waste. I’d take you out, but unlike you I haven’t arranged a sitter. Here. Have a seat and tell the bartender about your day.”
He held one of the high stools and she hesitated before warily scooting her hip onto it. He let his gaze linger on the curve of her pert backside as it flowed into the slope of her lower back. Damn, but he wanted to stroke and claim.
Thief, he reminded himself, but it didn’t do much to quell his hunger. Rounding the bar, he looked for a suitably light white wine in the small cooler.
“I should tell David he’s off for the night,” she said in a tone that put him back a year. Efficient, forward with responsibility and attention to detail, lilting just enough to invite a correction if she was off course. She rarely ever had been, except—
As she placed the call, he gestured for the phone.
She handed it across, brows lifted with inquiry.
He enlightened her as he made his request of David. “We’ve had a change of plans. Can you run to Angelo’s and ask them to make us a couple of plates? Whatever they have on special, but no mushrooms for Sirena. You can go home after that.”
“Are we working late?” she mused facetiously.
“I don’t feel like cooking. Do you?”
“Can you cook? I’ve never seen you try.”
“I can grill a steak.” He was currently polishing glasses like a pro, having picked up both skills working in restaurants for much-needed cash a long time ago.
“But a man in your position never has to do anything, does he?” Her lips curved in a deprecating smile, niggling him into a serious response.
“I’m always irritated by the suggestion I haven’t worked for what I have. I might have been born into a life of privilege, but that bottomed out thanks to my stepfather. Everything I have I built myself, and it comes with obligations and responsibilities that take up time. If I can delegate the small things, like cooking a steak, so I can negotiate a union contract to keep myself and a few hundred people working and fed, I will.” He poured two glasses and pushed one toward her.
She looked at her wine, then gave him a glance of reassessment. Lifting her glass, she awaited the soft clink of his.
“To pleasant conversations between old friends,” she said with gentle mockery.
He leaned back on the far side of the space behind the bar, eyeing her through slitted lids. “I can’t get used to this.”
“Used to what?” She set down her glass and rotated her knees forward so she faced him, elbows braced on the bar’s marble top.
“This woman full of backchat and sarcasm. The one with secrets and a double life. The real you.”
She might have flinched, but her chin quickly came forward to a defiant angle. Her gaze stayed low, showing him a rainbow of subtle shadows on her eyelids. “You’re attributing me with more mystery than I possess. Yes, I’m being more frank with you than I was, but you can’t tell your boss he’s being an arrogant jerk, can you?” She lifted her lashes to level a hard stare at him. “Not if you want to pay the bills.”
He thought about letting this devolve into something serious, but opted to keep things friendly. “I wouldn’t have fired you for saying that,” he assured her, waiting a beat before adding, “I would have said you were wrong.”
Her mouth twitched, then she let the laugh happen and he experienced a sensation like settling into your own sofa or bed. Definitely a bed, he thought as a tingle of pure, masculine craving rose inside him. He let himself admire her painted lips and graceful throat and the exposed alabaster skin on her chest to the swells of her breasts. Why had he never taken her to dinner before?
Oh, right. She had been working for him.
It was freeing not to have that obstacle between them anymore.
Slow down, he reminded himself as she sobered and flicked a glance in his direction. The sexual undercurrents might be acknowledged, finally, but just because he wanted to bed her didn’t mean he should.
Sirena couldn’t take the intense way Raoul was staring at her. Every single day of working for him, she’d longed for him to show some sign of interest in her. Now that he had, it scared the hell out of her. But then, she knew better than to trust he was genuinely interested.
Accosted by harsh memories, she slid off the bar stool and took her wine to the expansive glass windows where the London Eye and the rest of the waterfront stained the river with neon rainbows.
“So is this how you start all your flashy dates? Or do they end here?”
“Flashy?” His image, only partially visible in the dim reflection on the glass, came around the bar to stand like a specter behind her.
“Women line up for the privilege, so I assume a date with you is pretty fantastic. Are they impressed when you bring them back here for a nightcap?” And a thorough seeing to? Don’t think about it.
“I don’t go out of my way to impress, if that’s what you’re implying. Dinner. A show. Does that differ hugely from one of your dates?”
She cut him a pithy look over her shoulder. “Since when do I have time to date?”
He absorbed that with a swallow of wine. “You’ve suggested a few times that I overworked you, but you also want me to believe your private life included a man who could have fathered Lucy. Which is the truth?”
“I was saving face when I said that,” she admitted to the window.
“So I was an ogre who demanded too much? You could have said something.”
Sirena hitched a shoulder, bothered that she felt guilty for not standing up for herself. “I didn’t want to let you down or make you think I couldn’t handle it.” There was her stepmother walking into the room again, tsking with dissatisfaction, setting the bar another notch higher so Sirena would never, ever reach it, no matter how hard she tried. But oh, how she tried, hating to fail and draw criticism. “Some of that’s my own baggage. I’m a workaholic. You can relate, I’m sure.”
He moved to stand beside her. “I thought you were happy with the workload. It didn’t occur to me I was killing your social life. You must have felt a lot of resentment.”
He was jumping to the conclusion that that’s why she’d stolen from him.
“No.” Annoyed, she walked to the far end of the windows. “I never had a social life, so there was nothing to kill.”
“You weren’t a virgin. There was at least one man in your life,” he shot back.
“One,” she agreed, staring into the stemmed glass. “His name was Stephan. We lived together for almost two years, but we were both starving students, so date night was microwave popcorn and whatever movie was on the telly.” Stephan had had about a thousand allergies, including alcohol, so even a cheap wine or beer had been out of the question. “Sometimes we went crazy and rented a new release, but my hand-me-down player said ‘bad disc’ half the time, so it wasn’t worth the hassle.”
“You
