picked up a cleaning cloth. He leaned over the bar and he saw the bucket of soapy water on the floor. Steam rose from it together with the smell of lemon-scented cleaning product. She looked at the bag he’d put on the bar, the files spilling from it.
‘So you’re a lawyer.’
He nodded.
‘Commercial or criminal?’
‘Criminal.’
‘Prosecution or defence?’
He started to wonder if she’d had up-close experience with either. ‘Defence.’
‘So you’re out to fight the cause for the wrongly accused. Justice for the underdog—’
‘No.’ He stopped her mid-flight. ‘Actually, sometimes my clients are guilty. But they’re still entitled to decent representation.’
‘You’re an idealist—the Atticus Finch of Wellington.’ She caught his flash of surprise before he masked it. ‘What, you think I can’t read?’
‘Why would I think that? You have a university degree. I know you can read. Whether you can think and apply is another matter.’
She gave him an evil stare. ‘I’ll have you know To Kill a Mockingbird was one of my favourite books in school.’
‘So underneath all the mouth you’re the idealist.’
She looked put out.
‘What were your other favourite books?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t remember.’
She turned to the glass shelves behind the bar and reached up on tiptoe to empty the top one of its bottles. Her body showed off to perfection as she stretched it out, only just getting her fingers round the base of the bottles. He couldn’t stand to watch it.
‘I’ll get those for you.’
Her eyes flashed surprise but she said nothing.
It took him only a minute to get the bottles down for her.
Every cell in his body aware of how close she was as she worked to clear the next shelf down. He stood back and rested against the bar behind him, unashamedly appreciating her tanned figure. Broad shoulders framed a generous bust, tapering to a trim waist before flaring out again to round hips and a bottom that begged to be used as a cushion. Shapely thighs closely clad in faded denim—also perfect for cushioning a lover. She’d be soft, and hot and…he really shouldn’t be thinking this way.
He couldn’t stop.
He looked back down to her feet again. The cowboy boots amused him. Then he amused himself further by slowly looking back up her body with appreciation. While she wasn’t plump, she certainly wasn’t a stick figure—soft in all the right places. Smooth curves. Daniel liked curves.
The speed with which she spun round caught him by surprise. The move brought her closer and he found himself staring right at her breasts.
Oh. Yes.
He blinked and with a little reluctance brought his focus up to her face.
She looked defensive. ‘You don’t think I can do this, do you?’
‘Why would I have given you the job if I thought that?’
‘You tell me.’ Her chin was tilted high in a challenge and all he could do was admire the long column of her neck—smooth, olive skin leading down to collar bones that begged to be kissed.
‘You think I fancy you?’ Damn. He did. He’d have to bluff. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, darling, but you’re not my type.’ That was the truth. Really. She wasn’t.
‘Really?’
‘I prefer a more…finished…look.’
‘You mean plastic. Petite. Perfect. Arm candy for the hotshot lawyer.’
He didn’t even try to argue. She could think what she liked so long as he was covered. And, yeah, maybe his dates usually were pretty perfect-looking things.
‘Rankles, does it?’ He leaned closer, resisting the urge to get close enough to touch her. Hell, he really wanted to grab and haul her to him. Regressing to prehistoric man minute by minute. Irritated, he went a step too far. ‘By finished, I mean at least combed.’
The flash of hurt in her eyes had him instantly regretting it. Since when was he mean? He was like a kid in school picking on the girl he secretly fancied. God, he was never usually so gauche.
She blocked his glimpse to her soul by lowering her eyelids to half-mast, but her smart mouth and tilted chin were firmly up again. ‘For the record. You’re not my type either.’
‘Really?’ His muscles tightened.
‘I prefer more…wild. Not square or…boring.’
‘Bad-boy type who treats you mean, huh?’
‘No need to be patronising. I’m not stupid, you know.’
No. She wasn’t. She was smart—mouthed at least. He needed to back off. She was getting under his skin in a way he wasn’t comfortable with. Having sex with her wouldn’t be wise. Maybe when Lara was back and the responsibility for the club wasn’t on him, he’d consider it. ‘OK. So we’re not each other’s types. I’m glad we got that sorted out.’
She gave him one last look that swam in lack of interest and turned back to her shelves. He stayed exactly where he was and kept watching her.
Boring? She thought he was boring? What, because he wore a suit and practised law? She should learn not to judge a book by its cover.
She bent down and pulled up a trigger bottle. Sprayed frothy liquid on the glass and started to wipe it. She looked at him in the mirror behind the glass shelving. He didn’t look away. Nor did she and after a moment her hand stopped ineffectually wiping the smears from one end of the mirror to the other. They stared.
What he’d love to do right now to show her he wasn’t a square.
She must have grasped some hint of what he was thinking because suddenly she looked away and her wiping of the mirror resumed—a little frantically.
‘I thought you had work to do.’
‘Yeah.’
He pushed away from the bar and walked round to the other side, took the last seat at the bar and pulled out the relevant material from his bag. He put his laptop to the side and ignored it, opting for the paper files. Pen in hand, he bent to his reading. Determined to focus on the facts. Not be distracted by the beach-blown beauty doing the Cinderella act in the corner.
Lucy found cleaning the cooler cabinet a perfect way of working off the extra energy she seemed to have accrued. She watched him out of the corner of her eye. Half aggravated, half attracted.
So
