jolted upright and hoped she hadn’t been drooling.
‘I’m sorry for staring. That was rude of me.’
And stupid—very, very stupid.
He smiled, and the slight upward turning of his lips softened his face, creating a tiny road-map of lines around those fascinating eyes.
‘On the contrary, I’ll take it as a compliment. To have a beautiful woman stare at a man is the highest form of flattery.’
‘Or insanity.’
The words popped out before she could stop them, but thankfully he laughed.
‘You are a very frank woman. I find that intriguing.’
‘It becomes irritating after a while. Or so I’ve been told.’
She picked up a menu and ducked behind it, feeling awkward and gauche and out of her depth with a guy of Sam’s class. Rather ironic, considering she’d attended the best of Swiss boarding schools and had mingled with politicians, moguls and the upper echelons of society her entire life.
Yet there was something about him, more than his fancy clothes, posh accent and formal speech patterns, some sort of inbred class that stood him head and shoulders above everyone else.
And that alone should have her running as far from the magnetic property-developer as she could get. Class and power were often inexorably linked, often used to control and manipulate and impress.
She should know.
‘Please do not be embarrassed. I value honesty, especially as we have so little time together. Let us share a meal, enjoy each other’s company and talk some more.’
The elaborate print of the menu faded before her eyes as the implication of his smooth words sunk in. The eating part she could do, the enjoyment part was up for debate. As for talking some more, what was so interesting about small talk with a virtual stranger?
Thankfully, the appearance of a waiter put paid to any further chit chat and she placed her order quickly, hoping the black-lip abalone steak tasted as good as it sounded. She usually adored good food, but had a sneaking suspicion that tonight everything would taste like chaff under Sam’s disconcerting gaze.
Once the waiter disappeared Sam leaned back in his chair, the simple action drawing his shirt across his chest, and she struggled not to stare at the sheer breadth of it. It was probably as tanned as the rest of him, if the tantalising V of flesh where the collar lay open at his throat was any indication.
‘I’m interested in hearing about your business. Can you tell me more about it?’
Bria smiled, inwardly chalking up another brownie point to Sam. Guys weren’t usually interested in hearing about her, especially her business. Some neanderthal had once told her he found women talking about business emasculating; needless to say she hadn’t lasted to the main course on that date.
Clasping her hands in her lap to stop from fiddling with the cutlery, she said, ‘I started up my architectural firm a while back. Motive is my pride and joy. Before that I attended the University of Sydney, completed my degree in architecture, was lucky enough to serve a year under one of Australia’s top designers, then branched out on my own.’
She omitted the part about endless arguments with her dad or the countless hours she’d spent trying to convince him she hadn’t needed the backing of Kurt Green, Australia’s answer to Bill Gates.
Though, there was a difference. Bill worked for his money whereas her arrogant, lazy father had never lifted a finger a day in his life, other than to point it at her and accuse her of being a failure once he’d realised she wouldn’t submit to his control.
‘That’s very impressive. You must have quite a reputation to be invited as guest speaker at a conference?’
If he only knew.
Sure she had a reputation, as a ballsy, driven workaholic who could turn a dump into a palace. She’d designed some of the biggest, most eye-catching projects in Australia, and had been catapulted to the top of the architectural heap so fast her head still spun.
However, being at the top came at a price, and the long, lonely hours between midnight and six a.m. weren’t so great no matter how many times she lay in bed reliving her business success in her head.
She shrugged, not surprised to find her fingers tugging at the edges of the tablecloth. She always fiddled when she was nervous or uncomfortable, and in the face of Sam’s obvious admiration she was definitely uncomfortable.
‘I’ve been lucky. I’ve designed some fairly well-known projects, and Motive is growing all the time. Not boasting, or anything, but it’s bordering on becoming quite famous in this country because of it.’
‘We make our own luck,’ he said, staring at her intently as the waiter returned, filled their glasses with pricey champagne and left as unobtrusively as he’d arrived.
Though she couldn’t fathom the curiosity in his eyes, she agreed one hundred percent about the luck thing.
She might have been born into the richest family in Australia, but she’d shunned that life when old enough to escape her father’s clutches, had made her own way in the world, built her own company, and was still her own woman.
Picking up her flute, she raised it in his direction. ‘To luck.’
‘To luck,’ he said, clinking glasses with her ever so softly, his warm, melted-treacle gaze in stark contrast to the icy bite of champagne bubbles sliding down her suddenly constricted throat.
With an extremely handsome guy staring at her with ill-concealed fascination, she felt extremely lucky indeed.
Bria kicked off her stilettos as soon as she entered her room and, padding across to the king-sized bed, flopped back onto the plump pillows.
She was exhausted.
Not a totally foreign feeling, considering she felt this way most nights after the gruelling hours she kept and the way she pushed herself at work, but tonight was different.
Her weariness had nothing to do with work—it had been the furthest thing from her mind for most of the evening—and had everything to do with the suave man who’d held her captivated for most of it.
Sam was something else.
From the top of his thick, black hair to the soles of his polished designer shoes, he’d held her enthralled. He’d said all the right things, done all the right things, and she’d found herself hanging on his every word towards the end of dinner.
Not that he’d said terribly much. Instead he’d steered the conversation away from himself and had focussed it solely on her. She would’ve normally found such secrecy troubling, and intense scrutiny unnerving, yet when he’d stared at her with that melt-me gaze she’d quite happily blabbed away until she’d stuffed food into her mouth to shut up.
When Sam had talked he’d had a distinct way of speaking, a polite, almost formal intonation that leant weight to his words, and she’d wished several times during the course of the evening that they could spend more time together. It had been
