conversationally. “I can understand if you are. I was always terrified that I’d drop a baby if I ever had to hold one.”
“You? Terrified?” she asked, raising a skeptical brow at him as she turned from checking the bread under the broiler.
Under the candle glow, he could see the hot air had flushed her cheeks and was reminded again that Faye was a very attractive woman. Not that he was into her or anything. Liar, said the small voice at the back of his head. Half of her appeal had always been her looks, the other half had been her apparent immunity to his charms. It didn’t matter what he said, did or wore—or didn’t wear—she remained impervious to him. She also wasn’t in the least sycophantic—and not at all hesitant to bluntly tell him when his ideas or demands were outrageous or unreasonable.
He realized she’d managed to deflect the question away from herself again.
“You’re very good at that, you know,” he commented with a wry grin.
“What, cheese on toast?” she answered flippantly, presenting her back to him as she bent to lift the tray of toasted golden goodness from the oven. Faye began piling the cheese toast slices onto a plate on his tray, taking only two small bits for herself.
No wonder she was so slender. She barely ate enough to keep a bird alive.
“I meant your ability to avoid answering my questions.”
“Did you want cream in your soup?”
And there she went again. She was so much better at this than him, but he was nothing if not tenacious.
“Faye, tell me. Are you scared of babies?”
She sighed heavily and looked up from ladling out the steaming, hot soup into bowls.
“No. Did you want cream or not?”
He acceded. “Fine, whatever.”
As with everything Faye did, she paid meticulous attention to presentation, and he watched with amusement as she swirled cream into his bowl and then, using a skewer like some kind of soup barista, created a snowflake pattern in the cream before sprinkling a little chopped parsley on top and setting the bowl on his tray.
“That’s cute. Where did you learn to do that?”
“Nowhere special,” she said softly. But then a stricken expression crossed her face and she seemed to draw herself together even tighter. Her voice, when she spoke, held a slight tremor. “Actually, that’s not true. I learned it as a kid.”
She bit her lower lip, as if she’d realized she’d suddenly said too much.
Piers pressed home with another more pointed question. “From your mom?”
She gave a brief, jerky nod of her head.
Piers sensed the memory had pained her and regretted having pushed her for a response. But he knew, better than most people realized, that sometimes you had to endure the pain before you could reap the rewards. Oh, sure, he’d been born into a life of entitlement and with more money at his disposal while he was growing up than any child should ever have. Most people thought he had no idea as to the meaning of suffering or being without—and maybe, on their scale, he didn’t. Yet, despite all of the advantages his life had afforded him, he knew what emptiness felt like, and right now he could see a yawning emptiness in his PA’s eyes that urged him to do something to fill it.
But how could a man who had everything, and yet nothing at the same time, offer help to someone who kept everyone beyond arms’ length?
Something hanging from the light fitting above Faye’s head caught his eye. Mistletoe. Before he knew it, Piers was rising and taking her in his arms. Then he did the one thing he knew he did better than any man on earth. He kissed her.
Shock rippled through her mind, followed very closely by something else. Something that offered a thrill of enticement, a promise of pleasure. Piers’s lips were warm and firm, and the pressure of them against hers was gentle, coaxing.
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