Looking Inside

He jerked his head in the direction of his building. “Do you ever go over to Gold Coast?” he asked her, referring to the upscale bar-restaurant on the ground floor of his building.

Yeah, plenty of times. Usually looking for you.

“Once or twice,” she replied, her smile widening at the miracle of the fact that she was talking one-on-one with him and not tripping over her tongue.

“Come have a drink with me?”

“Sure,” she replied, shrugging nonchalantly as if it were the most natural thing in the world to agree to a drink with Trey Riordan.

—

He couldn’t figure her out, Trey admitted to himself a half hour later. He watched her while she took a sip of red wine, those beguiling cat’s eyes fixed on him over the rim. Sure, she’d been a mystery from the first, but he was a pretty quick study when it came to drilling down into a woman’s character once he met her. Eleanor, though . . . she was different. Her beauty and sexy factor were over the top. That was a given. Right now, for instance, her stare was hot. Not like a flirting glance. Hot like she was imagining taking a bite out of him. Those eyes of hers were like a beacon, golden and liquid, warm as heated honey. He found himself melting every time he got stuck in her stare. Somehow, she softened something inside him and yet turned him rock hard all at once. She was the epitome of sexy confidence.

Some of the time, anyway.

Just thirty seconds ago, she’d almost knocked over her wineglass when he’d asked her what she did for a living. She’d righted the goblet and twitched her hands, like she was brushing away his question like a pesky fly.

“My job? It’s not that interesting, really. Nothing like yours. Did you say you were a musician, and that’s how you first got involved with creating BandBook? What instrument do you play? My mother made my sister and me learn piano when we were little, but it never stuck. Do you still practice? It’s really hot in here, isn’t it?”

“Which question do you want me to answer first?” he’d asked her dubiously.

For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out how she could be as sexy and as comfortable in her own skin as an in-heat minx one second, and clumsy and rambling the next. He got that her inconsistencies signaled a deeper truth about her. Problem was, he couldn’t grasp what that truth was.

“Why don’t you tell me what your job is, and I’ll decide if it’s interesting or not,” he said presently. Her eyes widened and she set down her wineglass with a clinking sound. She’d thought she’d sidestepped him on the job question, of course, and was inconvenienced he’d brought it up again. He’d noticed over the past several minutes that she had a tell, an anxious habit of playing with her cocktail napkin. He found himself watching her long, pretty fingers fidgeting with the paper edges, oddly aroused even by her show of nerves.

“You won’t. Find it interesting, I mean.”

“Try me,” he challenged.

She inhaled. At the movement, he glanced down at her breasts. Beautiful breasts. Mouthwatering. He couldn’t decide what he liked better: the memory of her first baring them to him through the window, or right now. Up close. The way the black knit clung to the lush curves, the way the point of that weird, big white collar just covered her nipples; all of it was driving him nuts. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Or maybe she was, as firm and high as the mounds were. He wanted to just reach across the table, cup her in his hand and find out once and for all. He grit his teeth at the very idea, his cock going heavy at the mere thought.

Bra, no bra, there definitely had to be a bra—

“Well . . .” she said, interrupting his imbecilic self-argument. This is why he needed a vacation from women. They turned him into an idiot. He focused on her face. An idea seemed to come to her. She brightened. “I work there. At the museum.”

“At the Illinois Historical Museum?”

“Yes. I’m an executive there.”

“An executive of what?” He had the impression her outer self froze while her brain whirred like a spinning top.

“Membership,” she said suddenly.

“That doesn’t sound boring at all. It sounds interesting. I like that museum. I’m a member there. My company makes a donation to the annual fund, as well.”

“I know.”

His gaze sharpened on her.

“It’s a real adrenaline sales job, wooing the patrons, keeping the machine running by constantly bargaining for the lifeline that keeps us in business. But that’s how I love things. I’m not happy unless I’m running on the fast track.”

His gaze narrowed on her flushed cheeks. Was she blushing? Was she a man-eater, or was she an adorable goofball? He couldn’t believe he couldn’t figure it out.

“This isn’t all about you trying to get a bigger donation from me or my company, is it?” he asked suspiciously.

“No, of course not,” she exclaimed, looking insulted. “If I ever suggest you give a dime more than you already do for the museum’s sake, you have my permission to turn and walk away.”

“I’m sorry. But you’re really sending me mixed messages,” he stated bluntly, picking up his highball glass.