He’d begun to frown, drawing together those dark eyebrows over eyes that suddenly didn’t look like black pebbles. They were softer, more…soulful. And sexy. Definitely sexy eyes. I’d woken up this morning wanting to hate the hell out of him, and I was suddenly realizing why women swooned.
Watching him on TV, I’d only thought he was a pretentious braggart and an arrogant know-it-all. But now I was thinking I wonder what those broad shoulders and slim hips look like out of a suit? I wonder if that hair is as silky and soft as it looks. Even worse, I wonder what you taste like.
“I’m not doing it,” he snapped, breaking me out of my sensual daze to notice he was pointing at her phone. “Tell them to go fuck themselves.”
I switched my attention to the assistant whose non-expression hadn’t altered, but it suddenly occurred to me, that could be the look of someone hiding their emotions.
“Certainly,” she said, as if he’d asked her to get him a coffee. Then she excused herself and strode off.
All I could think was, Bastard. He’d better not talk to me like that, conveniently forgetting that I swore like a trooper. It was reverse sexism, but I didn’t like it when men used bad language.
So I was feeling quite self-righteous when I said, “Actually…” and pushed my shoulders back, determined not to be cowed by a bully. “…I’m busy. So there’s the booth.” I pointed. “Make yourself comfortable and I’ll send over a waitress to take your order.”
I turned on my heel and was about to storm off when he said, “Join me.”
In hell.
I kept my back to him, breathing through my nose again, acutely aware of all my staff watching me.
“Please,” he said softly, so softly they wouldn’t have heard him.
Surprise sent a shiver across my shoulders and I turned to see the soft look in his eyes again, along with an equally soft grumbling tone that added, “I’d like to discuss the suitability of your teahouse.”
All of a sudden he sounded like a different man. Like someone rational. Normal.
I couldn’t stop myself raising my chin. “Don’t fuck with me,” I said equally softly, “or things won’t end well.”
I have no idea where I dredged up the courage to say that, but if I’d expected a dramatic response, I was going to be surprised.
Those amazing lips quirked into an almost-smile that lit up his eyes, and then all I could think over the sudden throbbing inside my chest was Holy hell. No wonder he doesn’t smile on television. Women would be fainting in their thousands.
“I like you.” He glanced at my dress with its tight bodice and what the sales lady had called a ‘flirt skirt’, down past my exposed knees to my strappy teal sandals. “Even if your dress sense is eccentric,” he added, ramping up the smile so I saw a flash of white teeth as his attention returned to my eyes.
Then I wasn’t breathing—through my nose or otherwise. I was just standing stiff and breathless in front of him, thinking, panties. My panties are melting.
“Fritha?” he said in that crisp British accent, the smile now deflated to a half-smirk. “Lunch?”
Was he playing me? Did he have any idea that my heart was thudding and my face was hot?
“Max,” I immediately countered. Then I thought Shit, should I have said Mr. Banks?
But then, why? He wasn’t my boss, and looked to be mid-thirties like me. So he didn’t get any respect points for age.
“Shall we?” He gestured toward the booth, but the way he was looking at me was so smoldering, I felt my shoulders droop. The resistance was leaking out of me, and in the end I just went to the booth and slid in, staying close to the edge as a form of self-protection so he couldn’t sit beside me. Right in that moment I felt so overwhelmed by his presence, I needed the personal space.
Thankfully, he sat across from me as if he’d always intended to, but his smirk remained. This time it had a look of triumph about it, as if he was used to manipulating women and was pleased with himself that yet another annoying female had fallen for his tall-dark-and-stubbled manly charms—which niggled me no end.
My instinct was to take him down a peg, but I knew how much being featured in his documentary series would mean to Jill, so I kept my trap shut. Despite aforementioned aversion to smarmy Brit food critics, my job was to smile sweetly and pretend to be amenable, ignoring the whole hot-and-bothered thing he’d ignited.
Louella could keep a lid on her emotions. Surely I could emulate that for half an hour? How hard could it be?
“Pet…” He leant across the table and put one hand over mine, looking at me straight in the eye with those soulful I can give you the best night of your life peepers. Skin against skin made my heartrate kick up, just when I’d started to settle it down, so I had trouble concentrating on his words.
“Your little town has charm, so external shots will be easy, but inside your shop…” He glanced around with a pitying glance. “Looks like a rainbow vomited across it. And I hate mess. So…” He patted my now-stiff hand twice, then withdrew his. “If you clean up all the shite you’ve got lying around, and assuming your food isn’t rubbish, we might have something to work with here.”
I slowly pulled both my hands off the table and pressed them down onto my thighs, hard, telling myself that I absolutely could not resort to violence, despite the fact that I very much wanted to smack the smirk right off his stubbled face.
Jill. Think of Jill.
No. It wasn’t working. I could feel my face, which had been flushed with infatuation, now hot with embarrassment, despite the fact that I knew our customers loved the quirky nooks where we offered everything from spiritual books and Dryzabone cat coats to crystal teapot stands and handmade greeting cards. Our merchandise was high quality, sourced from all around the world, with many items unavailable elsewhere in Australia.
I should have been proud as hell, but instead, a tight, sick swirling in my stomach told me I was humiliated beyond my ability to pretend. But vulnerability was the last thing I was showing this critical bastard, so I straightened on my side of the booth and said clearly, “Fuck you, mate, and anyone who looks like you. This is my shop, set up my way, and I’m not changing a thing, especially not for a wanker like you.”
I’d said it softly enough that other patrons around us wouldn’t have heard, but he did. Loud and clear. His eyes narrowed and we stared at each other across the table in profound silence until a shadow fell over the solid timber surface and tiny Marika cleared her throat.
“Menus,” she squeaked, and placed them carefully in front of each of us. Then she backed away.
“How very pleasant,” Max said in a low growl that other customers wouldn’t hear. “Fuck you and anyone who looks like you. Charming.”
“Just about as charming as you are, Mr. Banks, strolling in here with a stick up your arse, throwing insults around—”
“I insulted your décor, Ms Wynde,” he said coldly. “I had no idea who designed it. I was told you were the manager. I expected you could manage a change of stock placement for the purposes of a feature segment. I didn’t insult you personally, and I certainly didn’t expect you to insult me. That was completely unprofessional.”
My breath hitched up high in my chest as I considered what he’d just said. Unprofessional.
Was it?
Well yes. We all knew that. But had I been personally insulting?
I breathed through my open mouth while I stared back at him, trying to justify things in my mind, but I had nothing.
So he kept going. “Will you apologize for getting personal?”
I shook my head rebelliously.
I was running on adrenalin, coming down from anger, and yet strangely, when he’d said getting personal, my brain stupidly started thinking about sex again.
His eyes were still narrowed, glaring at me and I forced myself to glare right back, but something was making my breasts tingle inside my dress, and my skin felt hot all over.
I had to get a grip on myself so
I blurted, “When you insult my shop, you insult me.”
“I make it a practice never to insult women,” he said stiffly.
“All the better to charm them into bed.”
I’d seen him on television, flirting with interviewers and keeping up his reputation as a man about town.
One dark eyebrow rose slowly as he assessed me, the cold pebble eyes suddenly back. “Does the idea upset you so much? Are you jealous?”
Hot embarrassment flowed over my skin, making my cheeks burn, but I forced myself to keep staring at him while I struggled to say something. No simply wouldn’t cut it.
Into the gap he said, “You clearly haven’t done any research on me, Fritha…” He said my name as if it was an insult. “…or you’d know that despite my television persona, I don’t screw around. You, on the other hand…”
I caught my breath on a gasp, stunned that he’d know that about me.
He was clearly upset, breathing through his nose, maybe as infuriated as I’d been when he’d insulted my shop. Color rode high on his cheekbones and his dark eyes were now liquid with some disturbance as he stared at me. And God help me, he looked so completely fuckable I couldn’t think straight.
I should have been embarrassed or angry or anything other than turned on. But when he glared at me like that, all I could think about was reaching across the table, grabbing that beautiful black jacket and hauling him over so I could kiss him.
Because those lips… They were pressed together, but sweet heaven they looked so hot I couldn’t stop fantasizing about how they’d taste—how he’d taste, in various locations.
I should have realized the wrongness of my thoughts, should have made sure I kept any attraction off my face so he didn’t have any more power over me than he already did. But my body was suddenly loose-limbed and throbbing, I couldn’t over-ride it.
I seriously should have tried harder to get laid at Angela’s wedding, because I was like a starved woman staring at a big, juicy steak that I couldn’t wait to get my teeth into. In fact, if I wasn’t careful, I’d start salivating and Marika hadn’t brought any napkins yet.
I had no idea what to say or do, but when I thought the tension would carve a hole in the space-time continuum and suck us both through it, he opened those delicious lips and said softly. “I will not be requiring you to make any changes in your decor, because as soon as I’ve finished whatever pathetic lunch you can provide, I’ll be leaving your establishment and I won’t be coming back.”
Reality slapped me hard like a big wet fish, and I caught my breath again, this time in horror at what I’d just done.
To Jill.
But he kept right on speaking. “And if I wasn’t starving hungry and stuck in a pea-arsed village with nothing but pub lunches on offer, I’d leave now. However, I am hungry, so I will accept your offer of lunch. Thank you.” He bit the two words out as if they galled him. Then he picked up the menu and began to scan it, still breathing through flared nostrils.
I tried to swallow but I had no spit, and sick disappointment swirled hotly in my stomach alongside the soured infatuation I’d foolishly allowed myself. Jill had been more than kind when she’d made a Fruit Loop like me her manager, and I’d been limping along in the role, making marginally more good decisions than bad.
Today however, I’d seriously stuffed up. This could have been a turning point for Bohemian Brew, but instead of hiding my distaste for Max Banks, I’d insulted him.
I was a bad friend, and that was far worse than being a bad manager.
Jill had one financial asset, and she’d trusted me to run it. Not only that, she hadn’t fired me for sleeping with every man who walked through the door, and that went above and beyond friendship.
If she’d had a different manager working for her, there would have been a sensible person sitting across from Max Banks—someone who wouldn’t have misread the situation so badly. That manager would have been gracious and accommodating, and by now they’d be discussing how best to showcase Bohemian Brew in his television series.
Instead, I sat slumped in my wretchedness, wondering what I could possibly say to Jill to avert her total disappointment in me. I was no closer to working that out when Max slapped his menu down on the table and said, “What do you recommend?”
I blinked at him, trying to read something into his gaze but it appeared to be deliberately blank. “Pardon?”
“Shall I ask the waitress?”
I shook my head and said the first thing that came to me. “Local smoked trout on a crispy potato rösti with dill aioli, capers, avocado and rocket.” Sammie had told me this would be the best choice if we could steer him into it.
“Local trout?”
I nodded. Had his eyes softened? His lips were pursed again and…
Why could I not stop thinking about sex?
“Caught yesterday,” I blurted.
“Not this morning?” Definitely something behind his eyes now. Teasing?
As I gazed back at him, I had a sudden crazy feeling that he was trying to make up to me. As if he’d insulted me and was saying sorry. When, of course, the reverse was true.
So…why would he be apologizing? For slapping me down? Maybe he really did like me, or at least, liked it when women told him off. Maybe that turned him on.
Intuition had rarely been my friend, but on this occasion I decided to trust it because there was no way I could be subservient to this man. Not if I wanted to stick to my non-violent promise to myself. Max Banks needed to be handled quite differently, and I suddenly knew where I wanted to take this.
I eased myself out of the booth and snatched the menu out of his hands. “Trust me,” I said and lowered my voice an octave. “You might not like my sense of interior design, but when it comes to flavors…” I licked my lips. “…I know what men like.”
Instantly I felt a wash of heat on my cheeks—I was so inexperienced at this sort of femme fatale dialogue—so before he could react, I turned and marched off, as fast as my high heels would allow, even managing a swish of skirt on the way.
I should have felt ridiculous, flirting like a character out of a badly made porno. That wasn’t my way. But in the split-second before I’d turned, I’d seen the flare of interest in his eyes.
Dr. Jerk aka Mr. Banks, liked playing cat and mouse. Nice one minute and nasty the next. So if that’s what it took to get Bohemian Brew into his documentary series, so be it.
In fact, as I stood in the kitchen waiting for Sammie to finish turning a row of chicken kebabs, I decided that it might even be fun. So long as it wasn’t terrifying…
But then I was distracted with relaying the order and fielding questions about Max from the staff that had followed me in. They were babbling over each other, then I heard Marika’s, “Is he staying nearby? Maybe he’s looking for someone to—”
“Warm his bed?” Sammie cut in, sneering at the idea. Then he turned his attention on me, raising a blond eyebrow with its multiple piercings. “We all know the Brits are premature ejaculators.”
Several of the younger staff gasped.
“That’s a generalization,” I said dryly, wondering why I didn’t find Sammie’s lean bod and long sun-bleached dreadlocks—tied back for hygiene purposes—attractive anymore. I had in the first week he’d started working for me and we’d ended up in bed.
Sammie certainly hadn’t been a premature ejaculator, but having to endure twenty minutes of pounding wasn’t sexy either. I’d had my orgasm in the first five minutes, but he’d gone on, and on, and on, as if it was some bizarre endurance competition. Four bouts of that in one weekend had left me so chaffed I’d been relieved when he’d moved on to Marika who had apparently dumped him recently as well.
I wasn’t about to ask her why. I didn’t discuss sex with anyone apart from my three besties. But I could guess.
“Wine,” I snapped at Sammie.
He pursed his lips, and I was instantly reminded of Max, and how sexy he looked when he was thinking. S
ammie…not so much.
“Riesling is the obvious choice,” he said at last, and nodded at Marika. “The Cassegrain has aromas of lemon and spicy lychee.”
“Good.” I had my own creative ideas about food and wine combinations, but when you wanted perfect, you put Sammie on the job. He was the one with sommelier certificate. “Don’t keep us waiting for lunch,” I ordered, giving Sammie the stern eye, which of course he merely winked at.
So much for managerial authority.
But I rallied and said, “Before the food? Prosecco?”
He nodded. “Brown Brothers.” And turned to Marika. “The White. Not the Rosé.”
I shooed the rest of the staff out of the kitchen. “Serve people. Look busy and efficient.” Marika was on her way to get the wine, but she paused beside me and said in a low voice, “Are you going to fuck him?”
I blinked in surprise and pulled back to inspect her, all four foot two inches of cute wrapped in a white apron.
“…because if you’re not, I’d like a go.”
“A go?” I repeated, raising an eyebrow. “And how do you hope to accomplish such a thing?” Her unruly blond curls were tucked back into a messy bun, but it didn’t take much to imagine them loose and tumbling around her, as they often were when she raced in late some mornings, looking as if she’d just rolled out of someone’s bed.
I’d always thought of her as being tiny and adorable, so this new, predatory version was somewhat of a surprise. Although, I could imagine the kudos of being able to say I’ve fucked Max Banks, which she no doubt wanted. Was this the reason he wasn’t promiscuous? Because he’d end up as a joke on someone’s Instagram account?
“Oh, I’ve got moves,” she said, and wriggled those curvy hips before winking an extravagant eyelash under her blond bangs.
“True that!” Sammie butted in from the other side of the preparation bench.
She glanced across and gave him a look, as if to say flattery isn’t going to win me back, then she returned her attention to me, waiting for my response.
Husband Rollover (Husband Series Book 4) Page 3