“Where are your cups?” He was pulling open her cupboards and making tsking sounds. “How can you find anything in here?”
“Bottom drawer to your left. What on earth are you doing in my kitchen?”
“Breakfast. I told you. Do you have something I can make coffee in?”
“I don’t need you to make breakfast for me.”
He straightened. “I know you don’t need me to. But I want to. Let me do it.”
Alistair used to make her breakfast some mornings, particularly when he wanted something from her. Money for example. Did Luke have the same modus operandi? Did he do similar things for his two-week lovers? Presumably money wasn’t what he was after, but men always wanted something.
“Why?” she asked. “If you think this is going to make me any more likely to move in with you you’re going to have to think again.”
“I don’t think that. What I want is to look after you. Is that such a bad thing?”
Marisa fiddled with the knot of her robe, uncomfortable. Okay, so apart from his two-week lover limit reputation, Luke was nothing like Alistair. So why was she thinking these things? “You look after people a lot?” she asked, trying to be casual.
He’d gone back to finding plates and boiling jugs, setting out food and getting utensils. “The people who matter, yes.”
Oh. Which meant… She swallowed. “So I matter then?”
Luke put down the jug he’d been using to pour boiling water into a French press and looked at her. “You’re pregnant with my child. Of course you matter.”
She didn’t know why it was so important to her to believe that, when he was still a relative stranger to her. But for some reason, it was.
Of course I love you, Marisa. You’re the only one in my life, don’t you know that?
Alistair’s charming voice swam out of the depths of memory like a shark scenting blood in the water. What a damn lie that had been.
Marisa forced the thought away, pulling her robe tighter around herself. “Okay. Good.” Time to change the subject. “I’ve got another question for you.”
“What?”
“Why do you collect sports cars?”
Unexpectedly, that gleam of what could have been amusement glinted in the depths of his eyes. “Stress relief.”
Curiosity shifted inside her. “Stress relief? How does that work?”
“Because there’s nothing like buying a new car then driving it very fast around a track for letting off steam.” He paused. “The past couple of weeks have been very expensive.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re already responsible for the Ferrari sitting in my garage. Another year and you’ll probably make me go bankrupt.” This time that gleam was very definitely amusement.
Marisa narrowed her gaze at him. “Did you just make a joke?”
“No.” He raised a brow. “Why would you think that?”
Oh yes, he had. And now…God. Was he flirting with her? She swallowed, the thought making her feel a little breathless all of a sudden, which she so did not need right now. Not after the intriguing confession about his cars.
She didn’t quite understand why the thought of Luke McNamara liking speed should be so…interesting. Maybe because he seemed like the type of guy who never let himself get wild and reckless.
But then she knew that wasn’t true, did she? She’d seen him with the reins off. When he held her in his arms, his mouth on hers, he’d been both wild and reckless.
And you loved it, didn’t you? Loved that you could drive him to that point…
She was conscious that her heartbeat had accelerated, her skin sensitized. That he was watching her, the physical awareness between them almost palpable.
“I think I might go and sit down now,” she said, apropos of nothing at all.
“Good idea,” Luke replied, his voice not quite as cool as it had been before. “I think you should also put some clothes on.”
Yes. And a suit of armor over the clothes. Marisa lifted her chin. “I can control myself,” she mimicked. “Can you?”
For a long second Luke studied her. Then his mouth curved. Not by much, but it was enough to hint at the kind of smile that would make grown women cast themselves onto the ground in front of him so he could use them as a rug.
Jeez. If he ever actually smiled, she was going to be so dead.
Marisa quickly turned and got out of the kitchen area before she completely lost her head.
…
Luke frowned at Marisa’s little dining table. Like everything else in her small town house, it was a mess of cheerful chaos, the surface cluttered with bills, magazines and books, newspapers and pamphlets, plus a few empty coffee cups. It desperately needed ordering. Really, the sooner she moved into his place, the better for everyone.
The better for you, you mean.
Well, that was true. It would make it better for him.
He’d woken up that morning with the need to go check on her at the forefront of his brain, and because it involved a special trip and time, he’d had to rearrange his already-tight schedule. He’d canceled his gym session and had gone for a run extra early so he could get in some sort of exercise. The afternoon he liked to keep for himself, especially this afternoon. He had some time booked on the track at Hampton Downs to try out one of the only Bugatti Veyrons in the country, and he couldn’t reschedule it because the car was in Auckland for only a couple of days.
Dealing with the Marisa-baby situation immediately was therefore imperative.
And also because you wanted to see her. Don’t pretend you didn’t.
Luke frowned and pushed the thought to the back of his mind, concentrating instead on tidying up the table. He took the cups away, then sorted through the papers. One of them was a pamphlet about a degree in fine arts at the local university, and there were several asterisks beside the list of courses offered. Luke frowned. She’d mentioned wanting to be an artist the night before. And having a glass studio, of all things.
“I’m not the only one who’s nosy, I see.”
He turned to find Marisa standing at his elbow, her gaze on the pamphlet in his hands. Her hair tumbled down around her shoulders in a glorious chaos of golden curls, and she was wearing a simple dark-blue top as soft and as silky as her hair. She had her skinny jeans on again, ones that seemed to hug and highlight all her luscious curves, and her feet were bare. Except for the glittery turquoise nail polish on her toes.
She looked beautiful and free and wild. Dangerous.
Perhaps she’d been safer in her Chinese silk robe.
“What’s this about?” He gestured at the pamphlet.
“And how, pray, is that any of your business?”
“It’s expensive. A fine arts degree costs—”
“You think I don’t know that?” She whipped the piece of paper out of his hand.
Luke studied her. Was that flush on her cheekbones embarrassment? “There’s no need to get defensive.”
“I’m not getting defensive.”
“Yes, you are. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to do this degree. In fact, if you move in with me, you’ll be able to do it faster with all the money you can save on rent.”
She bit her lip. “Yeah, but I haven’t made any decisions yet.”
“I told you what I wanted last night.”
“Yes. What you wanted. I still don’t know if it’s what I want.”
Frustration coiled inside him. This wasn’t off to the best of start, though why that should surprise him he didn’t know. It wasn’t as if anything was easy when it came to Marisa.
“Sit down,” he said, trying to make it sound less like a command and more like a request. “I’ll bring in the breakfast. Then we’ll discuss it.”
He brought out the food and set it on the table, pouring the coffee for himself and the special hand-squeezed orange juice for her.
She glared at the glass sitting on the table. “I want coffee.”
“Excess
coffee in pregnancy leads to low birth weight.”
Her nose wrinkled. “Awww, come on. One coffee isn’t going to hurt. Anyway, if you want me sociable, not to mention biddable, you’ll find it much easier if I’ve had at least one hit of caffeine.”
Compromise. That appeared to be the way to go with Marisa Clair. More’s the pity. “One coffee,” he allowed.
Five minutes later, Marisa nursed her coffee and nibbled on a croissant slathered with honey while he again set out his plan for her and the baby. “Living with me is going to give your savings a major boost,” he said. “And don’t forget you’ve got my financial services for six months, remember?”
“Hmmmm.” Marisa broke off the end of her croissant and put it in her mouth. Her fingertips were shiny with butter, little flakes of pastry sticking to them. And he had the sudden urge to lick them clean.
Annoyed with himself and the way she seemed to get under his skin just by eating, he put his knife and fork down neatly on his plate. “What does ‘hmmmm’ mean?”
“It means I’m thinking about it. You really eat a croissant with a knife and fork?”
“What? How is the way I eat relevant?”
“Why not use your hands?”
“Using a knife and fork is more orderly. And it means I don’t have to wipe my fingers. Saves time.”
“Orderly, right.” She broke off the other end of her croissant. “It seems a little extreme, though. There you are in your jeans and your T-shirt, eating your croissant with utensils.”
The tension in his shoulders tightened. No one made fun of him these days, not the way they had when he was at school. And if she was going to start…
“Here,” she said, holding out the other end of her croissant to him, “try this.”
“What do you mean?”
She waved the croissant at him. “Go on, eat it. You won’t even have to wipe your fingers.”
“I don’t understand your point.”
“Maybe I want to see you relax.”
“Why?”
She sighed. “Don’t you ever want to, Luke? For a second?”
He shifted the napkin on his lap. “Not particularly.” He couldn’t, not even for a second, not that he could tell her that.
She stared at him for a long moment. Then she leaned forward, holding out the bit of croissant. “Go on. Eat it. I dare you to.”
“What are we, children? Don’t be ridiculous.”
But she said nothing, merely raising an eyebrow. And just like that something kicked in, a part of himself he kept tightly in check, locked away. The part that liked speed, that liked the thrill, that liked adventure. The part that had nothing whatsoever to do with his OCD.
And he found himself reaching out and grabbing her wrist, bringing her hand close so he could take the pastry in his mouth. It was crisp and crunchy and sweet with honey.
Her eyes widened and that bad-boy part of himself loved that he’d surprised her. So he went further, indulging himself in the impulse he’d had earlier, licking one of her fingers. She went still and he heard her breath catch. He took the finger into his mouth, sucking gently, tasting the salty sweetness of her skin underneath the honey.
“Luke,” she murmured, the sound sharply bitten off as he nipped the end of her finger lightly with his teeth. Her eyes had gone dark, her lovely face flushed. She was staring at his mouth and for a second there was nothing between them: no OCD, no baby, no questions about the future. Only desire and desperation.
“Stop.” Her voice was thick and breathy. “We can’t do this, okay? I can’t do this. Not again.”
And she pulled her hand away from his.
Of course she was right. But that was no help to the hunger raging through his veins. Or to the sense that somehow he’d slipped again. Jesus, this woman was a bucket of salt on a snowdrift when it came to his control. She melted right through it.
“Now you know why I use a knife and fork,” he said curtly.
She was staring down at her plate. “And now you know why I can’t move in with you. You and me alone? It’s disaster.”
“I can manage it.”
“Yeah, and we both keep saying that, and yet look what happens.”
“Nothing happened, Marisa. We pulled back.”
“And what about next time?”
“There won’t be a next time. Stop pushing me and we’ll be fine.”
She let out a breath. “I haven’t made any decisions yet, Luke.”
“Well, you have to.” Otherwise the alternative would be him being here, every morning and every night because he wouldn’t be able to deal with the rest of his routines until he’d made sure she was okay. And if that happened then he didn’t know how he was going to explain it to her in a way that wouldn’t look like he was completely mad.
Marisa leaned back in her seat, raised a hand to her mouth, and nibbled on a fingernail. “So…say I did move in. What’s in it for me?”
He didn’t blink at the question. If this was like business—and it sort of was—then that was a logical thing for the other party to ask. “You’ll get your own suite of rooms. I have a housekeeper who keeps everything clean and to my liking. She also cooks on occasion. And like I said, you can have this rent-free.”
“Yeah, about that. Rent-free is nice of you, McNamara, but it’s too much like freeloading for me.”
“I haven’t finished.” He’d formulated another plan this morning. One that should appeal to her need for independence. And rightly so. Everyone should have financial independence and security that was all theirs. “The living expenses you pay now, you’ll continue to pay, but they’ll go into an account that I’ll manage for you. I do a lot of what they call high-risk trading, which means I can probably triple your money in a short space of time. So that by the time the baby is born, you should have enough to repay any existing debts plus a tidy lump sum to put toward the glass studio you wanted.”
She didn’t say anything, continuing to nibble on her fingernail, blue eyes watchful. “I’m keeping my job, then. Otherwise I won’t have any money to pay those living expenses.”
Luke shifted. If she kept her job, they’d be working together, and that was going to contravene the rules about workplace relationships. Rules he’d put into place himself. Then again, technically they weren’t in a relationship. Not a sexual one, at any rate.
“I could pay off your debts for you,” he said, still not happy about it.
But Marisa was adamant. “I pay my own way, Luke. And if you start pulling crap like paying for me, I’m not moving in.”
Stalemate. God, how he hated compromising. But there wasn’t much else he could do.
Oh, he could fire her from her job and pay her debts for her, but then she’d never move in with him. “Fine. How about this? Move in with me for a month. A trial run. We’ll keep our hands off each other, which means we’re not breaking the rules at work and you get to keep your position at Total Tech. Once a month’s over, we can see where we go from there.”
“And if it doesn’t work I’m returning home.”
He had to force the word out. “Yes.”
“Okay then,” she said slowly. “I think we’ve got a deal.”
…
“Wow, Mar,” Christie said, shocked. “When you drop a bombshell, you really drop a freaking bombshell.”
After Luke had left, Marisa had instantly picked up her phone to organize an emergency gossip meeting with Christie, only to find at least ten texts from her friend. Apparently after she and Luke had left the auction, Caleb had declared his undying love for Judith.
They’d met up at a café on Ponsonby Road, one of Auckland’s über-fashionable shopping strips, and Christie had given Marisa the lowdown on the Caleb/Jude situation.
Then Marisa had girded her loins and reciprocated by telling her friend about the Luke/Marisa/baby situation. Which she hadn’t been able to keep quiet about any longer, especially not if she was moving in with Luke.
Hence the
bombshell statement.
“So let me get this straight,” Christie said, waving the spoon with which she’d been stirring her hot chocolate. “You and Luke had a one-night stand—”
“It wasn’t really a one-night stand. Technically, it was more a ten-minute stand. Against a door.”
“Mar, please. Spare me the freaking details. Anyway, you had a one-night stand and yesterday you found out you’re pregnant? And today you’re moving in with him?”
“Just for a month, but yep, that about covers it.”
Christie glared at her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I am telling you.”
“Yesterday!”
Marisa toyed with her hot chocolate. Her second of the day. Hell, she deserved it if she couldn’t have coffee. “I know. I’m sorry. I was kind of in shock yesterday.”
“I get that. No wonder you lost it at the auction.” Christie chewed on her marshmallow. “So…you’re keeping the baby, I guess?”
“Yeah. I mean, I made a mistake but that’s not the kid’s fault. It’s mine. I’m the one who needs to take the consequences of it.”
Her friend’s brow wrinkled. “You want it then?”
Marisa found she was resting an unconscious hand on her stomach again. “I do.” She did. And one thing was for sure, she wasn’t going to screw things up with this kid. Even if it killed her.
“But the moving-in thing?” Christie leaned forward and added in a whisper, “What about those workplace relationship rules?”
“Uh, we’re actually not in a relationship so there’s no problem.”
“Sure, like I believe that.”
Marisa scowled. “It’s true.”
A crease appeared between Christie’s brows. “Well, whatever. I gotta say it seems weird.”
It was weird. But then Luke had provided a compelling argument that morning at breakfast. The whole “suite of rooms” and a housekeeper hadn’t sounded too shabby, either, but it had been his suggestion about what to do with her rent money that had made her really think. She needed money in order to pay off the rest of her debts, get this glass artist dream off the ground, and Luke’s method of savings would definitely make the whole process far less painful. Especially if he could triple her money, and given that he was a financial genius, she thought he probably would.
Talking Dirty With the Boss (Talking Dirty#3) Page 11
