No Ordinary Gentleman

I want to know what she’s doing here.

What she’s doing here dressed like a waitress.

“I met him earlier this year,” she suddenly supplies, filling the silence between us.

I find myself mastering a smile, thinking she wouldn’t be much use in an interrogation. Does she feel unnerved, or perhaps silences make her uncomfortable. She wasn’t especially verbose that night, but she was delightfully noisy . . .

“In January, I think,” she offers again. “In Chelsea. At a dinner party.”

“Like this?” I indicate her outfit with a lazy gesture of my hand, her gaze flicking down almost as though surprised to see the damn pinny she’s wearing.

“No, I was a guest,” she grates out, her gaze fiery as it meets mine. “I am allowed a social life.”

And there she is. At least, this is a little more like the woman I’ve known.

Known for less than a day, I remind myself.

“Yes, of course you are.” I resist the urge to step closer, to keep a decent distance between us. Not a kissing distance; best to avoid temptation. For her sake, at least. “Forgive me, as I understood it, your social life belongs on the other side of the Atlantic.” Though I score a point with words, the way I fold my arms across my chest is a reminder to myself that I shouldn’t want her.

“It wasn’t strictly a lie,” she mumbles, her gaze slipping away again.

“But you do live in London, not America.”

“So, I might have told one or two lies that night. It’s not like I owed you anything. Certainly not the tale of my life story.”

“No, but a little honesty would’ve been appreciated.” The mild rebuke is at complete odds with the roar of sensation building inside.

“Are you trying to tell me that everything you said that night was the truth?”

God help me because, against every instinct, I find myself stepping closer, my eyes sweeping hotly over her. “The important things were.”

And she sees it then. Reads my every intention. Hears once more the words I’d whispered as I’d broken her down only to build her back up again. And with that acknowledgment comes an empty longing. My body recognises hers, mourning our lack of connection. Grieving the space between us, hating the cool of the night air.

“It is a surprise to see you again.” I find myself reaching out, my hand ghosting her face, her beautiful face, half in shadow, half ivory in the lamplight. “I thought I’d imagined you.” Imagined her that night. Imagined her inside, in the ballroom. I watch as she swallows over the matching ball of emotion lodged in my throat. I want to place my tongue there. My teeth. Feel the vibration of her want as I do.

But I don’t. Not here. Not now.

For her sake, not ever again.

“I’ve thought about you, Holland. Thought about you more than I care to admit to myself. Care to admit to you.”

Her tongue darts out to moisten her full bottom lip, and she swallows again. “I made an impression?”

“You made a few of them.” I watch as she fails to stifle a small smile of pleasure, the effect of smile like a burst of confetti in my chest. “Some longer lasting than others.” I find myself absently swiping my thumb against my bottom lip, almost as though I could still taste her kiss.

Her expression shifts from hesitant to hopeful and I find I have to slide my hands into my pockets to stop myself again from reaching out.

“Hey, Holly,” calls a voice from somewhere behind me. Young. Female. Probably a colleague. “Mo wants to know if you went to Russia to get the caviar.”

“Damn, the box,” she whispers. “I forgot I was supposed to take it to the kitchen.”

“I didn’t realise you were busy.” The young woman’s voice leaks with suggestion as, by the sounds of her shoes against the cobblestones, she skips closer to us.

“Please tell Mo, I’ve detained Holly and that she will be along shortly.”

“A long shortie?” the young woman sing-songs back. But the words are barely in the air when I shoot her a frigid glance over my shoulder. She stops dead in her tracks, recognising me. “A-absolutely. I’ll tell Mo she’ll be along when you’re done with her. When you’re done here. I mean, whenever you’re done what you’re doing here.”

She seems to shake her head at her own ridiculousness before she scurries—not skips—back the way she came.

“What the heck was that all about?” Holland asks.

I chose to ignore the question as rhetorical.

“Well?”

Perhaps not.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” I offer blandly.

“Her.” She points at the gate. “What was that all about because she wasn’t struck stupid by your looks.”

“You don’t think so?”

“Don’t try to be cute.”

“I thought it just came naturally.”

As though testing the hypothesis, her gaze falls to my shoulders and meanders down my chest. “You’re too big to be cute.” Her lips slam closed with a scowl. “And why the heck isn’t she worried about me, standing out here in the dark, alone with the devil in his Sunday suit?”