He was aware of her staying as quiet and as motionless as a mouse who'd sensed a predator for at least three long minutes before she released her white-knuckled grip on the counter and turned to shakily pick up the half-full glass of juice. When she put it down after emptying it and went as if to exit the kitchen, he gave in to the snarl inside him.
"You planning to leave me to starve?"
She turned on her heel, all big, bruised eyes in a delicate face he wanted to cup in his hands as he kissed her, coaxed her, taught her he'd never ever lay a finger on her in violence.
"I-I'm s-sorry."
Gabriel could've killed at that instant--specifically the person who'd created this terrible, overwhelming fear inside his tough little assistant. "Don't be sorry," he said in a voice that wasn't as non-snarly as he'd intended. "Teach me to make this sauce, then teach me what I did that set you off so I don't do it again."
Charlotte didn't move, just stared at him through the clear lenses of those glasses that drove him nuts. He had a host of fantasies in which she was wearing nothing but the specs, her hair up in that little bun he usually hated, and maybe a string of long pearls that he-- Stop, he told himself when his cock began to harden again. He was moving way too fast, and he needed to chill if he was going to have any chance of earning Charlotte's trust.
"Again?" she said at last, her voice small.
"Ms. Baird," he said, using her formal title because it made her pay attention, "have I or have I not made it clear that I would like you in my bed?"
Teeth sinking into her lower lip, she nodded.
"So," he said, folding his arms and leaning his hip against the freestanding counter, "why would you think one hiccup would stop me?" He raised an eyebrow. "Especially since you've been working with me long enough to know that nothing stops me when I have my eye set on a goal."
Charlotte drew in a long breath, released it slowly. "I don't know if I can."
"If you tell me you don't want me, I'm going to demand you give me your panties to prove they're not damp."
Cheeks going bright red, she stamped one dainty foot. "That is totally inappropriate!"
"No rules outside the office, Ms. Baird," he said, needling her on purpose because he liked her fiery, hated the defeat he'd seen in her. "Now come here and tell me what I did." It was important she make the decision to stay, to start trusting him.
Gabriel could push and push hard, but he'd never force.
Glaring at him instead, she shoved up the sleeves of her cardigan and said, "I'm starving. You can learn to make sauce another time." She began throwing things together in a small saucepan, the kitchen filling with a deliciously spicy scent minutes later.
A half hour after that, they were seated across from one another at the dining table located behind and to the left of the kitchen area, beside a large bank of windows that overlooked the city.
"You're missing salad," she muttered.
He wanted to haul her into his lap and tell her to stop being a hissing, bad-tempered kitten or he'd have to punish her--but he didn't think Charlotte was ready to play those kinds of games. The playful threat might actually scare her. So he got to his feet, went to the kitchen and, grabbing a bowl, opened up a pack of premade salad he'd had in the fridge. He even found the special salad-serving utensils before putting the bowl on the table.
Charlotte took some salad, ate the pasta she'd whipped together, and looked out the window. "Don't close me in."
The words were so softly spoken that it took him a second to realize she'd answered his question. "It makes you feel claustrophobic?" he asked in an effort to get the exact parameters.
"Yes."
"Any kind of crowding?"
"Sometimes... with you, it's okay"--her eyes met his--"but I can't predict when I'll have a panic attack." Her fingers clenched tight around the stem of her wineglass, Gabriel having opened a crisp white rather than a red because he knew Charlotte didn't like red much.
"I want to crowd you," he said, leaning back in his chair but maintaining the intimacy of the eye contact. "I want to pin you under me and fuck you hard, then I want to slam you up against pretty much every wall in this place. After which I want to bend you over my desk, my bed, this table. For starters."
Charlotte's skin flushed a hot pink, then paled, then went red, her eyes sparking fire. "Did you not hear what I said?"
"I heard." He took a sip of his wine. "I'm just telling you what we'll be working toward. Any problems with my goals?"
Charlotte wasn't sure she wasn't hallucinating. How could she possibly be at a glossy black dining table with her big, sexy boss, talking about sexual positions? It simply did not compute. Yet he was waiting for her answer with lazy male patience.
"I don't know," she said at last, and because this was a surreal, strange half dream, she admitted to her inadequacies. "I'm not very good at sex."
Gabriel put down his wineglass and then he smiled that slow, sinful smile that made her nipples go tight and her body grow even more silkily damp--if he'd demanded her panties as he'd threatened, she'd have failed the test. Miserably.
"Ms. Baird, no one is good or bad at sex by themselves," he drawled. "It's a team effort, and you know I'm a team player."
Charlotte's breasts pushed against her bra. Those breasts weren't huge by any stretch of the imagination, but right now they felt swollen and hot, achy in a way they'd never before felt. "What if I'm not?" she asked, fighting the memory of the things Richard had said to her, things she'd never told anyone, not even Molly, she'd felt so much shame.
"I'm an excellent coach," Gabriel said, steely eyes holding a heat that mesmerized. "One who always gets the best out of my players." His foot brushed hers under the table. "I also have a close and very personal interest in making sure you perform to your full potential."
Charlotte was so out of her depth by now that she was barely treading water. Not only was she an emotional mess in general, she was so pitifully inexperienced that she'd no doubt embarrass herself if she tried anything with the man sitting across the table. The one who looked at her like he wanted to devour her in small, delicious bites.
"I have to go home," she said, putting down her fork.
She couldn't take any more, had hit her absolute limit.
Gabriel examined her with those incisive eyes. "I'll drive you," he said at last. "But finish your dinner first."
"You're not my boss here," she snapped out of her frustration with herself, with the universe.
"Not in an employment sense," he said. "But I do think you need some bossing around, especially when it comes to your health."
Charlotte had seen that look on Gabriel's face before; it was the one that denoted no mercy in a negotiation. She thought about getting up and walking out, but regardless of her inability to handle him, she wanted to do every scandalous thing he'd suggested.
While that wasn't going to happen, not with her panic attacks shutting things down more effectively than a cold shower, she could be with him a little longer. Even if he was being bossy and all around provocative. Truth was, she liked that about him, liked that he always treated her as if he believed she had the strength to stand against him.
So she ate the rest of the food on her plate and tried not to think about all the things he'd said he wanted to do to her. It was hard. Especially an hour later, when she was alone in her bed, her skin flushed and her body aching with need. She hadn't been this aroused in... ever. Not even after the erotic dream this morning.
Sticky and hot, she went to shove off the sheets so she could go have an actual cold shower when her hand brushed her breasts.
Charlotte whimpered. This was insane. He hadn't laid a finger on her and her entire body ached with need. Unable to resist, she gently cupped her breast through her nightgown. In her mind's eye, it was Gabriel's much bigger, tougher-skinned hand on her flesh. He wouldn't be this gentle, would hold boldly as he pressed her down into the sheets and thrust himself inside her, his body moving heavy an
d muscled above her own.
He'd be rough. The way he talked, the words he'd used, it all said he'd be rough.
Hard.
Relentless.
Breath coming in sharp, desperate pants, Charlotte pressed her thighs together and squeezed her own breast harder than she'd ever before done. Her back arched, a soft cry escaping her throat. When she came down from the shock of pleasure, it was to find her knees bent, her nightgown bunched at her upper thighs, and her hand still on her breast.
Blushing, she removed her hand, pushed down her nightgown, then wanted to kick herself. Why was she blushing? She was alone in her damn bedroom and she'd just given in to an erotic daydream. What was wrong with that? Nothing, that's what. It was great. Today was the first time in years she'd been able to truly let go. If she'd imagined Gabriel in a compromising position, it wasn't as if he hadn't done the same with her.
Dirty.
That's what he'd called his fantasies about her. Dirty. Breath turning shallow again as she thought about the office fantasy he'd described, the one that ended up with her screaming his name while he licked her between her splayed thighs, she got up and tugged off the nightgown, threw it to the floor, then lay back down. Her skin was too hot, her entire body aflame.
The fantasy continued to run through her head, her mind whispering that he'd called her "delicious." Turning over flat on her stomach, she tried to imagine what it might feel like to have his hands under her thighs, pulling her forward, strong and demanding. To have that sexy, dangerous mouth on her. To hear him lowering his zipper before he pulled her down on his lap and onto his cock.
Moaning, she tried to control the movements of her hips, her mind filled with images so carnal she couldn't believe they came from her. When her phone buzzed, she wanted to let it go, but its buzz kept intruding on the torturous pleasure of her imagined liaison with Gabriel. Finally grabbing it off the bedside table, she said, "Hello."
"Ms. Baird, you sound breathless again." Gabriel's deep voice went straight to her nipples and the slick folds between her thighs. "Did I make you run to get the phone?"
"No, I'm in bed," she said and barely bit back a groan at what she'd revealed.
"Ah. And breathless." His voice dropped. "You better be alone or we'll be having a very interesting talk the next time we meet."
Her skin grew tight at the rumbling warning. Inhaling jerkily, she said, "Of course I'm alone."
"Then the breathlessness becomes far more intriguing."
Charlotte pulled up the sheet to cover herself, feeling exposed even though he was on the other end of the phone line. "I was just... doing something."
"Good, keep doing it. I want to hear you do it."
Her heart kicked. "No," she said and hung up. Then she went and had that cold shower because she needed to think, needed to remember that no matter how much Gabriel thought he wanted her, he'd give up soon enough. A man that hot, that masculine, wouldn't be happy with a woman who had panic attacks before he ever laid a finger on her.
The worst thing?
It was the fact her fear had nothing to do with sex.
18
Gabriel Is (Sinfully) Inappropriate
Midmorning the next day and Charlotte was staring morosely at her oven, trying to convince herself that baking a tray of cupcakes would make her feel better, when the phone rang again. Figuring it was Molly, she picked it up. The name on the screen made her heart kick, her nipples go to full attention against the thin red T-shirt she wore without a bra.
Thank God Gabriel couldn't see her.
"Do I need to come in for work today too?" she asked.
While she occasionally vetoed Gabriel's weekend demands on principle, she had fun with him when they worked Saturdays or Sundays. It was often only the two of them on the floor for long periods, and Gabriel was always more relaxed--to the point that it was on a weekend that she'd first heard him laugh.
At the end of her rope with his demands, she'd picked up her muffin on a violent urge to throw it at his head. Then he'd raised an eyebrow at her and she'd actually done it. Catching it easily in the air, as he'd once caught rugby balls thrown from lineouts, he'd bitten into it.
"Banana and chocolate chip," he'd said. "Thanks, Ms. Baird, but you really don't have to bring me food."
Her infuriated scream had made him throw back his head and laugh, a big, beautiful creature limned by the sunlight. She'd wanted to touch him so badly it hurt.
Grinning as he swallowed another bite, he'd said, "I owe you a muffin. We're going for coffee in fifteen minutes."
Despite her temper, she'd gone with him. They'd ended up grabbing takeout coffee and walking to sit in Aotea Square, the central city spot that always had something going on. That sunny Sunday, it had been a skateboarding competition, temporary ramps set up for the skateboarders. Sitting on one of the benches at the edge of the square with Gabriel beside her, she'd felt almost normal.
For a few minutes.
Until she'd remembered that unlike the other women around them who laughed with their men, she wasn't brave enough to entrust herself to someone so much bigger and stronger than her, someone who could hurt her on a whim. Who could punch her and kick her and do anything he wanted. Telling herself it wasn't going to happen, that Gabriel wasn't that kind of man, didn't help--the fear was embedded too deeply in her bones.
"Do I really only call to ask you to come in to work?" he said now, his voice slicing through the darkness of her memories to make her heart skip another beat. "Today I'm calling to ask if you want to go to a game."
"A game?"
"Danny's playing tonight. The entire clan will turn up to support him."
That meant she'd be meeting his family. Her face went hot, then cold before she realized it wasn't likely that big of a deal. No doubt Gabriel's idea of a date often included a rugby game. And at the moment, he still thought he wanted her. He hadn't yet figured out how messed up she truly was.
"Okay," she said, unable to resist the invitation despite knowing it was inevitable she'd disappoint him.
"Kickoff's at six. I'll pick you up at four--we'll park at my parents' place in Mount Eden and walk the rest of the way in to avoid the game traffic."
Four hours later, with another two hours to go before Gabriel picked her up, Charlotte was having a mini panic attack--over clothing. "Molly, help me!" she cried out to her friend, whose face was currently on the laptop Charlotte had put up on the dresser so she could show Molly her choices.
While she'd made friends in the cooking class she'd joined, only Molly could she trust with her neurotic behavior.
"Charlie"--Molly grinned--"it's a rugby game. Jeans, a tee, a sweatshirt, and a windbreaker or a coat because it'll get cold by the time the game ends, and you'll be set."
Charlotte knew that. But-- "I want to look nice."
Wicked amusement in Molly's brown eyes. "From what you've told me, I don't think T-Rex cares about your clothes. He wants you naked."
Glaring at her best friend, who laughed in unrepentant glee, Charlotte sat down on the bed with her chin in her hands. "What about makeup?" she asked, feeling like a teenager about to go on her first date. "Do I wear makeup to a rugby game?"
"Hmm." Molly pursed her lips. "I think a touch won't hurt if it makes you feel good. Let down your hair too--it's so pretty."
Charlotte didn't often wear her hair down, and for the first time, she realized she'd never told Molly why. Strange, when she'd shared so much with her friend, but that one thing had never come up. Even now, when she parted her lips to speak, she couldn't. How did she explain that the fear of having her hair pulled was strong enough for her to avoid risking it?
She knew logically that her short ponytail could as easily be used to savagely wrench back her head, but Richard had done it with her hair loose and so that was her secret terror. The idea of feeling the painful tug on her scalp was enough to pebble her skin, chill her blood.
Maybe because it was one of the first things Richar
d had done that nightmare weekend, a harbinger of the horror, humiliation, and agonizing pain to come.
The one thing of which she was deeply proud was that she hadn't shorn off her hair altogether. Richard had threatened to do that. Charlotte refused to give him the satisfaction of finishing what he'd begun. Because her soft blond hair that curled if let loose? It was the only thing about which she'd ever been vain--she'd used to think it was her one good feature.
Richard would not take that from her.
"Hey, Charlie?" Molly's eyes darkened, expression sobering. "I know that look. Something I said triggered a flashback."
Releasing a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding, Charlotte locked gazes with her friend. "I miss you, Moll." They still talked or messaged every day, but she missed meeting her best friend for lunch, missed laughing with her as they threw together an impromptu dinner, missed her warm, strong presence.
"I miss you too." Molly's voice sounded thick, her eyes growing wet. "Soon as the tour wraps up, I'm flying over and kidnapping you. T-Rex can just deal."
"Don't worry," Charlotte said on a shaky laugh. "I'll sneak my vacation into his calendar and forge his signature on the approval."
"I see your boss has been a good influence." Molly grinned. "Next they'll be calling you 'the Baird.'"
Charlotte stuck out her tongue at her friend and picked up a black sweatshirt that featured the iconic silver fern emblem of the national team on one side. "I guess I'll wear this." It had been her eighteenth-birthday gift from her parents; she rarely wore it, not wanting it to fade, but they'd have loved the idea of her wearing it to a game at Eden Park, the Bishop by her side.
"Perfect." Molly's gaze lingered on her face. "It was the hair, wasn't it?" she said gently. "Did Dick do something to your hair?"
Charlotte gave a short nod. "It's a stupid thing in the overall scheme of things, but..." She just couldn't forget; so many memories of terror were tied to the wrench of hair against her scalp. "Gabriel likes my hair," she whispered, staring down at her hands. "I... maybe I'll put it down for him. Just not tonight." There were too many people at a game, too high a chance of an accidental tug.