He knew she felt the simmering tension between them too. At one point during the interview earlier, when she’d had the temerity to dig so deep—too deep—their eyes had stayed locked together for long seconds and he’d read the latent desire in those green depths even if she tried to deny it.
‘I prefer to think of it as a gentle nudging.’
She cast a quick look at him and made some kind of inarticulate sound. ‘There was nothing gentle about it. Your unspoken threat was very clear, Mr Lévêque—the possibility that you could deny us the right to the interview.’
‘Which is something I could still very well do,’ he pointed out. As if on cue, Alana turned more fully in her seat. Her eyes spat sparks at him, and he felt a rush of adrenaline through his system. He was so tired of everyone kowtowing to him. But not so this green-eyed witch.
‘Is this how you normally conduct your business?’ she hissed, mindful of the driver in the front.
He moved closer in an instant, and Alana backed away with a jerk. She could smell his unique scent; already it was becoming familiar to her. One arm ran along the back of the seat, his hand resting far too close to her head, his whole body angled towards her, blocking out any sense of light or the dusky sky outside, creating an intimate cocoon.
‘There’s nothing businesslike about how you make me feel. And let’s just say that I don’t normally have to use threats to get a woman to come for dinner with me.’
Alana was reacting to a million things at once, not least of which was her own sense of fatal inevitability. ‘No, I saw your track record; it doesn’t appear as if you do.’
‘Tell me, Alana, why are you so reluctant to go out with me?’
And why are you so determined? she wanted to shout. Her hands twisted in her lap, and Pascal caught the movement. Before she could stop him, he had reached down and taken her hands in his, uncurling them, lacing his fingers through with hers. Alana could feel a bizarre mix of soporific delight and a zing of desire so strong that she shook.
‘I…don’t even like you.’
‘You don’t know me enough to know if you like me or not. And what’s flowing between us right now is nothing to do with like.’
It’s lust. He didn’t have to say it.
‘I…’
His hands tightened. She could feel his fingers, long and capable, strong, wrapped around hers. She looked down, feeling dazed. She could see her own much paler, smaller hands in a tangle of dark bronze. The image made her think of other parts of her body—limbs enmeshed with his in a tangle of bedlinen. With super-human effort, she pulled her hands free and tucked them well out of his way. She looked at him, and she knew she must look haunted. She felt hunted. Ryan had never reduced her to this carnal level of feeling, and the wound he’d left in her life was still raw. Too raw.
Pascal was close, still crowding her, his eyes roving over her face, but something had changed in the air. He wasn’t as intense. He reached out a hand and tucked some hair behind her ear.
‘I like your hair down.’
‘Look, Pascal…’
He felt something exultant move through him at her unconscious use of his name, and not the awful, prim ‘Mr Lévêque’. He dropped his hand. ‘Alana, it’s just dinner. We’ll eat, talk and I’ll drop you home.’
At that moment she could feel the car slowing down. They were pulling up outside a world-class restaurant on St Stephen’s Green. She seized on his words, his placating tone. She told herself she’d get a taxi home, and then she’d never have to see him again.
She looked at him and nodded jerkily. ‘OK.’
Alana was burningly aware of the interest she and Pascal had generated as they followed the maître d’ to the table. While the establishment was much too exclusive for the clientele to seriously rubberneck, nevertheless their interest was undeniably piqued.
It was another strike against the man who sat opposite her now, broad and so handsome, that despite her antipathy she couldn’t help that hot flutter of response.
He sat back in his chair. Alana could feel the whisper of his long legs stretching out under the table, and she tucked hers so tightly under her chair that it was uncomfortable.
‘You don’t have to worry, Alana, I’m under no illusions; you’re compartmentalising this very much in the “work” box.’
She just looked at him, and he quirked a brow at her.
‘The fact that you insisted on meeting me at my hotel rather than let me pick you up from your home, the fact that you haven’t changed out of your work clothes.’
Alana felt stiff and unbelievably vulnerable at the way he was so incisively summing her up. ‘I didn’t have time to change. And, yes, for me this is work.’ She leaned forward slightly then. His perceptiveness made her feel cornered. ‘I’ve had the experience of living with a level of public interest that I never want to invite into my life again. Being here with you, being seen with you, could put me in an awkward position. I don’t want people to think we’re here on some sort of date.’ She sat back with her heart thumping at the way his face had darkened ominously.
‘So who do you date, then, Alana?’
‘I don’t.’
‘But you were married to Ryan O’Connor.’
The fact that he’d already found that out made her feel inordinately exposed. Her mouth twisted cynically. ‘No doubt you didn’t have to dig too deep to find that out.’
‘No deeper than you dug to find out about my life.’
‘That was for a professional interview.’
‘Do I need to remind you that your questions didn’t exactly follow the script?’
She flushed hotly. His eyes flashed with that same icy fire she’d witnessed earlier. She said defensively, ‘You must know that if you open yourself up to any kind of press attention, then there’s a risk that you’ll be asked about things that are off- limits.’
He inclined his head, the ice still in his eyes. ‘Of course; I’m not so naïve. But somehow I hadn’t expected that of you.’
Ridiculously, Alana felt hurt and guilty. He was right; with another person who wasn’t pushing her buttons so much, she would never have taken the initiative to ask unscripted questions. It had been her reaction to him that had prompted her to try and provoke a response that would take his intense interest off her, that playful teasing he’d seemed set to disarm her with. Again she wondered what she’d scratched the surface of earlier.
She opened her mouth, but at that moment a waitress arrived and distracted them by taking their orders. Conversation didn’t resume until she had returned with a bottle of white wine. They’d both ordered fish. Once they were alone again, Pascal sat up straight. ‘You can tell yourself that you’re here for work, Alana, but I did not ask you here to talk about work. It’s a subject I have to admit I find intensely boring when we could be discussing much more interesting things….’
‘Such
