hadn’t reappeared, however, so when Anthea from the bank’s investor relations department had made her third beeline for him with seduction in her eyes, he’d finally run out of patience and headed in search of his quarry.
And here she was. Small but perfectly formed Sarah Quinn. Like a present, gift-wrapped and delivered on her knees—a position he’d happily take himself if it would get him what he wanted faster.
Not that Sarah was staying on her knees. She was scrambling up—not an easy feat in that dress. And she was looking at him like he was the enemy. He was going to have to change that. Charm, flirtation, seduction. Humour, intellect, intensity. He had no idea what approach was most likely to work, but he was ready to try them individually and severally until he found the right lure.
‘Yes, I recall what you said about getting blown when you came in,’ she said coolly, and her right eyebrow quirked up in that way that had already intrigued him. Like a sideways question mark, complete with a tiny black beauty spot forming a decisive full stop at the end. ‘But there must have been a lot of women out there proposing service on their knees if you can’t distinguish between the ones who were offering and the ones who weren’t.’
‘I’d say a few rather than a lot,’ he said, all self-effacement as he battled a smile he knew she wouldn’t appreciate when she was trying so hard to sound disdainful.
He heard Sarah give a tiny choke, as though a laugh had taken her by surprise.
Good start.
He fixed a hopeful look on his face. ‘But are you quite, quite sure you weren’t among the ones offering?’
‘Quite, quite sure,’ she said, and rolled her bright blue eyes in a way he guessed she thought was condescending—but somehow was not.
‘Then my hopes are dashed,’ he said dramatically. ‘At least tell me who my rival is.’
‘Your …? Huh?’
‘The man you’re waiting for.’ He watched her closely, saw a tiny start. ‘Ah, you’re not waiting for someone, you’re hiding from someone.’
Sarah shifted from one foot to the other, like she was preparing to take off. Oh, no! That was not happening. ‘I’m not hiding,’ she said, and David was intrigued to see a blush work its way across her cheekbones.
David hooded his eyes and held his tongue. It was a tactic he’d found useful in getting people to talk—the stare and wait. And he was going to get her to talk to him if it killed him. He could talk a woman into anything if he set his mind to it. Out of anything, too.
Sure enough, within thirty seconds, she made an indistinct grumbling noise of surrender. ‘All right, yes, I was hiding. But now my cover’s blown, I guess I’ll … you know …’ Another shift from foot to foot as she looked past him towards the exit.
Nope. Not happening. ‘If you tell me who you’re hiding from, I’ll check if the coast is clear before you go back out there.’
‘It’s not a “who”, it’s an “it”,’ she said. ‘I was hiding in a generic sense. From the whole …’ waving the phone towards the door ‘… thing.’
‘You don’t like parties?’ he asked.
Up went the eyebrow. ‘Who doesn’t like parties?’
Again, he wanted to smile; again, he battled it back. The dimples had to be kept up his sleeve. So to speak. Emergency reserves. ‘So it’s this particular party that’s the problem?’
‘No. That is— I mean— It’s not about the party—at least not per se. It’s …’ She leaned in, as though she was about to get confidential and David waited hopefully … but suddenly she seemed to catch herself, and leaned out.
David took the lean-out to mean he was still the enemy. But he knew he had to be making headway if she could lean towards him in the first place without realizing she was doing it. ‘It’s …?’ he prompted.
‘It’s … a situation. I needed a bit of time alone to sort it out in my head.’
‘And have you sorted it out?’
Silence.
Which he took to mean ‘no’.
Sarah looked to the exit again, and then glanced behind her. His eyes followed hers, landing on the glittery little evening bag near the footstool. She tottered over to it on her insanely high heels and started to bend to pick it up—as awkwardly as she’d got to her feet minutes ago. She put out a hand towards the footstool, for support he guessed, but then pulled it back, with an ‘Oops.’
David moved lightning-fast to retrieve the bag in one low, easy swoop and held it out to her. ‘So your situation isn’t sorted.’
‘Yes and no,’ she admitted, taking the bag and slipping its chain strap over her shoulder.
‘Then I’ll help you sort it.’
She snorted. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Try me.’
Another glance at the exit had David shifting so his body blocked both her line of sight and the path to the door. She’d have to do a full-body-brush past him to get out. She wouldn’t want to do that—but he kind of hoped she’d try it.
‘Come on, Sarah, tell me why you’re crying.’
The look of startled dismay on her face was priceless. ‘I’m not,’ she said, and the blush rushed across her cheekbones again as her fingers went to the clasp of her bag.
‘Telling me, or crying?’
Fumbling with the clasp. ‘Either or, smarty-pants.’
‘Smarty-pants?’ He slapped a hand over his heart. ‘Ouch, that hurts.’
And there was the little choke in her throat as she caught another unexpected laugh. It reminded him of how much she’d been laughing out in the gallery as she crisscrossed the room like a hyperactive Miss Congeniality—right up until the moment Lane had introduced them, which was when things had gone south. But still, he’d bet she spent more time laughing than not, which meant it was time to switch tactics. Seduction was off the table; he’d try laughing her into accepting him.
‘But that’s not the best you can do, is it?’ he teased. ‘Smarty-pants?’
‘As a matter of fact, I can do a lot better than “smarty-pants”.’ She was leaning in again, the gaping bag seemingly forgotten. ‘I happen to have a thesaurus for a brain.’
‘So come on, I’m game. Lay some words on me,’ he invited. ‘I can take it.’
Her mouth started to open. He waited, intrigued …
But nope. She leaned back out and gave her head a firm shake. ‘The crying thing. I really don’t cry. Generally, I mean. But in this instance, there are extenuating circumstances.’
‘Which are?’
