Wicked Torture (Stark World 3)

I take a step back and force myself to rally. "I didn't think I'd see you until Monday." I make the words harsh. Accusatory.

As they should be. After all, I thought I'd made it clear that ours would be a business-only relationship.

"I need your thoughts about something," he says. "It can't wait."

"Oh." I lick my lips. I'm a professional, so I'm hardly going to send him scurrying just because I'm not officially on the clock. Of course, I would have preferred an email. My porch is no place to debate communication methods.

"Go on," I say without moving. I've decided not to invite him in. Not unless the question requires discussion. "What is it?"

He peers at me, his serious expression softened only by the hint of a smile at the corner of his eyes. "When was the last time you played miniature golf?"

11

"Miniature golf?" I repeat, trying to make those words fit into some sort of context. It's no use. I've got nothing.

"When was the last time you played?" he presses. "A year? Two? Do you go every Saturday?"

"Um, college, probably." I push the door open all the way so that I can lean on it as I watch him. He's still on my porch, which doesn't seem to faze him at all. At the same time, Ares passes into view, moving from the breakfast nook toward the bedrooms.

He pauses in front of the door, his dark eyes like question marks. "Everything okay, there?"

"Fine," I say, glancing at Noah, who's looking at Ares, his eyes narrowed in a scowl.

I shift my attention back to Ares. He's wearing boxer shorts and a Keep Austin Weird T-shirt. He's ridiculously good-looking, with his midnight black hair and gray eyes.

I press my lips together, relishing the moment. Because unless I'm way off base, that's jealousy I see in Noah's eyes.

Not that I'm contemplating anything but work between Noah and me, but a girl's got her pride. And, after all, there was last night . . . even if I did walk quickly and firmly away.

Ares realizes it too, and he shifts his gaze from Noah's face to me, his brows rising in amusement. Go, I mouth, and he takes one final look at Noah, then complies with my silent demand.

Noah watches him go, then turns his attention back to me. "So, are you and he--"

I narrow my eyes as I gesture him inside. "Now you ask if I'm involved with someone?" I say as I close the door. "I showed up at your office with a different last name, and yet I don't recall any conversation about a significant other before . . ."

I trail off, because I can feel my cheeks heating, and I don't want him to notice. Instead, I turn my back to him and lead him toward the kitchen. "Coffee?" I ask.

"Before coffee?" he repeats, and I know he's teasing. "You're right. There was no discussion about significant others before coffee," he agrees. "Or before sex, for that matter."

"Sit," I say, pointing at the table, which Ares has wiped down. As houseguests go, I have to give my temporary roomie his props.

"You want honesty?" he asks.

"Always."

"I knew you were divorced. After your interview," he explains. "I looked you up."

"Oh." I think about that, trying to decide if it's creepy or flattering.

I go with the latter, but only because it was Noah doing the looking.

"You still haven't answered the question," he says.

"Yes, I did. College. I haven't played miniature golf since then."

"About him," Noah clarifies, pointing vaguely in the direction of the bedrooms. "The guy with the band."

"Ares," I say. "His name is Ares Sanchez."