paul Monroe was one thing; by now she was almost accustomed to the danger of his dancing eyes and humor-quirked mouth. But from the back he gave a different impression, a view of his strength and sexiness she didn’t think she’d recognized half so clearly before. The sensations she’d experienced in his arms resulted from her reacting to this aspect of him. And it would happen again, she knew, if she gave it half a chance.
She’d told herself she wouldn’t consider “what next.” She’d be impulsive. She’d follow this craving for Paul Monroe without considering where it might lead. She could handle it, wherever it led. She would handle it, when the time came. She’d told herself all those things.
But now, catching a hazy glimpse of where her craving might lead, she wasn’t so sure. Maybe she should forget this. Maybe she should back away as silently as she’d entered and let Darla take over. Maybe she should run.
“Bette?” he said.
He had looked over his shoulder and was staring directly into her eyes.
It felt as if a weight had landed suddenly on her chest, so that every breath burned. He was looking at her the same way he had two weeks ago in a moonlight-sliced car in her garage. His eyes held the same intent, the same desire...and the same question.
Only a concerted effort kept her next breath from becoming a gasp, but at least the added air fueled her muscles to movement. Three jerky steps took her to a spot directly in front of his desk. Without looking at him—she couldn’t risk it—she slapped her gloves down on the wooden surface. If she tried her damnedest maybe she could divert some of this emotional energy into anger.
“What in the hell do you think you’re up to, Paul?”
From the corner of her eye she tracked the way he turned back toward the shelves, his head bowed over the book once more. Then the two halves of the book came together in a thud that made her jump. He spun around and strode behind his desk to face her across it.
“The 400E,” he said.
She gaped at him. What was the man talking about?
“The Blue Comet 400E locomotive from Lionel. That’s what I think I’m up to.” He tapped a sheaf of papers spread out on his desk. “That’s how far I’ve gotten with this appraisal.”
“Oh.”
“It’s not as rare as the Black Diamond 400E locomotive he’s got, but the Blue Comet set’s complete, all four passenger cars plus the locomotive. And it looks to be in great condition, so—”
“Paul!” She slapped her palms on his desk, then spread them wide to lean forward belligerently. “Stop it.”
He mimicked her posture, right down to the thunk of his hands on the desktop as he brought his nose a foot from hers.
“Stop what, Bette?” No laughter in his eyes now, only demand. “Tell me.”
“Stop the whole thing! Stop sending back secretaries. Stop messing up my schedules. Stop making me—” She bit it off before she could tell him to stop making her want him, but she wondered if he’d still divined the thought.
“We both know how you can make me stop sending back secretaries. And stop messing up your schedule.” Were his eyes informing her he wasn’t about to stop the issue neither of them was mentioning?
“Yes.” An acknowledgment that she knew what he was talking about, not an agreement.
“Yes.” An acknowledgment, perhaps slightly disappointed, that no agreement had been given.
She stared at Paul Monroe across the twelve inches that separated them, and she knew. She’d take the moment he offered, and for once she wouldn’t think of the future. Even though she had a darn good idea that if she did look ahead, she’d see she was building toward heartache. Maybe that was why she wouldn’t look this time. If a plane never takes off, it won’t ever crash. But it won’t fly, either. Dammit, this time, she had to try her wings.
“All right, I’ll go out with you.” To her own ears, her tone sounded more appropriate to accepting a dare than a date, but she figured they both knew that might be closer to the truth.
Under his stare, the moment drew out with the heart-stopping, stomach-dropping sensation of hitting an air pocket. What if her plane crashed on takeoff?
“Fine.” The word was just this side of pugnacious.
“Fine,” she shot back.
“Great,” he said, then before she had a chance to continue the cycle, he hurried on. “We’ll start right now.”
“Right now?” she repeated. She figured her voice sounded so flat because her emotions were busy pooling deep inside of her: panic, desire, anticipation, fear, affection, wariness, liking, lust and anger, all roiling into a bubbling mass.
“Right now. With dinner tonight.”
“Dinner?” What did dinner have to do with what she was thinking about? I want you, he’d said, right here in this office six days ago, sitting behind this very desk, looking at her in a way that made her know he meant it.
“Yeah. You know, eat? Usually done sometime in the evening? We’ve done it a few times together. Fairly successfully, too. I’m meeting a couple friends for drinks—Michael and Grady, the guys I told you about—then we’re going to dinner and I—” His light, wry tone slipped and he stopped, paused and started again, but she hardly noticed. Her mind was on other things. “I’d like you to meet them”
“But. . .”
“But what?”
She couldn’t tell him. She couldn’t tell him how she’d been expecting him to react. She couldn’t tell him what she’d been expecting him to do. She couldn’t let him guess how part of her had been anticipating—certainly since he’d kissed her in a moonlit garage and possibly since he’d first sat in her office with his dancing eyes inviting her to join him in a jig—what she’d been expecting him to do.
Although she feared from the way he was watching her, like a cat with its target mouse well in sight, that he suspected what she’d been thinking. She fumbled mentally for an acceptable end to a sentence that started with “but.”
“But you still need an assistant.” Not bad. Short on originality, maybe, but logical.
He eased back, his eyes never leaving hers.
“Then send back Norma Schaff. She was a great assistant.”
Bette stood straight so quickly she thought she could hear her backbone click into place. “If she was so great, why’d you scare her off like all the others?” she demanded indignantly.
He slowly levered himself completely upright before answering.
“It
was the only way to get to you,” he said with a nonchalant shrug that left her speechless. “Besides, I didn’t scare Norma off like all the others. She’s the only one I finally had to resort to bribing in order to get her to leave. Ever since, she’s been my ally.”