Promoted to Wife?

by Paula Roe

  Five

  “Dinner at six downstairs.” The note had been pushed under her door, signed with a large “Z” at the bottom.

  She’d planned on eating alone in her room, going over the files and refining her action plan, not sharing an intimate meal with Zac. No, not intimate. A working dinner. They’d talk business like they had a hundred times before. There’d be schedule discussions, costings, launch ideas. There would be no hand-holding, no seductive looks, no footsie under the table.

  Just work.

  Ignoring that tiny swoop of disappointment, she walked firmly into the dining room at two minutes to six, shoulders back, eyes straight ahead.

  The Harbour Kitchen & Bar was prime waterfront dining, with floor-to-ceiling folding glass doors and an open-plan kitchen so the diners could watch their meals being prepared by the chef. Its clean lines and quiet elegance sent a shot of confidence and calm into her bones.

  But when Zac spotted her from the window table he’d secured and smiled, her body tensed up.

  He pulled out her chair, seated her with effortless aplomb. She murmured her thanks as her heart thumped, making her skin twitch uncomfortably under her suit.

  “Still in your work clothes?” He asked, reseating himself. “Yes.” I’d rather be out of them. With you. She swallowed quickly, glancing from his broad, jacketless shoulders to the spectacular harbor view outside. That one brief summary was enough for her to note his loosened collar with tie still in place.

  “Great view,” she murmured as the sun’s low golden beams spread wide across the sparkling water, dousing the Opera House’s white sails in a similar glow.

  “Always is.” From the corner of her eye she saw his gaze barely leave her before he picked up the menu.

  Discomforted, Emily did the same, noting over the stiff gilt-paper the way his shirt cuffs skimmed perfectly tanned hands, hands that bore the scars of hard labor yet still looked clean and touchable.

  She’d always liked a pair of strong hands.

  Aaaaand…she was staring. Great.

  She hauled her gaze up to his face before quickly glancing away. Well, that was such a tempting distraction she refused to look any more than absolutely necessary.

  “I never knew you’d been married.”

  That dragged her attention back. “It’s not something I talk about.”

  “So what do you talk about?” He casually unfolded his menu as she frowned. “Come on, Emily. You know practically everything about me, especially after today.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Well, what do you want to know?”

  Oh, do not go there. “I know enough.” She tipped her menu up, but Zac was having none of it. With one finger he gently lowered the barrier, forcing her to look at him.

  “You organize me, feed me, ensure I have what I need, when I need it. You’re also privy to the inner workings of my private life and now, my family. You’re my work wife.”

  “Your what?”

  He grinned at her alarm. “My work wife—a work-based partnership between a man and a woman. You haven’t heard that expression before?” She shook her head and fixated on restraightening her perfectly straight cutlery as he continued. “I’d thought that, after working together for so long, I was a friend of sorts. Someone you can trust.”

  Her head snapped up. “Someone who took charge of my life and paid off my debts without asking?”

  Was that a flash of hurt flickering behind his eyes? Contrite, she bit the inside of her bottom lip, embarrassment flooding her cheeks. “I’m sorry. That was rude.”

  The corner of his mouth tugged up. “I guess I deserved it. For not asking you first.”

  Zac watched her war with that, the struggle from his apology showing in those dark blue eyes, in her luscious mouth now thin and firm.

  Man, it was like getting blood from a stone! He tried a different tack. “I overstepped, and I apologize.”

  “Okay.”

  He studied her, trying to get a handle on that closed expression. “Friends?”

  As he watched, her lashes began to blink out a rapid beat. “Okay,” she repeated, her voice soft and low, before she quickly took a sip of water.

  Zac rested his arms on the table, locking his fingers thoughtfully as the waiter approached.

  After they’d ordered, he watched her straighten the cutlery—again—then reposition her water glass.

  He’d seen her glide through countless business meals, unruffled and professional. But now…things had changed. He’d changed them by violating her privacy, crossing the line by, oh, about a thousand miles.

  Yet the inexplicable urge to dig deeper, to find out who Emily Reynolds really was beneath that unflappable facade, urged him on.

  “It must’ve been tough being married to someone like—”

  “Zac.” She breathed out his name, almost as if it pained her. “Please don’t.”

  “Don’t what? Express sympathy? Regret that your ex hurt you? Sometimes,” he added slowly, “the ones closest to us can do the most damage.”

  He fully expected her to shut down then and there, but instead her eyes filled with something…almost vulnerable. Then she glanced away. “Yeah.”

  Interesting.

  She flipped her glass over. “I think I’ll have that wine now.”

  Zac poured the golden liquid as she switched the topic to the Point One project. He knew she was doing it to gain control, to lead their conversation into nonpersonal waters. So he let her, until they’d finished their main meals and the wine was all gone. Then the dessert arrived.

  “Thank you.” She beamed up at the waiter as he placed a berry-topped baked cheesecake in front of her. When she picked up her fork, her lips curving in delight, Zac’s heart rate began to pick up.

  “You like cheesecake?”

  “Love it. That little French patisserie across the street from Valhalla does an amazing one.” She rolled her eyes. “Chocolate fudge. To die for.”

  Then she slid a small forkful of cake between her lips and his brain shorted.

  “How…” It took all his willpower not to groan. “How did you meet him?”

  “Who?” she mumbled past her mouthful.

  “Your ex.”

  Her fork clinked down on the plate. She spent a few seconds swallowing before clearing her throat.

  Zac sighed. “Look, I don’t want you to think my money came with conditions. But I’d like to know. If you want to tell me. Apart from your sister, I’m guessing you don’t confide in a lot of people.”

  The look on her face told him her internal war went beyond the standard issues. When she finally replied, her words were deliberately measured. Cautious.

  “My story isn’t that interesting. I was twenty-three, young and stupid and in love, or so I thought. Jimmy turned out to be a liar and a cheat and then he died.”

  “I can’t imagine you ever being stupid.”

  Her short laugh surprised him. “Oh, you’d be surprised.”

  They both sat in silence, eyes locked, until the seconds lengthened. And in those seconds, he sensed a tiny chink in her armor—nothing groundbreaking or defining, but something definitely positive, however small.

  It sparked a glimmer of quiet confidence.

  She finally broke eye contact to stare at her plate. “He drowned. For a surfer that’s kind of ironic, don’t you think?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Her expression hardened as she reached for her water. “Don’t be. I just wish he was alive so I could kick his sorry, freeloading ass.”

  Zac waited as she downed the dregs of her glass.

  “You really want to know,” she finally said, her eyes glinting in challenge.

  “Yes.”

  Her brow rose. “Fine. I met Jimmy three years ago at a Brisbane nightclub where he was singing in a band. He fancied himself a rock god—he got heaps of mileage off that cool ‘struggling musician’ chestnut. The kicker was, he was pretty good. But he lacked discip
line and motivation, and the band finally dumped him out after one too many no-shows.”

  Zac just nodded, unwilling to break the moment.

  “The last time I heard from him was when he signed the divorce papers, over a year ago. Now I know why. He was too busy working out ways to steal my money.” She paused at the look on Zac’s face. “What?”

  “I was just thinking—” He hesitated, then went on tactfully. “I don’t see it—you the nightclub type, marrying a musician.”

  Her eyes turned stormy. “Because I’m so organized and straitlaced?”

  “You like order,” he clarified. “But yeah, it does seem out of character.”

  Emily’s heart twisted a little. Her curt confession hadn’t satisfied his curiosity as she’d hoped. Her chin went up. “Maybe that was my little rebellion,” she added, staring at her wine glass. “Emily the rebel, that’s me. Or maybe I just—” Wanted to be loved. She bit off that last bit, mortified. She’d thought herself in love with Jimmy. No, that was wrong. She’d hoped. Desperately wished. Just like with all the others.

  “What?” Zac asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Maybe…you just wanted to let your hair down for a change.”

  She scowled, a nerve well and truly touched. “You don’t—”

  “—know you?” His expression remained inscrutable. “I know you can’t leave for the night until your desk is completely clear.”

  She waved that away. “You’ve seen my desk a thousand times a day.”

  “You deny yourself hot chips for a ham-and-salad sandwich.”

  “That’s—”

  “You love pink and blue but you wear black all the time. You’re no-frills—you don’t care for a lot of makeup or jewelry. Your hair is naturally blond, but you get highlights every two months.” His gaze swept over her head, then across her face before coming to rest on her mouth. “You smell like ginger and a warm summer weekend.” His voice became rough. “You taste like—”

  “Stop!” She blinked. “How do you know what…” She paused blankly until her brain finally caught up. “You remember.”

  His smile curled with male knowledge. “So do you.”

  “But you—”

  “I was being gentlemanly, waiting for you to say something. When you didn’t, I thought it was one of those things that Must Not Be Mentioned Again.”

  She opened her mouth but her words jumbled together. With a swallow she tried again. “I didn’t mean to…”

  “I know.”

  “It was just…”

  “I know.”

  “It won’t—”

  “Emily,” he barked, a little too sharply. She clamped her mouth shut. “Enough with the apology.”

  The look on her face was so appealing, all flushed embarrassment, that Zac suddenly wondered what she’d do if he leaned in and kissed her.

  “It wasn’t even a kiss. More like a brief…” she glanced at his mouth, “brush of skin. A non-kiss.”

  That soft sigh she ended on hit Zac in all the right places. It revved up his blood, quickening his heartbeat into a familiar thud of arousal.

  He gritted his teeth, battling for control. Yet when he thought he’d finally regained it, she had to go and chew on that full bottom lip. It wasn’t a big thing, just a couple of perfect white teeth worrying the curve of her mouth for a brief second before she dipped her head and picked up her dessert fork. Yet his body jolted, her tiny reaction forever imprinted in his brain.

  “Go on a date with me.”

  Her fork paused halfway up to her mouth. “What?”

  What the hell are you doing?

  He leaned in closer and unashamedly breathed in deep, drowning out that inner voice with her delicious scent. “Go. On. A. Date. With. Me.”

  A look of sudden horrified surprise bloomed before she smoothed out her expression.

  “Very funny.” She put her fork down and shoved the plate away.

  “I’m not joking.”

  “Sure.”

  He frowned. “I’m not.”

  “Stop it, Zac. It’s not funny.”

  “I’m not laughing.” Man, her denial was beginning to nettle him.

  She stared at her plate again, concentrating on edging it further to the side. “I’m sure there are a thousand other suitable women who would—”

  “I’m asking you.”

  She glanced up, her brows dipping down behind those heavy-rimmed glasses, and he had the sudden urge to ease them off her face.

  “Why me, when I’m…”

  He smiled at her small self-directed gesture. “When you’re trying so hard to hide behind bland suits and sensible shoes?”

  When her face flushed pink and her gaze shot past his shoulder, he silently cursed.

  “Because,” he continued more gently, “despite your best efforts, I find myself attracted to you.”

  “Because of a non-kiss?”

  And your sweet curvy a—You can’t say that! “Yep.”

  Blinking quickly, she refused to meet his eyes as she removed her napkin from her lap. “We work together.” She began to fold the cloth efficiently on the table.

  “So?”

  “It’s not professional.”

  “Says who? I’m the boss.”

  “Exactly. People will talk.” She finally looked at him, her eyes unsettled.

  “At the risk of repeating myself—so?”

  “I owe you money.”

  He leaned back in his chair and silently studied her as she went on.

  “And you’ve just paid off my ex’s gambling debts, given me a raise and—”

  “How long have we worked together?”

  “What kind of—”

  “Close to two years, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And in that entire time have I given you any reason to believe I’d blackmail you—or anyone—in that way?”

  She paused, those lashes fluttering at his growing irritation. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”

  “Well, you have.”

  “Look, Zac,” she took a breath and leaned forward. “This is coming out all wrong. I appreciate your offer, but—”

  He scowled. “You appreciate my offer?”

  “I mean, I’m flattered, naturally—”

  “Really.”

  “No, really. Any woman would be thrilled to be asked out by you.”

  “But you’re not.”

  She shook her head. “I am so not your type.”

  He leaned in, which made her pull back. “And what is my type?”

  “Oh, tall. Leggy and gorgeous. Rich. Any one of your ex-girlfriends fit the bill.” She paused then added, “Trish Sattler fits the bill.”

  Emily studied Zac’s frowning face—a beautiful, angular, all-male face—from behind the security of her glasses. Seriousness rippled off him in waves, his focus squarely on her. It was a look that made movement impossible, that dissected and disarmed.

  Oh, my Lord. Her heart skipped a beat. “You are serious,” she finally managed.

  “Deadly.”

  “You do know there’s a betting pool going on in Payroll? Who your next bed partner’s going to be?”

  His hand went to his nape, ruffling the hair there. “Okaaaaay…?”

  “And that doesn’t bother you?”

  He shrugged. “Not really. What’s your point?”

  Was she thrilled? How about terrified. Shocked. Tempted. All of the above. But…

  “This is not good,” she muttered to herself.

  Zac sighed. “The money thing again?”

  “How can that not be an issue?”

  “It just isn’t. That was something a friend would do. This—” he flicked a finger between them “—is something different entirely.”

  “I see.” Now her skin was tingling in earnest. She glanced away.

  “So? What do you think?”

  “I think…” I think you’re crazy, actually having this conversation aloud. With a deep brea
th, she dragged her eyes back to his. “Workplace affairs always change things—when it goes wrong, it will go really wrong.”

  “What makes you think it’ll go wrong?”

  “Because it always does.”

  He paused, giving her a strange look. “Speaking from experience?”

  “No.” But as she watched him quirk up a disbelieving eyebrow, she swallowed thickly.

  She leaned back in her chair, her mind churning. Even through everything—the parents from hell, the sexist boss, the numerous failed relationships—she’d kept believing, had clung tooth and nail to optimism, to the chance that love was out there somewhere. Despite the six-year gap, she’d been the strong one, keeping her sister AJ afloat when they were kids. She’d refused to use her sexuality as a career jump. She’d started over in a new city.

  Yet had all those setbacks managed to steal more than money, self-respect and trust from her?

  Had she turned into one of those cynical, hard-assed man-hating females?

  “I’m not like your ex, Emily.”

  She smoothed down the tablecloth once, twice. “No, you’re not.”

  “So…?”

  “So what happens if it’s a disaster?”

  His mouth quirked. “We’re adults. If it’s a disaster, then we spend a week or so in awkward silence, then go back to being work colleagues. We’d do our jobs, you’d pay me back that money, and you’d go back to school.”

  You are not actually giving this serious thought?

  She abruptly rose. “I have to…go.”

  Zac got to his feet. “I’ll walk you to your room.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “It is.”

  “No.”

  As she glared at him, the corner of his mouth curved. “I don’t believe it.”

  “What?”

  “You’re giving me that look.”

  “What look?”

  “That don’t-mess-with-me-mate look.” She frowned, which only made him chuckle. “You give it to all our difficult clients. I call it the rottweiler look—because no one’s going to get past you without some serious backup.” His warm hand seared through her jacket as he guided her out the restaurant.

  “Nice. Did you just call me a dog?”