through. She’d warmed up and become a little flirtatious, but mostly just conversational. He’d noticed flashes of wit, but nothing that could have been described as provocative. And then, between the time he pulled out her chair and when he sat across from her, she’d armed herself with every potent, sexual tool in her arsenal. She’d gone from buttoned-up, sedate businesswoman to vamp with a few unbuttons and a swish of that glorious mane of blond hair.
Only a fool, or a male virgin, wouldn’t get the message.
“What are you up to?” he asked, blunt, as always. He didn’t play games, not when it came to anything important. And he sensed she could be important.
“Hmm? What do you mean?” she said with a shrug, playing innocent.
He nodded toward the hair, and cast another pointed glance at the extremely interesting cleavage. “I asked Miss Marple for a drink and ended up with Jessica Rabbit.”
“Who’s Miss Marple? And, uh, Jessica who?”
Not many people shared his enjoyment of old mystery novels, so he gave her a pass on that one. But a woman built like Roger Rabbit’s wife ought to be familiar with the cartoon character.
“She...”
“Kidding.” Batting her lashes and vamping her voice, she purred, “‘I’m not bad, I’m just drawn that way.’”
Oh, yeah. She most definitely was.
“Why the costume change?”
She shifted her gaze away, but before she could reply, a server stopped by their table. The young woman deposited two glasses of ice water, garnished with lemon, and offered them each a perfunctory smile. That was good. He didn’t want to be recognized and called by name by everyone in this place, not in front of Viv.
“Two gin and tonics, please,” he said, remembering his companion’s drink preference.
When the server was gone, Viv glanced around. “This is beautiful—the view of the river is lovely. It’s even nicer than the one from the restaurant upstairs.”
“Coward.”
Her jaw fell. “What?”
“No subject change allowed.”
“Did I do that?”
“You know you did. Now answer the question,” he murmured, enjoying the sparkle in her eyes and the tiny smile lurking on those lush red lips. She was slightly annoyed that he was pressing her, but also, he suspected, excited that he was following her where she’d led him with those two unfastened buttons.
“I suppose you’re right,” she finally admitted. “Remember that librarian comment? Well, I have been wearing a costume. Not by choice. It was at the suggestion of my supervisor.”
Back to the job with the shitty coworkers and asshole of a boss. He stiffened, instinctively growing angry on her behalf again. “Why was that?”
“I worked with a lot of poor, weak, helpless men. Isn’t that sad?”
He rolled his eyes, knowing exactly where she was headed. “Men with no self-control?”
“You win the prize. You want to hear the really fun part, the kicker I found out today when I was being fired?”
He wasn’t sure, but nodded anyway.
“I was a bet.”
Damien’s hands clenched into fists on the table.
“Excuse me?”
“Yeah, during his we’ve-decided-not-to-keep-you-through-the-rest-of-your-probationary-period speech, my boss’s boss said the guys had bet on who could get me into bed first.”
“Are you serious?” he asked through a clenched jaw.
Damien had the urge to hurt someone, and vowed that by the end of the day, he’d have found out the name of her ex-employer, invested in the company and fired her son-of-a-bitch supervisor. Hell, he could buy the damn company and fire every man who worked there.
“Entirely. Seems I was just too much of a distraction, so it was best for everyone—including me, for my personal safety—if I left.”
“Jesus Christ,” Damien muttered. Lifting his water glass, he half drained it, trying to cool himself off. He was stunned by the idiocy not only of her male colleagues, but also of a higher-up who would hear about that bet and react by firing the victim. If the man had been one of his employees, Damien would have hit the roof. Not only was it wrong on a moral level, but the guy had also just opened up his employer to serious lawsuits.
When he felt capable of being rational, he said, “Call your lawyer.”
“I can’t afford one.”
“I’ll call my lawyer.”
“Thank you, but no.” She offered him a small, humorless smile. That, and her slumped shoulders, told him how crushed she was by this entire situation. “I just want to forget it ever happened,” she said. “I got severance, and I’ve been promised excellent references.”
“All to keep you from suing or making trouble.”
“Yes. Normally, I’m good at making trouble.” She traced the tips of her fingers across the condensation on her own glass. “Maybe I’m losing my touch.”
He watched her long, slender fingers, so delicate and feminine, but also strong. He sensed she wasn’t so much giving up as she was choosing what she thought was a better option.
“I’m sorry. And I’m goddamn angry. Let me help you.”
“I don’t need any help.”
Used to taking care of things, and bothered that he couldn’t in this situation, Damien bit back a frustrated retort. She was independent, he respected that. But he couldn’t stand the idea of anybody getting away with that kind of bullshit, especially when Viv was the injured party.
Their drinks arrived. Damien glanced at his watch. “Twenty-nine-and-a-half minutes,” he pointed out before sipping, enjoying the icy bite of the alcohol.
Remembering her comment in the garage, she smiled. “Okay, I officially resign from Man Haters Anonymous. At least for the rest of the day.”
Lucky him.
“Now, back to your situation...”
“I meant what I said. I know men like to solve things—boy, do I ever know that. But I have already made up my mind.”
As if she sensed he was about to argue, Viv tossed her hair, lifted her chin and managed a real smile. He suspected she was trying to downplay her sadness and humiliation as she said, “I must say, though, I’m not happy my good behavior went to waste. I was so nice, so plain and sweet while trying to get those guys to lose interest.”
Plain she could never be. He doubted sweet was used to describe her very often, either.
