apparently made him concerned that she might have been harmed in some way.
She apologized again. “I’m sorry about giving you that fright yesterday, Mr. Barkley.”
“It’s forgotten.” But he checked the windows, too.
What must he have thought finding her clothes strewn across the room, her handbag dumped inside out? But she’d had no idea he would return a day early from Melbourne or she wouldn’t have donned that swimsuit. Some women didn’t mind flaunting their bodies, but she wasn’t one of them. She was mortified by the thought of exposing herself to her boss, although he clearly didn’t share her reserve.
That day a week ago in his bedroom when he’d turned to face her—muscled, bronzed and breathtakingly bare—he’d seemed surprised by her unexpected appear-ance, but not the least bit self-conscious. And why the heck would he be, with an amazing body like that?
Tristan left the last window and joined her, his face almost grave. “There’s one more thing we need to get straight.”
She held herself tight. What had she done now? “Yes, sir?”
“No more sir or Mr. Barkley, particularly tonight. We don’t want to confuse the waitstaff.” His dark eyes crinkled at the corners. “Deal?”
Returning the smile, Ella relaxed and nodded.
His hot palm rested lightly on the curve of her arm as he motioned her toward the connecting garage door. He couldn’t know the wondrous sizzle his casual touch brought to her blood.
Minutes later, she was buckled up in his sleek black Bugatti, surrounded by the smell of expensive leather and another intoxicating scent—woodsy, masculine, clean. Whenever she changed his bed linen, she was tempted to crawl over the sheets, bundle a pillow close and simply breathe in.
She stole a glance at Tristan’s shadowed profile.
What would it be like to have that beautiful mouth capture hers? Be held against his hard, steamy body?
When a bolt of arousal flashed through her, her heart began to pound and her hands fisted in her lap. That kind of make-believe could only get her in trouble. She needed to keep her mind occupied—needed to talk.
Pinning her gaze on the passing pine trees beside the drive, she put a bright note in her voice. “So, how was the function last night?”
The automatic gates fanned open and the European sports car purred out onto the street. “If you want to know, it was boring.”
She smiled to herself. No interesting women, then.
She sank back more into the leather. “I thought you were home early.”
“You waited up for me?”
When he grinned at her, his dark eyes gleamed in the shadows and her cheeks heated all over again. “I was watching an old movie and heard your car.”
She hadn’t been waiting up for him. Not really.
“Don’t tell me you like those Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers kind of flicks.”
She grinned. “Not that old. Do you remember Love Story?” The score of that classic weepie was enough to give her goose bumps.
“I know it. You’re a romantic, then?”
“Most women are.”
He coughed out a laugh. “You think?”
She blinked over at him. What an odd thing to say. Women daydreamed about meeting Mr. Right. They imagined bouquets and church weddings and sparkling diamond rings. It was usually men who had a hard time committing, particularly when they were so desirable they could enjoy a veritable smorgasbord, Tristan Barkley case in point.
The car pulled up at an elite restaurant, which sat on the fringe of their exclusive Sydney neighborhood. When Tristan opened her car door, Ella asked, “Did you have a reservation already made for tonight?”
It was common knowledge bookings here were as rare as hens’ teeth.
He winked. “I said I knew some good chefs.”
And she wasn’t the least surprised when, inside, the attentive maître d’ fairly clicked his heels and showed them to the best table in the house: by an open window with a magical view of the twinkling harbor, secluded from the other guests and a comfortable distance from the live entertainment—a guitarist strumming the soft strains of a ballad.
As the maître d’ left them, Ella perused the listed entrées. No prices. She couldn’t imagine how expen-sive each must be.
A waiter nodded a greeting at Tristan as he passed. Tristan nodded back.
Ella lifted a brow. “You obviously come here often.”
He kept his eyes on his menu. “Often enough.”
She wouldn’t ask with whom. Perhaps a different lady each time. He never spoke about the women he dated—she knew only what she occasionally saw in magazines. Tristan Barkley was a brilliant enigma who had yet to lose his heart. Frankly, she couldn’t imagine one woman being enough for him. She only had to look into those dark, hot eyes to know he’d be insatiable in the bedroom.
When a vision flew into her mind—naked limbs, glistening and entwined on his sheets—Ella’s heartbeat deepened. She gripped her water glass and took a long, cool sip. This evening would be sweet torture.
They chose their meals—prime steak for him, sea-food for her. By the time their food arrived, they’d discussed music, politics and books. He was surprised that she liked mystery novels, too. When he poured their second glass of wine, she realized the nerves in her stomach had settled, almost to the point where she could have forgotten that handsome, intriguing man sitting opposite was her boss.
She was interested to know, “How’s your steak?” It smelled delicious and appeared to be cooked to perfection.
He dabbed the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “Almost as good as your filet mignon.” She laughed, unconvinced, and his brow furrowed. “It’s true.” He lifted his wine goblet to his lips. “Must be good not to have to think about the dishes tonight.”
“I clean up as I go. It’s not so bad with a dishwasher.”
“Did your mother teach you to cook?”
“She wasn’t much of a hand at cooking, even basics.” She gave a weak smile. “That’s how I got so good.” After her mother’s accident eighteen years ago, someone had to take care of those things, she thought.
“Bet your father appreciated your finesse.”
Her chest tightened and her gaze fell to the flicker-ing centerpiece candle. “He died when I was ten. A coronary. Heart disease runs in the family.”
Tristan slowly set down his glass. “I’m sorry about your dad.”
“So am I. He was an exceptional man.” She smiled at a memory. “He taught me to French knit. You wind wool around small
