He grimaced. “Ethel doesn’t scare me. I’m never getting married.”
“Neither am I. So you’ll be safe under here.” She wriggled over into the corner to make room for him.
“Rosco?” They both heard Ethel’s imperious tone calling down the short corridor.
“Women,” he muttered, tossing up between two ridiculous options. He went for the funny, sexy one.
“Have you closed the door?” hissed Kitty as he folded himself into her makeshift tent.
“Yes,” he hissed back. “Do you think I wanted anyone to see me talking to a stiletto heel under a table?”
“Smart thinking,” she said, her brown eyes shining with irresistible pleasure at their absurdity.
They listened, silent for a moment, but there were no more calls from Ethel.
“I think we’ve bought some time,” Kitty whispered. “But she’ll be back. So keep your voice down.”
He sat on one of the small dining-chair cushions and squashed another one into the small of his back as he leaned against the wall.
This was beyond absurd. And worst of all, his right leg ached from the dancing. He cursed the childhood memories it stirred as he eased his knee into a slightly more flexed position.
“Here,” said Kitty, shoving another cushion at him. “Put this under your knee. I’ve noticed you massaging your leg. Is that a new injury?”
He arranged the cushion, buying some time. Everyone who needed to know about his leg already knew. It meant he didn’t have to talk about it, and that’s the way he wanted it.
“Old,” he said, dismissing it along with memories of rehabilitation. “I was an adventurous kid.”
He settled back, the ache lessening, and looked at Kitty. She was close, snuggled in her cushions, her knees now bent up under her chin, her ubiquitous camera bag at her feet.
The light floral perfume she favored was warm on her skin, and her lovely liquid-brown eyes assessed him with concern. He looked away. Maybe it was true, you really could drown in a woman’s eyes. Good thing he was a strong swimmer.
“Where is your wedding outfit?” He realized she was barely covered again, wearing her short black lace dress and those damn thigh-high boots.
She gave him a sheepish little grin and patted a carefully folded pile of clothes tucked in beside her. “I’ve popped the button again. Three actually. All that bending and crouching to get the best photos.”
She was teasing in that annoying way again. “You have trouble staying covered up, Kitty.”
“Photography needs freedom of movement.”
“I hadn’t realized how physically demanding it is.”
“Very,” she assured him with a laugh. “You should be impressed I brought this back-up dress.”
There was an element of touché in her tone, and he turned away from her, suppressing a sigh. There was no point in encouraging her by arguing, and it wouldn’t do him any good for her to know how much that short skirt had caught his attention.
“You’ve furnished this well,” he said, looking up at the rough-sawn underbelly of the old trestle table. “Cushions and wineglasses. Very comfortable.” Not that he had a need for wineglasses.
“It’s all I could find in here. Not too down market for you, Mr. Redmond?”
“It reminds me of when we were kids. Long summer holidays playing forts with Fiona and Amanda. Hardly an appropriate work venue.” What had gotten into him, speaking of childhood memories with a virtual stranger…and employee.
“It’s fun.” Her voice held a hint of exasperation. “You should try and enjoy life. Your sisters missed out on the Irish accent, but they seem to have stolen your share of the fun factor.”
“I don’t need a fun factor.” His father’s alcohol-soaked grin swam into his memories. “My sisters need me to run the family businesses. That’s my kind of fun.”
“You need a balance. You’re so left brain.”
“What rubbish. I can’t believe I’m under a table, talking about brain power.” She’d taken this escape from his aunts to an absurd extreme. Way outside his comfort zone, even with the cushions.
“You’re all logic and properness. No wonder your right leg aches—your left brain must be so big your right leg has to share the extra weight.”
“That’s doubly ridiculous.” She was laughing at him, and it would feel so good to join in. When had he become afraid to laugh?
“Your sisters would understand.”
“They’ve been double trouble as long as I can remember.” He pulled his body as far away from Kitty as he could. “It’s my job to be the responsible one.”
He risked a glance at Kitty’s face. Her brown eyes continued to shine with her unique spark of amusement. This wasn’t going at all the way he wanted it to. It was supposed to be work, with him in charge.
“What about you?” He needed some balance here. She was witnessing his private family moments, and he knew nothing of her life. He wasn’t interested personally, it was merely prudent to know an employee’s circumstances and to stop talking about his own. “You know all about my family. Time I learned something about yours.”
“Not much to tell.” She did a little stationary jig with her heels and hugged her booted legs. “It’s all a bit…unconventional.”
“You do surprise me.”
Suddenly, into the dusky quiet, a rock anthem belted out from her bag.
“Oh no. Excuse me.” She scrambled her hand around inside her bag.
“Hi,” she whispered into a white cell phone splashed red and blue with a Union Jack. She nodded, twisted, and looked covertly in his direction. “No. I’m fine.”
She listened some more. Nodded intently, and looked straight at him. “We’re trending across all social media.”
His gut tightened. The last thing he needed. “How bad is it?”
Kitty listened again as a slow smile spread across her anxious mouth. “Could be worse,” she told him. “We’re attached to hashtag bridesmaidtitania. No new pics of us.”
Relief coursed through him. All those years of careful management would count for nothing if this blew up.
He reached out, patted Kitty’s arm as she listened again to her caller. He recognized the tension in her face, in her tight grip on her phone. She hated this, too.
“No. No problem,” she said softly into her phone, biting her lip. “Sorry, I lost track of time.” Another pause. “No, I don’t need rescuing.”
She grinned into the phone, her usual up-beat humor returning. How he’d grown, in such a short time, to appreciate that warmth.
“Thanks for checking up on me,” she joked, but he read true affection.
“A boyfriend?” he couldn’t resist asking after she ended the call. Not that he cared, of course.
“No.” She shook her head. “My sisters. Wondering if I needed rescuing.”
“From me?”
“Big head. They don’t know you.” She pretend-punched his arm.
“Obviously not if they think you’re at risk with me.” If anyone was at risk of anything, it was him. He’d never allowed a woman to lure him under a table before. He pretend-rubbed the spot she had pretend-punched.
“How many sisters do you have?”
“Four.”
“Well, let’s start with them.”
“Okay. But I’ll pour some wine first,” she said, obviously stalling for time.
He watched her surreptitiously as she rummaged in her bag, acutely aware of the leather of her boot brushing against his trouser in the confined space.
She produced a small screw-top bottle of red wine and poured herself half a glass.
“How much?” She gestured at the second glass.
He shook his head. “I don’t drink. And I’ve just eaten a wedding feast.” He undid his jacket button at the thought of it. “I won’t need any food or drink for a week.”
“Well, excuse me. I’m hungry now.”
“You didn’t have to be. Food was ordered for you.�
� She looked delicious herself. Where did that thought come from?
“I didn’t want it then.”
“I remember, you’re anti-food when working.”
“Quite right, boss.” She rummaged through her bag again and produced a muesli bar. “Mmmm, chocolate coated, perfect with red wine.”
She settled back, food and drink in her hands. “A glass of wine relaxes me.”
He could feel her reluctance to share and half of him regretted prying. Plus, he’d found alcohol-infused conversation distasteful for as long as could remember.
Yet she seemed vulnerable when she mentioned her personal life, her past. He knew all about that, and his heart stuttered to know she also suffered from childhood wounds.
She sipped and sighed with pleasure, reaching out to waggle her fingers in his face. It was a reassuring connection just as he had felt compelled to offer when she was on the phone. But it was also flirty. An unconscious Kitty flirt all wrapped up in boots and lace and acres of creamy skin. “I’ll think about the best plan for Ethel when I’ve finished the wine.”
“Let me worry about my family,” he said, unable to stop looking at her. He’d brave her sexy magnetism to ensure he could read the truth in her eyes. She was so close, and he’d never felt so tempted to touch. To soothe. To just let go. “You were going to tell me about your family.”
…
Kitty avoided his gaze and tried to tune out his deep, honeyed brogue. She nibbled on her oat bar, sipped a little wine, procrastinated as long as she could.
“I don’t have a family.” The sooner she drank all the wine, the sooner she would find all this a little easier.
“Four sisters aren’t family?”
“Half sisters.” She nibbled and sipped again.
Rosco was watching her, those blue eyes star-bright in their gloomy hiding place. She suddenly worried about crumbs on her mouth, chocolate on her chin.
He had a five o’clock shadow developing on his strong jaw, and he rubbed his hand across it as he watched her.
“Blended families aren’t unusual,” he said. “I’d still call them a family.”
“Not mine.” She gave up on the muesli bar and concentrated on the wine.
“We’ve settled on ‘the Sisterhood.’” She drained the glass and felt the wine finally begin to untangle the knots inside her. Two days of happily-ever-after was probably two days too many for her. Perfect for Amanda and Andrew, but not part of her world.
“We all have different mothers.” She’d stick to the facts. He didn’t need to know too much. “I have three older sisters. They’re all tall, and like me, look a bit like our father. And one younger sister.” She smiled, hoping that was enough.
“Busy time for your father.” Dry. Dry as a bone.
Kitty grinned. “We’re all close in age, so yeah, I guess he had a good time for a few years.”
“Not very prudent,” he said, tight-lipped suddenly.
“Probably why we’re all single and focused on work. We all run our businesses out of shared premises.” She wasn’t losing professional ground with him. “I’m not my father’s daughter in the life choices department.”
“I fully understand that,” he said, in a tone that made her believe he really did.
“Good. So does that satisfy your curiosity?” she asked, her face still so close to his.
“No.” He leaned forward, almost touching her, his finger pointing at her face. “Muesli. On your chin.” His eyes stayed on the spot as she located the crumb. Her chin tingled from his gaze, almost as if he’d touched her. In fact, she could have sworn he’d wanted to. She rubbed out the tingle, avoiding catching his eye. “Sorry. There goes my ladylike status. My sisters say I’m the messiest. But my youngest sister is worse. We call her Little Litter Bug. And Bug for short, because she is. She’s nothing like our father.”
“What’s your nickname?” His mouth twisted into a teasing smile and looked five years younger, his face the most relaxed she’d seen it.
Even a real smile wasn’t going to coax that out of her. “Not telling you. I want you to think of me as a pure professional.”
“Too late, Kitty. We’re hiding under a table, and it wasn’t my idea. Tell me,” he repeated, his voice extra soft, implying her secret would be safe with him.
She took a breath, considering the fallout. She really wanted those future contracts with his company. But she couldn’t be someone she wasn’t, either. Not for long. “Jabbering Gerbera.”
He laughed, head back, shaking silently, then returned his attention to her face. “Perfect,” he said into the sudden quiet and caressed her face with his eyes, a soft, sexy blue gaze. “You’re a gerbera girl?”
Kitty swallowed, nodded, took command of her speech. “Favorite flower.” Always had been. At first it was to spite her mother. Or, at least, to stake a claim for individual identity. “Jacqueline, my mother, always wanted expensive, hothouse flowers. In huge extravagant displays.” And paid for by rich men.
Kitty had known forever that she was nothing like her mother.
“Gerbera’s are cheap and cheerful,” she said. “And tough.”
“Strong-stemmed,” agreed Rosco. “Pretty and bright.” His eyes crinkled appreciatively at her, and again she felt as if he had touched her. As if he wanted to. “Do you photograph them? They aren’t on your websites.”
“Yes, and no.”
“So…?”
“I work with a graphic designer on my commercial art. It doesn’t quite fit our other business profiles.” She hugged her booted legs, happy at the thought of the last eighteen months of business growth.
“The gerberas are our signature. We don’t have our names on the Jabbering website; we’ve tried a whole new approach. Our clients live on social media, and that’s where we sell our look. Funky. Fun. Lots of white background and splashes of color.”
“Just social media?”
“Plus email inbox drops. Abbey, my partner, uses a cool email tool to round out our publicity. Jabbering Gerbera has a cartoon logo, Gerbera Girl, who looks, ahem…a little like me.”
“Let me guess. High heels and big Betty Boop eyes.”
“And a huge orange camera,” she confirmed.
“You get plenty of work that way?”
“As much as we can handle. We don’t even need to share office space. All the work is online.”
He nodded several times, considering her words. “Your own website is darker, edgy. Moody, I’d say. Nothing like you.”
She wagged a finger at him. “You hardly know me.” Her history was a whole lot more complicated than she was willing to dredge up now. As soon as she had the Ethel fake romance thing sorted she’d be back to her own life.
“That can be remedied,” he said. She looked at him, pondering. He filled their under-table space so powerfully with his wedding-suited crispness. He had her hormones on permanent simmer.
“I’m a workaholic, Supervision Man.” They were flirting again, best acknowledge it, even though it wasn’t going anywhere real.
“You already know heritage is my first love.”
“It shows,” he said. “Quality work needs passion and talent. You have them both.”
Businessman Rosco was the one she wanted to work with. Enough to face her childhood memories in order to keep this contract and create an opportunity to pitch her Bedouin project.
“You promised you’d consider evaluating my project if I covered your back.” Now was the moment to make it happen. Might never come again.
She straightened her shoulders, trying for professional, sitting on a scratched wooden floor beneath a long white table cloth.
“This isn’t the time or place.” He looked up again, with a wry grin, at the grubby underside of the table.
“I have a proposal nearly ready to go,” she persisted. Just because they were having some fun playing decoy didn’t mean he could dismiss her professionalism. “I’ll email you.”
“No. I’d prefer a ver
bal presentation,” he said. “That shouldn’t be a problem for you.”
“You’re not taking me seriously. I hope this doesn’t mean you won’t follow through.”
He rubbed his jaw again, all man-in-control. “I’ll call you.” He smiled, tapping his mouth with his fingers in restrained amusement. What a mouth. So close. All juicy plump on the manly planes of his face.
Silence fell between them as she mused on her life with her sisters and the two-day-old impact of Rosco’s charismatic power. All new and already a complicated part of her future.
“Rosco, are you in here?” called Ethel invading their sanctuary as she opened the door and turned on the light.
Kitty put her finger to her lips, willing him with a warning glance to keep quiet.
She checked their feet. Both pairs were safely inside the boundaries of their tent.
“What a funny little room,” Ethel’s voice boomed in the emptiness. “It smells of wine, don’t you think, Kathleen?”
“Yes, it does. A good red was James’s favorite,” said Kathleen in her softer voice, with its musical Irish lilt.
“I’ve missed him today. Been remembering growing up, the parties, the laughter. He could have married anyone, you know. Lydia was a lucky girl.”
Rosco stiffened beside Kitty. Threateningly still.
Ethel’s unmistakable harrumph followed. She walked toward their table, her solid black court shoes peeping under the tablecloth, dangerously close to Rosco’s leg.
“I think I’ll take a couple of these cushions back with us. Those chairs are so uncomfortable,” she said. The table shook and the tablecloth swung as she rummaged above them.
“I thought Rosco would have been looking after us by now. He certainly hasn’t inherited his father’s social skills.”
“I think that’s a bit harsh, Ethel.”
“He left us waiting for tea. And there’s no sign of him looking after that lovely photographer. They implied they were a secret couple, but I’ve seen no evidence of it today.”
She spun on her sensible heel and her foot was lost from view. Kitty let out a slow, silent breath.
“Makes me wonder if there isn’t something the matter with him,” Ethel continued, confiding and grumpy. “You know a confirmed bachelor. Past the point of no return. Stuck in his ways.”
Tangling with the London Tycoon Page 7
