heavy irony, and in a lightning mood swing he grinned at her.
‘I don’t date air-heads, sweetheart. I much prefer intelligent women; you know that,’ Roarke drawled back, watching through glittering eyes as she squatted down and began to collect up the pencils. The process caused her skirt to ride up her thighs. ‘Nice legs,’ he murmured approvingly, then as she shot a narrow-eyed glare his way he changed tack. ‘Did I hit you?’ he asked with less than genuine concern, and Ginny snorted as she retrieved the holder and stood up again.
‘No, but I might just hit you if you don’t keep your eyes to yourself,’ she warned as she set the holder on the nearest bookcase and folded her arms.
‘It’s your own fault for being so easy on the eye. A man just can’t help himself,’ he told her ironically.
He was flirting with her, a tactic he had used from time to time when he wanted to irritate her more than usual. She ignored it—as usual. ‘Well, a man had better try,’ she added firmly.
Roarke slipped his hands into the trouser pockets of his fashionable Italian designer suit, and rocked back on his heels. ‘You’re a hard woman. Does anything get through to you? Do you feel passion? Do you even know what it is? What about Daniel? How does that relationship work? Is he even allowed to kiss you, or does he go home each evening aching with frustration, whilst you sleep soundly in your virginal bed?’
Ginny kept her cool and raised her eyebrows at him mockingly. ‘You don’t really expect me to answer that, just because you’re in a foul mood?’
‘No, I expected you to up and slap my face. Why didn’t you?’
She gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘Probably because it was what you wanted,’ she responded dryly and he laughed.
‘You’re learning, sweetheart. There’s hope for you yet,’ he taunted as he sauntered over to the window and looked out at the city below them.
‘I’m not your sweetheart, Roarke. It isn’t a situation I would ever aspire to occupy,’ Ginny countered, though she didn’t expect it to have any more effect than her previous attempts to have him stop calling her by the affectionate term.
He glanced over his shoulder at her. ‘A man could get frostbite trying to warm you up. Daniel has all my sympathy.’
Ginny silently ground her teeth at his insolence. ‘Fortunately, Daniel doesn’t need it,’ she said, which caused him to smile.
‘No, he’s pretty much a cold fish himself.’
She looked at him steadily. ‘I don’t find him in the least bit cold. There’s a lot to the old adage that you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.’
‘Which could equally apply to me, sweetheart,’ Roarke pointed out, but Ginny immediately shook her head.
‘Oh, no, you’re an open book, Roarke. Everyone knows the plot where you’re concerned. The wise ones put you back on the shelf,’ she retorted mockingly, whereupon his eyes gleamed with mischief.
‘Maybe, but the ones who don’t have a much better time.’
Ginny shook her head sadly. ‘You’re incorrigible, and I have more important things to do with my time than waste it bandying words with you,’ she told him bluntly, and made to leave, but Roarke held up a hand to forestall her.
‘That can wait. Shut the door and sit down. I need to talk to you,’ he commanded. His words were without a trace of his earlier mockery, and yet carried an edge of unease. Sensing something intriguing in the air, Ginny dutifully closed the door.
‘I thought you didn’t consider me qualified to be an agony aunt,’ she remarked as she stepped over various objects which had borne the brunt of his temper.
‘One of these days you’re going to cut yourself on that tongue of yours!’ Roarke warned her. ‘Doesn’t anything blunt it?’
‘If you’re after sympathy, you’ve come to the wrong woman,’ she told him matter-of-factly. ‘Just because you didn’t get your own way for once, there’s no need to destroy the place. So you met a woman with a brain cell or two. It was bound to happen some time.’
Roarke tutted reprovingly. ‘You know something, Ginny? You’re fixated with my love life. Who said this has anything to do with a woman?’
Now that did surprise her. Roarke was like a magnet for women. He didn’t look dressed without one on his arm. That didn’t mean to say he didn’t work hard at the business. It wouldn’t be among the top in its line if he didn’t. But he played hard, too. She had listened to his tales of woe before, and a woman generally entered the picture at some point. But apparently not this time, if he was to be believed.
‘It doesn’t?’ she queried, brows rising. If she had done him an injustice, then she was prepared to apologise, however much it went against the grain. She was about to open her mouth to do just that when his eyes fell away from hers and he rubbed an irritated hand around his neck.
‘Actually, it is about a woman, but not the way you imagine,’ he admitted reluctantly.
Intrigued by the palpable signs of his discomfort, Ginny slipped into the nearest chair and crossed her legs, decorously smoothing down the skirt of her violet-coloured suit. She had discarded the jacket earlier, and wore a simple cream silk sleeveless blouse for comfort in the oppressive summer heat.
‘What do you imagine I’m imagining?’ she challenged, her eyes following him as he walked to his leather chair and sank into it with a heavy sigh.
‘The worst. You usually do,’ Roarke shot back dryly, and Ginny laughed softly.
She spread her hands deprecatingly. ‘Well, you’ve only yourself to blame for that. You’ve never had to console one of your exes. The tales I’ve heard make me shudder to think of them.’ She gave a delicate shudder by way of example.
‘Don’t believe everything you hear. It isn’t my fault if they got their hopes up. I never promised them for ever,’ Roarke pointed out in his own defence.
‘That’s what I told them. He isn’t a one-woman kind of man. You’d be better off cutting your losses and looking around for someone with more staying power,’ Ginny agreed.
His brows rose at that, and then he laughed. ‘You’re referring, I take it, to that part of my life which I, clearly mistakenly, consider private. Hasn’t anyone ever told you you aren’t supposed to interfere in your employer’s love life?’
‘Your love life ceases to be private when you live it so publicly. Why, scarcely a day goes by when you aren’t photographed with one woman or another hanging on your arm! Your little black book must be bursting at the seams by now,’ she protested scornfully.
Roarke steepled his fingers and looked at her over them. ‘If I had one, which I don’t.’
‘No little black book? I don’t believe it. Your sort of man always has one!’
‘And just what sort of man is that?’
Ginny waved a hand airily. ‘The sort who changes his woman as often as he changes his clothes.’
He
