by Trish Morey
‘You just found another job.’
She looked at the name—Santina Financiers—and of course she knew who he was then: Alex Santina. His companies seemed to ride the wave of financial crisis with ease. He was all over the business magazines, and... She screwed up her forehead, trying to place him further, for she had read about him elsewhere, but half a bottle of Bollinger on a very empty stomach didn’t aide instant recall.
She looked at the card and then back to him, to liquid brown eyes and the smile that was, frankly, dangerous. There was a confidence to him, an air of certainty—and she knew in that moment why he was so completely successful. There was an absence of fear to him; there was no other way she could describe it. ‘You don’t even know what I do for a living.’
His mind was constantly busy and he tried to hazard a guess. He doubted fashion—he’d seen the sensible tweed trousers that were beneath the table. And it wasn’t make-up—she wasn’t wearing a scrap. He could see the teeny indent at the bridge of her nose from glasses....
‘Schoolteacher perhaps?’ Alex mused, and he saw her pale neck lengthen as she threw her head back and laughed. ‘Librarian...’ She shook her head. ‘Let me guess,’ he said. Was it ridiculous that he was vaguely turned on as he tried to fathom her? He looked into eyes that were very green, a rare green that took him to a place he hadn’t been in ages, to long horse rides in Santina, right into the hills and the shaded woods, to the moss he would like to lie her down on. No, he wasn’t just vaguely turned on; he saw the dilation of her pupils, like a black full moon rising, and maybe he knew what she did, because there was comfort there in her eyes, there was deep knowing too, and he wanted to stay there. ‘Those phone lines—’ he moved forward just a little ‘—when people don’t know what to do...’ He saw her blink, could feel the warmth of her knee as he brushed against it. ‘They ring you?’
‘No.’ She didn’t laugh at this suggestion, she hardly dared move, because she could feel his leg and wanted it to stay there, wanted to lean across the table and meet his mouth, but she snapped herself out of it, pulled back in her seat and ended whatever strange place he had just beckoned her to. ‘I work in publishing—I’m a copy editor. Was,’ she added. She wanted to signal the waitress, wanted a glass of water, hell, she’d take the jug and pour it over herself this second.
‘I’m sure I could find you something....’
That really would be out of the frying pan and into the fire, Allegra thought, offering him back his card with a shake of her head. But her hand trembled slightly as it did so, because what a lovely fire it would be to burn in.
‘I’ll find something.’
‘I’m sure you will,’ Alex said. ‘Keep it. You might change your mind.’
‘Do you normally go around hiring your staff in bars?’
‘I leave the hiring to others. If you ring that number you would only get as far as my assistant, Belinda. I can tell her to expect—’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ Allegra interrupted. ‘I’m just talking, not asking for a solution.’
‘It is how my brain works,’ Alex admitted. ‘Problem—solve it.’
‘When sometimes all you have to do is listen.’
She watched as he visibly wrestled with such a suggestion, guessed that this man was not used to sitting idly by in any situation, that he was more than used to coming up with a rapid solution. But as he took another drink and stared out to the bar where he had stood with his colleague last week, perhaps it dawned on him then that not everything came with a solution, and he gave a small nod. ‘Charles had many plans for his retirement—he was talking about them last week. I guess it got me thinking.’
Allegra nodded.
‘All the things you want to do,’ he continued, ‘intend to do...cannot do.’
‘Cannot?’ Allegra asked, because surely a man like Alex could do anything he wanted. He had looks that opened doors, and from his name, from the cut of his hair to the beautifully shod feet, she knew it wasn’t his finances that would stop him.
‘This time next year...’ He was unusually pensive, not that she could know, but now, this afternoon, he felt as if time were running out. ‘I’ll be married.’
Allegra gave him a very wide-eyed look. ‘If you’re engaged then you should not be joining women in a bar and sharing a bottle of champagne with them. Shouldn’t be...’ She halted, not wanting to voice the word, because for a little while there they’d been flirting—not even flirting, far more than that. It had felt as if they had been kissing. She really was going now anyway; he’d nearly finished the bottle. And maybe it was an overreaction to leave so hastily, but there was something about him that screamed warning. Not that he was inappropriate, more the wander of her own thoughts, because his mere finger on a glass had had her mind wandering. Something about him told her he’d make it terribly, terribly easy to break very firm rules.
‘Don’t leave...’ As she put down the note his fingers pressed over hers, wrapped them around the bill and held them a fraction. It was first contact and it was blistering; she could feel the heat from his fingers warm not just her own but race, too, to her face. ‘I’m not in love...I’m betrothed.’
‘There’s a difference?’ She smarted, though she was curious as to his unusual choice of word. She’d never heard a man, never heard anyone, describe themselves as betrothed. What was the difference?
‘God, yes.’
Go, her mind told her, just turn around and go! Except his hand was still curled around her fingers and there was sudden torture in the dark eyes that held hers.
‘I am Crown Prince Alessandro Santina.’ He was too weary to dodge the facts and so rarely wanting of conversation, strangely willing to reveal his truth. ‘I have been told I am to return and fulfill my duties.’
She could not have known just how many times she would replay that moment—could never have guessed how often she would look back to the very last time that she could simply have walked away.
She didn’t though.
Despite herself, Allegra sat and heard the rest.
ISBN: 9781460303528
BARTERING HER INNOCENCE
Copyright © 2013 by Trish Morey
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