Falkner Industries.”
“And he drives a Beemer? He could probably afford to buy himself a whole new car—and he’s making you pay for a teeny little scratch?”
“He believes in people taking responsibility for their mistakes.”
Lin snorted down her delicate little nose. “Pompous git!”
Riley laughed. “A good-looking one.”
“How old?”
“Um, thirtyish, probably.”
Lin tipped her head to one side inquiringly, her sloe eyes dancing.
“He was big,” Riley said. “Well…not tall for a man, but…he seems to need a lot of room.”
And yet he hadn’t allowed her much room, she recalled. Until she’d asked him not to crowd her and he’d stepped back.
“You fancied him, didn’t you?” Lin teased.
“No chance,” Riley retorted. But it wasn’t really a denial. More a resigned acknowledgment that even if she had fancied Benedict Falkner, there was precious little hope of anything coming of it. He’d made his lack of sexual interest in her almost insultingly clear.
Besides, the man was out of her league, with his tailor-made suit and his expensive car and his business card embossed with the title Executive Director.
Chapter Two
The following evening Logie poked his long-faced, shaggy blond head around the door of the big lounge where Riley was watching television with Lin and Harry. “For you, Ri.” He held out the portable receiver.
Riley jumped up from the floor where she’d been sitting with her back against the well-worn sofa and took the phone. “Hello?” She followed Logie’s lanky form into the wide passageway, away from the sound of the TV, and he ambled back to the room he shared with his girlfriend, Samuela.
“Riley Morrisset?”
She’d have recognized the deep male voice anywhere. “Yes, Mr. Falkner.”
Maybe she’d surprised him. It was a moment before he said, “My car’s going to the panel beaters tomorrow. If you meant what you said, you could take me home from the office after work.”
“Tell me where.”
He gave her a midtown address and said, “Can you make it by five-thirty? There’s a private car park under the building. My space is on the left, marked with my name.”
Next day when she headed the car down the short, steep ramp, he was already waiting, holding a black briefcase.
Riley was fifteen minutes late.
She stopped the car and he opened the passenger door, climbed in and put the briefcase in front of him on the floor.
“Sorry,” she said, “I got held up.” One of the children at the day care center had mysteriously disappeared, and the entire staff and the little girl’s parents had spent twenty anxious minutes searching before she was discovered, sulking under a pile of dress-up clothes in a large carton.
He didn’t answer, pulling the seat belt across his chest and clipping it into the housing. Today the shirt with his dark suit was pale lavender and his tie a deep plum color.
She tried to tell herself it was dandified, but truthfully he looked terrific. And Riley hadn’t changed out of her paint-stained yellow T-shirt and comfortable brown stretch leggings with a half-dried muddy patch on one knee.
“Do you know how to get to Kohi?” he asked, obviously uninterested in explanations.
“It’s not my part of town, but I know where Kohimarama Road is.”
“Head for that and I’ll direct you from there.”
He watched critically while she drove up the exit ramp and eased the car into the flow of home-going commuters.
After three sets of traffic lights, he apparently decided that he wasn’t going to have to grab the wheel from her or haul on the brake and leap for his life. Opening the briefcase, he said, “Do you mind if I work?”
“Feel free.” She was only his driver, after all—temporarily.
He pulled out a laptop computer and opened it, then began tapping the keys. Next time they stopped for a red light she glanced at the screen, filled with some kind of graph. “Are you a workaholic?” she asked.
His fingers stilled momentarily. “I don’t like to waste my time.”
Riley’s lips closed firmly, ostentatiously.
He looked at her and laughed. “And I had a feeling I was making you nervous.”
“You were.” The light changed, and she eased off the brake and moved the car forward.
“You drive quite well.”
“I told you I do.”
He didn’t remind her that she’d driven less than well when she scratched his car. Riley supposed she ought to be grateful. “Don’t let me disturb your work,” she said crisply.
A car swerved into the lane ahead of them, and Riley braked. Her passenger said, “I guess you need to concentrate in this traffic, anyway.”
They didn’t speak again until he said, “Left at the next intersection.” Within a few minutes he had directed her into a cul-de-sac of what looked like million-dollar, architect-designed homes. “Number thirty-five, down at the end.”
“Wow!” The place was a symphony of curved cement-work painted a mellow, warm gold, with inset glass panels. Balconies, railed with elegant black wrought iron, had been cleverly tucked into the design, one with a spiral stairway to the ground. Some, Riley guessed, would have a distant sea view.
“You like it?”
Riley drew up outside. “It’s fantastic!” Despite being architect-designed contemporary, the house woke vague memories of fairy-tale castles, perhaps because of its height and curved outlines. She turned to face him. “When shall I pick you up in the morning? I won’t be late again.”
“Eight-thirty?” As she nodded, his mouth curved in amusement and he lifted a hand to her cheek, rubbing at it gently with his thumb.
Before she could react, he’d drawn his hand away, looking at the smudge of green paint on his thumb. She saw he still had fading red marks at the base. Her cheeks stinging, she said, “How’s your hand?”
“I’ll live.” He looked up at her. “Didn’t it occur to you that it can be dangerous going around biting strangers? If you’d broken the skin you might have picked up something nasty.”
The heat faded from her skin as her eyes widened. “Do you have anything nasty?”
“No!”
