‘You look tired,’ she blurted, seizing on the truth as the perfect diversionary tactic. She had noticed the faint blue tinge to the pale skin under his eyes, and the subtle tautness around his mouth and jaw that suggested a stern measure of control, and now she identified the lazy burr that had entered his tone. He was a man who concealed his fatigue well—as he probably instinctively hid any form of weakness.
‘It’s been a rough day. But don’t worry, I’m rapidly getting my second wind,’ he promised drily. He shot his cuff and glanced at his no-nonsense steel watch. ‘I know it’s late, and we may not get there for cocktails, but we can still make the banquet. If you’ll just give me a few minutes to change…’
He had thought she was complaining! ‘Oh, no—I didn’t mean—er Y-you don’t have to rush—’ she protested, laying a restraining hand on his elbow as he turned away.
All his former wariness had returned, and his smile was sharp with cynical understanding as he looked over his shoulder at her. ‘Nonsense. You came here expecting to attend an elegant party at the most exclusive restaurant in town and I don’t intend to deprive you of the pleasure,’ he soothed.
Regan ignored his words in favour of his tone. He was tired, but he was resigned to going out because it was part of the unwritten bargain, and he was obviously a man who strictly honoured his obligations, however tiresome.
‘I really don’t mind if we go out to dinner or not,’ she said, her hand tightening on the fabric of his suit.
‘Really?’ He turned back, but it was clear that he didn’t believe her. He thought her a clone of the worldly Cleo—a selfish little cat who was out to milk their bargain for everything she could get.
‘I’m not very hungry, anyway,’ she told him, letting her hand drop. ‘An expensive meal would be totally wasted on me. I think I ate too many of Pierre’s wonderful canapés,’ she explained ruefully.
There was a tiny pause as he studied her expression. ‘So you would be quite content if I asked him to prepare a light meal for us here, instead,’ he said slowly.
‘I actually don’t think I could manage anything at all,’ she confessed, her earlier appetite having been swallowed up by the tension of meeting him. ‘Whereas you probably need something substantial after your tough day…’
‘But you’re happy to keep me company while I eat…’
What did he think, that she would sulk and pout because he wanted to eat and she didn’t? ‘Of course.’
‘And we’ll join the party afterwards…’
‘We don’t have to do that, either, if you don’t feel like going out. Unless, of course, there’s some reason that you need to be seen making an appearance there,’ she added hurriedly when his eyes narrowed, taking on a new and disturbing intensity.
‘So…what you’re suggesting is that we not leave the apartment at all?’
His soft-voiced drawl made Regan’s knees go weak as she realised the full implications of her impulsive offer. If they didn’t go out, then there would be nothing, and no one, to distract them from the real purpose of the evening. No way to hide from the consequences of her own actions.
‘You’re willing to forgo the excitement of a night on the town because I’ve had a rough day?’ he continued in that same tone of silken curiosity.
She grasped her courage and opted for honesty. ‘I expect that I’ll have all the excitement I can handle right here,’ she confessed, her wry words provoking him into a deep, purring laugh.
‘Both kind and flattering—the perfect companion after a hard day at the office! I look forward to finding out how many other virtues you possess.’
Regan basked in an unexpected thrill of accomplishment. She had captivated his jaded interest—made him laugh. Maybe this was going to be easier than she had thought. After all, unlike her husband, this man wanted her to be sexy and seductive!
‘If you were expecting a virtuous woman, you’re going to be severely disappointed.’ She flirted up at him through her lowered lashes.
He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilted it until her eyelashes flew wide. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ he mused, looking deep into her slumberous eyes. He brushed the pad of his thumb across her mouth, causing it to quiver and part, and then pressed firmly against her plump lower lip. She gave a little gasp as the tip of her tongue tasted the saltiness of his skin.
He misunderstood her tiny flinch. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not smearing your lipstick…it appears to have worn off.’
His tolerant humour made it obvious that he was used to women whose looks were their stock-in-trade.
Regan’s eyebrows crumpled at the dent to her glamorous self-image. She had never thought to recheck her lipstick. ‘It must have gone to garnish the canapés,’ she laughed huskily, to disguise her chagrin. ‘I’ll put some more on while you’re talking to Pierre about dinner—’
‘No. Don’t bother…’ The pressure of his thumb stopped her words in her mouth. ‘I like the nude look. I like the contrast between the sultry seduction of your elaborate eye make-up and the soft, pink innocence of your mouth.’ And, as if that wasn’t erotic enough to take her breath away, he added casually, ‘Besides, I don’t like the taste of lipstick.’
He took away his thumb and she swayed slightly, thinking that he was going to suit his actions to his words, but instead of following up his claim with a kiss he said indulgently, ‘So how about fixing me a drink while I go and see Pierre about dinner? Whisky—on the rocks. The eight-year-old Scotch, if you please…’
Regan’s hands were still trembling as she uncapped the Scotch and poured his drink, clashing the neck of the bottle against the squat crystal glass.
She ordered herself to calm down. They had the whole evening ahead of them…of course he didn’t want to rush things. He was a highly civilised man. He wanted to unwind from his busy day first, to be amused and entertained in undemanding company. As Cleo had loudly insisted—this wasn’t prostitution. And Adam had just proved her right with his willingness to do what his escort wanted rather than exercise his own preference. The message was that Regan was here to enjoy herself, not simply to provide raw sex on command…
When she turned from the bar her heart jumped to find that Adam was already back, lounging on the couch, his long legs splayed, his head tipped back against the pale cushions, exposing his scarred throat as he gazed up at the ceiling. He must have moved as silently as a cat. He had shed his jacket and tie, the subtle sheen of his dark blue shirt catching the light where his arms stretched along the back of the couch. His collar was unbuttoned, and as she moved closer she could see a drift of dark hair revealed by the narrow V of his open shirt.