by Anna Cleary
She hurried up to him.
‘There you are.’ He straightened up, lifting his brows at her empty hands. ‘What? No shopping?’
She shook her head, smiling to cover the smouldering embers of her razed self-esteem. ‘Plenty of fruitless looking, though. How did your meeting go?’
For an instant his strong lean face was motionless, then he lifted his shoulders with casual unconcern. ‘Probably a bit too well.’
‘Oh.’ She slanted him a glance. ‘So they agreed with your investment in the Sydney thing?’
‘Yep,’ he said curtly. ‘They agreed.’
‘Well, that’s great, isn’t it?’
He shrugged. ‘Of course. Great.’
But there was a shadow in his eyes and she felt confused. Of course she was being too intrusive, asking for information he clearly didn’t want to discuss. Maybe there were some things an assistant couldn’t be privy to, especially one who was a last-minute stand-in. Still, rationalise it as much as she might, her doubts about his attitude towards her began to intensify.
Why bring her along if he didn’t trust her?
Perhaps he sensed her hurt, because he made an effort to recapture their friendly mood and suggested they stroll down to the river and see some of the sights. She agreed, grateful for a way to ease the tension. And it worked. Even the gloomiest couple in the world would have found it impossible not to smile at the swans gliding along with majestic unconcern as their anxious cygnets paddled madly to keep up. And an hour or two of wandering through the fascinating old town on the other side of the bridge smoothed over the momentary abyss in communication. Soon Joe charmed her into laughing again, teasing and flirting with her as if she were the most desirable woman in Zurich.
At lunchtime they chose a café on the busy quay, hung with pots of scarlet geraniums to match the chequered tablecloths.
‘Oh, I adore Zurich,’ she enthused, stretching back in her chair and glancing around her. ‘I can’t imagine Nice will be any the nicer.’
He smiled at her over the top of his menu, acknowledging her terrible pun. ‘You’ll probably love it. Millions do.’
Something stirred in her memory then and she narrowed her eyes in recollection. ‘Didn’t you once tell me your mother lives in Europe somewhere?’
He blinked. His lean face smoothed to become expressionless. ‘Did I?’
‘I’m sure you did. Didn’t you say she’s an artist? Does she still paint?’
His blue eyes chilled to impenetrable ice. ‘I have no idea.’ Frowning, he turned his attention back to his menu. ‘Are you ready to order?’
She bit her lip. If that had been a rebuke she deserved it. She should have remembered how reluctant he was to talk about his mother. But after all these years, surely he must have come to terms with his dysfunctional family? Wasn’t there a time to face parents as adults? Even she, a certified scarlet sinner in some people’s eyes, had managed to find some common ground with her oldies. And according to Mim, who admittedly had strong opinions about everyone she knew, no woman could have put up with Jake Sinclair and the life he’d led.
They lunched on fish caught fresh from the lake, steamed green vegetables and fried potatoes served with Alpine cheese and apple sauce. Mirandi adored every delicious morsel. She battled with her conscience over dessert, but how often would she have the opportunity to taste a bona fide Swiss chocolate torte laced with cherry brandy? In the end, true to form, she gave into temptation.
Joe watched her contemplate the cake set before her with smouldering appreciation. A woman with an unashamedly healthy appetite was a woman of promise, though how she managed to maintain that tiny little waist was a mystery. She was getting to him, there was no denying. His blood quickened as he imagined unwrapping her nakedness, burying himself in her satin heat. A night with her in his arms would surely dispel that sensation he’d been waking to lately of the stone weighing in his chest. Though why wait for night? An afternoon. Hell, an afternoon and a night. The next afternoon, the next night…
‘Want a taste?’
He watched her ripe lips close over a mouthful, and felt a dangerous stir in his loins. ‘Not of the cake,’ he said softly.
His burning sensual gaze seared her with unashamed lust and Mirandi felt herself lose motion, like a bird in flight about to fall from the sky, though her blood was thumping fast. The crowds, the noise of the café all receded into the distance.
Still, her heart clamoured for answers.
She lifted her gaze to his. ‘I’m confused, Joe,’ she said breathlessly. ‘What—what am I doing here with you, really?’
He shrugged and his eyes veiled beneath his black lashes. ‘I thought I explained. You’re here as my—sounding board.’ He opened his hands. ‘Friend, if you like.’
‘I don’t think so.’ She shook her head. ‘Sounding board, MA, friend…’ The word nearly caught in her throat with all its irony. She added quietly, ‘You don’t kiss friends. Not like that. I’d just like to know where you think this is going. How about letting me in on the plan?’
His brows shot up. ‘There’s no plan.’ He flicked her an oblique glance, then said lightly, ‘How about companion? I’m sure you can kiss a companion.’
The emotion roiling away inside her wouldn’t allow her to smile. ‘I’m serious. We made a condition…’
‘A condition we’re both guilty of breaking.’
She flushed. ‘I know that. The thing is that—after the things that happened with us before, I think you should know I’m not… I have no intention of ever—’
He flung up a hand to stop her. ‘No, don’t say that.’ His blue gaze was suddenly intent, urgent. ‘Never say it. Look…’ He closed his eyes an instant. ‘Just—listen. How could we not kiss? As soon as I saw you again I realised… That connection with you is still so… You know, I’ve missed the way I used to feel with you.’
‘Oh.’ Her heart shook.
Perhaps she should have been more severe with him, but in all honesty those words struck a deep emotional chord in her, rare as such admissions were from a private guy like Joe. His deep, earnest voice, his intense gaze, his beautiful gesturing hands were sincere, and, foolish or not, she believed him. So, in spite of herself, the massive barrier that had frozen there after his rejection and her bitter aftermath melted a little.
‘I see,’ she said, lowering her lashes while her pulse thundered in her ears. ‘Well, that’s really—quite—interesting to know. Only I can’t—let you play on my heartstrings again, Joe.’
‘Again,’ he echoed sardonically, a flush darkening his cheeks. Then he added softly, ‘That’s a two-way street, wouldn’t you say, sweetheart?’
A million retorts, questions, reproaches hovered on her tongue and the silence between them pulsed with dangerous vibrations too threatening to voice. She was the one to break it, skittering away from the seismic zone with a husky change of subject.
‘So then…’ scrambling into safetalk, her pulse still seething, hardly knowing what she was saying, ‘…at this conference, will it all be just meetings? Is there anything in particular I should be prepared for?’
He studied her with a slight frown in his eyes, then rubbed his cheek and allowed his expressive mouth to relax. A veiled gleam shot into his eyes. ‘I think there’s some sort of cocktail thing on one night. And maybe a dinner. Or…oh, hell. I probably should have warned you.’ She started to speak but he cut in. ‘No, let me make amends for—everything. If you’d like to choose something to wear while we’re here, the bank will foot the bill.’
She opened her eyes wide. ‘What? Are you serious?’
‘Of course.’ He reached across and captured her hand. ‘Don’t look so shocked. I insist. I can’t take my loveliest market analyst to the ball unless she’s wearing the latest designer creation from Paris.’
‘There’s no need. I have clothes. And look. Listen, Joe…’
But despite herself, she wavered. It was an olive branch, and kindly meant. And e
ven after her stern warning that strong warm hand clasping hers was a powerful persuader, tuning her in once again to the high-voltage electric current that until yesterday she’d been excluded from for a decade. Oh, how she’d missed it.
Fireworks were lighting her up, confusing her, muffling her self-protective instincts. She was being swept along again on that hot, wild torrent to the place where the rules of the ordinary world didn’t apply, just as she had that long ago day in the churchyard.
‘What are you doing, Joe?’ she said weakly.
He was smiling, a caress in his voice, that desire in his kingfisher-blue eyes so affecting. It was just like the time on the plane. She shouldn’t look into his eyes. She shouldn’t.
He gave her hand a squeeze. ‘I’m holding this lovely hand. I’ll keep on holding it until you agree.’
Her mind raced, along with her rapid pulse. He was charming her again, undermining her resistance, seducing her. But whether she was a sounding board, MA or friend, allowing him to buy her something as intimate as a dress was against all the rules. She could see where this was headed. Straight into mistress territory.
With an embarrassed glance at the neighbouring tables she tried to tug away, though not very hard. ‘Joe.’ Her voice was as croaky as a crow’s. ‘People are looking at us.’
‘Shh. We’re shocking these good Swiss. Are you ready to agree, or do we keep holding hands?’ He added softly, ‘I can feel your electricity shooting up my arm.’
Her heart skittered at that undeniable truth. Her skin welcomed his strong, warm clasp and never wanted to lose it. And wasn’t that always the trouble? Despite the imminent dangers, she couldn’t prevent her imagination from flying her to the hotel room and envisaging the likely indulgences a mistress might be expected to provide.
Joe adjusted his grip a little, palm to electric palm, watching her eyes, the smiling awareness she couldn’t conceal, the desire curving her mouth, warming her neck and cheek. His instincts of imminent victory gathered certainty. For days he’d been remembering how sweet it had been with her. How giving she was. How passionate.
She gave a slightly more determined tug and he released her. Not a moment too soon, if the tightening in his underwear was anything to go by.
‘Dresses are what you buy a mistress,’ she reproved, but his blood surged at the capitulation in her voice.
He smiled. ‘Oh, mistress. That’s such an old-fashioned concept. It’s time it was put to bed.’
‘Don’t use that sexy tone with me.’ Her attempt at sounding stern didn’t quite come off. Not with that husky breathless quality in her voice. ‘Haven’t I made it clear? I’m still an old-fashioned girl and I haven’t come as your mistress. Or to be put to bed. I’m here as your sounding board, remember? Your MA.’
‘And it’s as my MA that I’ll be escorting you to that cocktail party. And it’s as your boss that I insist on attiring you in a manner befitting Martin Place Investments.’
‘What?’
He was startled by the green flash in her eyes.
She leaned forward and said in a low, outraged voice, ‘Are you saying—you don’t feel confident in the clothes I choose? Are you afraid I’ll embarrass you?’
Whoa there. His instincts started clanging alarm bells. Careful how you handle this one, victory guy.
‘Sweetheart. No, no, sorry—Mirandi.’ He sighed and spread his hands in rueful appeal. ‘You know I think you always look amazing.’ Words even more dangerous than before flew out before he could call them back. ‘When I see you walk by at work looking so—so beautiful and luscious and clever and smart…I just…’ Desire threatened to loosen his tongue beyond what was prudent, and he made an adroit sidestep. ‘What I’m saying is I—I’m so glad you took the job at MPI. I know you’ll be just great there. We need more people like you. And I’ll be so proud of my MA at that conference.’
They must have been the right words because he saw her eyes soften and shine. He was shaken by a powerful surge of tenderness towards her, and had to fight an overwhelming impulse to say even more things. Irrevocable things.
If they hadn’t been in a public restaurant he could have expressed himself properly without having to resort to words at all.
He restricted himself to saying, ‘I just want to give you something—lovely. Something to thank you for coming with me. At least let’s wring some pleasure from this bloody hell of a trip.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
NATURALLY, Mirandi caved in. Well, her knees had gone weak. Anyway, travelling with a sexy man on a short fuse when she was tired herself required a certain amount of give and take. Joe really did seem to need cheering up.
And truly, when they went strolling through the boutiques and he took her hand with the old easy familiarity, it felt so right. And it was lovely trying on beautiful things she could never have normally dreamed of. Joe was so generous and kind, like her wonderful old Joe, waiting patiently for her to make up her mind, only grinning and giving a shrug when she rejected dress after dress in shop after shop.
In fact, she kept catching him looking at her with a light in his eyes that made her blood effervesce like hot lemonade.
And he could be helpful, as she discovered when she finally tracked down the sort of dress that appealed to her in one highly exclusive couture shop. The manager was a haughty, fortyish Frenchwoman with shrewd black eyes and a tight, narrow smile.
While Mirandi sifted through the beautiful things on the racks, Joe found a wingchair thoughtfully placed outside the fitting room area and settled into it, stretching out his long legs and lounging back with a newspaper over his face.
There was much to choose from, but her final decision was between an ankle-length red satin dress with a plunging neckline and a split, and a rose-and-peach-coloured silk georgette with narrow straps and a tulip skirt. Each of them was a dream come true, though both were fearfully expensive.
She tried the georgette first. Because of its thin straps she had to remove her bra so as not to spoil the effect of the bodice. The manager hovered outside, ready to dash in at the first opportunity to snatch her sacred merchandise out of harm’s way.
Mirandi allowed the woman a glimpse and madame was overwhelmed, at the same time as slipping in some sharp observations about how the excellence of the design concealed mademoiselle’s imperfections. Only see how it created the illusion of breasts, and covered mademoiselle’s too generous thighs. Such a pretty effect on mademoiselle with her unfortunate hair and that pallid complexion was magnifique, parfait, incroyable.
The sound of new customers entering the boutique cut short the stream of superlatives, and the saleswoman bustled away. Though smarting at the slurs on her beauty, it was with some regret that Mirandi carefully peeled off the gorgeous georgette, replaced it on its hanger, then turned to the red satin.
Just her luck, but once she’d poured herself into the fabulous thing and pirouetted a few times to enjoy the sensational effect of its fluid slinkiness front, rear and sideways, the zip stuck fast and she couldn’t take it off.
Twisting and turning for a better angle, she struggled to shift it until she felt something give in the fabric. Oh, no. She grew hot. What if she’d torn it? She’d have to call the dragon woman and confess.
She put her head out of the door, but there was a small hallway separating the fitting rooms from the sales floor and the woman was out of sight. Mirandi could hear her voice as she dealt with other customers, and her mind leaped to Joe—who she’d last seen lounging in a chair around the corner.
She poked her head out of the door and called softly to him. He appeared in the hall entrance, looking taken aback.
‘I need your help,’ she said in a low urgent voice. ‘Can you come here a minute?’
His brows lifted, then he sauntered in and stood at the door, quizzical amusement in his eyes. ‘Yeah? What seems to be the trouble?’
At the gleam in his eyes she felt misgivings along with a definite charge in her insides. ‘Do you
mind… Can you help me with this?’ She opened the door a tiny bit wider and angled around to show him. ‘See, the zip’s stuck. I’m afraid I might have damaged it.’
She glanced back at him and a warm shivery sensation shimmied down her spine as his blue eyes swarmed all over her, aglow with searing, sensual admiration.
‘Oh, my God, that dress.’ His hands flew out, but didn’t actually touch her. ‘You look—like a flame.’ His voice deepened on the word.
‘All right, all right,’ she said tartly, though she couldn’t help but be warmed by such overt appreciation. If a woman had to be stuck inside a dress and was forced into calling a man to the rescue, it was as well the dress should be flattering.
‘You do know if I’ve damaged it I’ll have to pay for it,’ she warned to dampen his enthusiasm. ‘And it costs a fortune.’
‘And worth every red cent,’ he exclaimed with heartfelt warmth.
She should have known this would be a mistake. He was loving it. She looked sternly at him and he immediately put on a solemn expression.
‘Do you want me to do it out here, or…?’ He was trying to sound grave, but his voice had deepened to a revealing huskiness.
A dangerous intuition tingled along her nerve-endings, and her nipples reacted involuntarily, as if his bronzed hands had already brushed her bra-less breasts. This had all the hallmarks of one of those risky occasions. But her options were few.
She cast a quick glance around, then motioned him into the fitting room.
It was only a small room. Perhaps because the walls were shrinking, or because there was a forbidden quality to the situation, what with the strict Frenchwoman close by, she felt a wicked zing ripple through her bloodstream.
She faced him for a breathless second, seared to her entrails by his hot eyes and the raw animal hunger she saw there.
