always, he wore a dark suit that looked to have been made for him, white silk shirt and silver tie. She wore a light-weight floral dress with thin straps, something she’d bought at the end of the season the year before and paid less than half price for. Her hair hung straight—freshly washed, but just straight. His shiny dark hair had been combed to perfection.
If that wasn’t a reminder that they lived in two different worlds she didn’t know what was. He’d never make a pass at her and, if he did, she’d never flirt back because they did not belong together. They were too different.
But even before she finished that thought, he loosened his tie and pulled it off then undid the top two buttons of his shirt.
“Good evening, Miss Prentiss.”
Oh, Lord. He was dressing down for her. And casually, so he wouldn’t embarrass her. It was the sweetest thing, but she reminded herself they weren’t a good match. He might be the first guy she was attracted to since Cord, but he wasn’t interested in her. He was only being polite. A man who was interested wouldn’t call her Miss Prentiss.
“Good evening, Mr. Engle.”
He motioned toward a chair and she walked over. He pulled it out and she sat.
Ambling to the seat across the table from hers, he asked, “Do you know what Constanzo’s cook prepared?”
“This afternoon he told me she was making a lasagna as lasagna is supposed to be made.”
He laughed. “Leave it to him to be melodramatic.”
“If it tastes as good as it smells, I think he’s allowed a little melodrama.”
As servants filled their glasses with water, Olivia struggled to think of something to say. Thick with the protocol of servants and a long row of silverware, the scene reminded her yet again that she and Tucker Engle had nothing in common.
When the servants left, she took a quiet breath and said, “Constanzo beat me in four games of pool this afternoon.”
“It was kind of you to entertain him.”
“He says it’s boring for an old man to sit around his house with nothing to do. He says he should have grandkids and be teaching a little girl how to swim and a little boy how to hustle pretty girls in pool.”
He laughed.
Her chest loosened a bit. This wouldn’t be so bad. All she had to do was keep talking. “I think he was just distracting me with chitchat so I wouldn’t notice how badly he was beating me.”
Servants arrived with salad and bread and they dug in. For the next few minutes conversation revolved around how delicious the crusty bread was, then the table grew quiet.
She scoured her brain to think of something to say and couldn’t come up with anything. Seconds ticking off the clock felt like hours, reminding her yet again that she shouldn’t be attracted to a man with whom she had nothing in common.
The main course came. At the first bite they groaned in ecstasy and complimented the lasagna, but the conversation stopped again. The longer they were quiet, the more obvious it was that they had nothing to say to each other and that any attraction she felt for him was foolish.
When she finished her dessert, she looked at her watch. Not even nine o’clock.
Across the table, Tucker surreptitiously looked at his watch, too.
For two people with palpable chemistry, they were certainly eager to get away from each other.
Tucker rose from his seat, tossing his napkin to his empty dessert plate. “So how about if you and I play a few games of pool?”
Her head snapped up. “Really?”
“If we go to bed now, we’ll be up at four o’clock. Do you want to sit around with nothing to do for hours and hours?”
“I was kind of thinking if we went to bed now I’d sleep for hours and hours.”
He laughed. “Are you ready to retire for the night?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I think your idea of staying up a few more hours might be better.”
“Great.”
They walked to the den in silence. As she chose her pool stick, Tucker racked the balls. With a nod toward the table, he let her break. She dropped one of the striped balls into the pocket but missed her second shot and Tucker took over. The den filled with the crack of his stick against the balls and the plop, plop, plop of ball after ball falling into a pocket.
In the face of the beating she was taking, she forgot all about the quiet. Why was it she could beat any group of guys in a bar, but not whip the butts of two billionaires?
“Okay. I wasn’t quite ready to play. Rack the balls again. This time I won’t be so easy.”
He laughed. “We’ll see.”
“Ah, smug, this time around?”
Tucker arranged the balls on the table. “Not smug. I just watched how you play. My technique is better.”
“Right.”
He motioned to the table as he walked behind the bar to pour himself a draft. “Go ahead. I’ll give you the advantage. Break again.”
She strolled up to the table, aimed her stick and broke with a resounding crack that echoed around them. Two solid balls dropped. She faced him with a grin. “I have you now.”
He leaned against the bar. “What? You think solid is going to be lucky for you?”
“Yes.” She walked around the table considering her next shot. When she found it, she bent across the table to take aim.
But Tucker shook his head. “Your form is all wrong.”
“My form is fine.”
“No. Look at your stick. It wobbles.” He walked behind her and leaned down with her so he could adjust her arm. “See? Isn’t that better?”
The feeling of his chest along her back sent waves of awareness flowing from her back to her toes. He stepped away, as if totally oblivious and, shell shocked, she took the shot.
Miraculously, the ball she aimed for fell. She jumped up with a whoop of joy. “I did it!”
He motioned at the table. “Keep going.”
She picked a shot and leaned over the table, but again he shook his head.
“Your stick still wobbles.” Positioning himself over her, he leaned down and straightened her arm. Then he froze.
The room grew quiet.
Warmth radiated from him into her and would have sent a shudder through her if she hadn’t ruthlessly stopped it. She turned her head slightly to catch his gaze. His green eyes smoldered.
Oh,
