until finally she’d come to look at Lucy with a completely blank expression and say, ‘I’m sorry, dear, who are you?’
It broke Lucy’s heart to know that there was no point in even trying to explain where she was going, or that she was going to be out of the country for a few weeks. At least she could give thanks for the sterling round-the-clock care she could now afford. It made her attempt to resign from her job seem all the more childishly impetuous now. How could she jeopardise her mother’s security? And yet how could she keep working for Aristotle once this merger was completed?
‘Lucy.’
Lucy’s head jerked round from where she’d been looking out of the window at the sea far below. Aristotle must have called her a couple of times; she could hear impatience lacing his voice. He was looking at her sternly, and at that moment Lucy realised how little space was between them—just a small table. Even as she thought that she felt Aristotle flex a leg and it brushed hers. She froze, all that heat and awareness rushing back, mocking her for believing it might have disappeared under a pile of work.
‘I’m sorry. I was just thinking about something.’
He quirked a brow. ‘Something more interesting than me? Or this merger? Not possible, surely.’
Lucy froze even more, she couldn’t handle Aristotle when he was being like this … flirty. Yet with a steel edge. She couldn’t imagine him ever being truly light, free and easy. Smiling. He was too driven, intense.
She smiled brittlely, determined that he shouldn’t see his effect. ‘Of course not. How could I?’
At that moment the steward arrived to serve them lunch. Lucy automatically went to clear the table and her hands brushed against Aristotle’s. She flinched back but tried to mask her reaction, a flush rising up over her chest. It would appear their tenuous ‘work truce’ had ended. Tension was a tight cord between them.
Lucy studied her food, a delicious-looking Greek salad and fresh crusty bread.
‘Would you like some wine?’
She looked up to automatically shake her head. Wine on a plane with this man was a recipe for disaster.
‘Some water will be fine, thanks.’
She watched as Aristotle’s lean dark hand elegantly poured himself wine, and then water for her. She muttered thanks and took a deep gulp, hoping it might dampen the flames that were licking inside her.
They ate companionably in silence. It was one of the things that perplexed her about this man. They had moments like this when she could almost imagine that they might be friends. She’d noticed in general that he didn’t feel the need to fill silences with inane chatter, and neither did she. It surprised her to find that in common. In all honesty, if it wasn’t for the great hulking elephant in the room, Lucy had to admit that so far she’d enjoyed working for Aristotle and admired his work ethic.
She was finishing her final mouthful of salad when she sensed him leaning back in his chair. She could feel the brush of his leg against hers again and fought not to move it aside. She was aware of his regard and it made her self-conscious.
‘You really don’t approve of me, Lucy, do you?’
She looked up, surprised. It was the last thing she would have imagined hearing him say. She gulped and wiped her mouth with a napkin, a flare of guilt assailing her.
‘I … I don’t think one way or the other. I’m here as your assistant, not to form a personal opinion.’ She wondered wildly what had brought this on.
He folded his arms across his chest, supremely at ease.
‘I’ve seen those little looks you dart at me—those little looks that have me all summed up. And when I asked you to send a gift to Augustine Archer, you most certainly didn’t approve of that.’
Lucy was so tense now she thought she might crack. ‘Like I said before … it’s not my place to judge—’
‘And yet you do,’ he inserted silkily.
Lucy’s face flamed. Yes, she did. She had him wrapped up, parcelled and boxed as being exactly like the men she’d seen court her mother, and no matter how she’d seen him treat women, the inherently unfair judgement of that made her feel unaccountably guilty all of a sudden.
It goaded her into saying, ‘All right. Fine. I don’t think it was particularly professional of you to ask me to send a parting gift to your mistress. It’s not my business, it made me uncomfortable, and I felt that it crossed the boundaries.’ Not to mention that it made me feel angry and disappointed too. But Lucy held her tongue. She couldn’t go that far, and those revelations made her feel far too vulnerable.
She felt as prim as a mother superior, and couldn’t look Aristotle in the eye, sure he had to be laughing his head off at her.
‘You’re right. I won’t ask you to do that again.’
She looked at him in shock. His face wasn’t creased in hilarity, it was stone cold sober.
‘To be honest, Lucy, I did it to get a reaction out of you … and you gave it to me.’
She frowned and shook her head minutely. ‘But why?’
He shrugged one broad shoulder nonchalantly, not at all put out to be discussing this, his gaze on hers not wavering for a second. ‘Because I sensed something about you, under the surface …’ His gaze dropped to where she could feel her breasts rising and falling with her breath. He looked back up and her heart stopped. ‘And I suddenly realised that you were causing me an inordinate amount of … frustration.’ His mouth tightened. ‘I blamed you for the fact that it had become necessary to say goodbye to a perfectly good mistress.’
His words caused little short of an explosion of reaction within Lucy. She tried desperately to block it out—the realisation that even then—Her brain froze at that implication. Her hands clenched tight on the table and she hid them on her lap.
‘Look, Aristotle …’ She knew she was all but begging. ‘I’ve already told you, I’m not interested in anything … like that. Really, I’m not. If I’ve given you that impression I’m really sorry.’
His eyes flashed and he leaned forward, hands on the table, starkly brown against the surface. ‘Don’t patronise me. You give me that impression every time you look at me. It’s there right now. You’re desperately aware of where my leg is—how close it is to yours under this table—’
‘Stop it,’ Lucy all but cried out. ‘Don’t do that words thing again.’ She wouldn’t be able to handle it.
Triumph lit Aristotle’s eyes. ‘See? You want me, Lucy. I can smell it from here. But don’t worry. I’m not some lecherous boss who is going to force you into some compromising position. You’ll come to me. It’s just a matter of time before we see how long you can hold out against it.’
Between Lucy’s thighs she felt indecently damp. She coloured even more hotly. Could he really smell that? Did desire have a smell? And since when had she admitted it was desire and not just sheer banal human reaction? The thought made her squirm, but also made her feel weak and achy. She scrambled out of her seat. She had to get away.
As
