Crazy, Undercover, Love
Page 7
‘Because?’
Because I was convincing myself not to like you. I can’t say so or the conversation will leap from humiliating to downright excruciating. ‘It doesn’t matter. I apologise unreservedly. There’s no excuse for it. I don’t suppose there’s any way we can move past this?’
‘It’s too late to get another temp,’ he confirms, and I hate his voice being so cool and rigid after the rapport we built in the suite, ‘so I’ll try to forget it, even though every word is indelibly engraved on my brain.’
‘I’m so sorry. Again,’ I offer quietly, feeling awful. I can’t believe I was so indiscreet. My head was just so all over the place I didn’t stop to think. Not my usual style at all.
‘Yes, well.’ He stares over my shoulder, jaw tensing. ‘Just forget it.’
There’s nothing else I can say and the silence quickly becomes unbearable, so I look around the room. What might be Catalan art hangs on the cream walls and lots of small square mahogany tables with clean lines are dotted around trendy brown leather and purple velvet sofas. The long wide black bar is backlit by purple and red UV lighting, with metal high-backed stools grouped together, elegant square chandeliers hanging overhead. Full length windows overlook the marina, the boats bobbing up and down gently on the calm sea.
Alex lets out a heavy sigh. ‘Shall we go through for dinner?’
‘Please.’ As I grab my almost empty glass and clutch bag from the table, I stumble and Alex’s large hand shoots out to grab my elbow. I wrench it away, feeling like I’ve been branded, the heat of his fingers transmitting a tingling message through my skin straight to my tiny underwear. ‘Th–thanks.’
Turning around, I struggle to walk in a straight line, my knees are trembling so hard. Alex wordlessly follows and a young brunette waitress greets us at the entrance of the restaurant. Why do they all have to have such glossy dark hair? Not everyone has celebrity-shiny tresses, some of us mere mortals are challenged with hair that curls and waves and demands complete freedom, no matter what we might do to control it.
‘¡Hola! Table for two? Penthouse suite, si, Mr Demetrio?’
Alex nods and we trail after her as she sweeps through the packed room. The clink and tinkle of cutlery and flame-lit candles mix with muted conversations to create a warm, welcoming atmosphere. Alex’s jacket brushes my bare arm as he walks beside me. I ignore the shiver it causes.
‘By the way,’ he says in a low voice, ‘I know I said we’d forget about it, but I do want to clarify one thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘I employ women.’ His sideways look says he’s disappointed with my assumptions. ‘I’m not stupid. I’ve seen the benefits of gender balance. Some of my best senior managers are female, which is why six of them sit on the Board.’
‘Out of how many directors?’
‘Ten.’
‘Oh.’
‘It’s only my Executive Assistant I insist is male. Not that I have to justify anything to you.’
‘Of course not.’ He’s defensive, but I can hardly blame him after what he overheard.
We come to a beautifully laid table by the window overlooking the grand vista of Port Olimpic. It’s pretty, lights from passing boats shining and twinkling off the dark water, the rhythmic lap of waves against the jetties barely discernible.
I gulp as we sit down. It’s exactly the kind of set up I’ve been dreading – intimate and romantic. I flick a wary glance at Alex. His total concentration is on the menu. I frown as I finish off my wine. The last thing I need is to get drunk and sloppy and let my identity slip too soon. No more alcohol tonight. Reaching for a glass of water, my hand twitches and knocks it over, and I watch in horror as it sends a cascade of good old H20 directly toward Alex. But he’s quick, pushing back from the table like his chair is on wheels.
I jump from my seat, grabbing a napkin. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t get you, did I?’
He stands, waving a hand to someone behind me for assistance. ‘Luckily for me, no.’
My gaze drops to his trousers to check and I move towards him, hand extended reflexively to mop up.
He grabs my wrist before I reach my target, ‘I said you missed, Charley.’
‘Yes, of course. S–sorry,’ I stutter as he releases my arm. Was I really just about to rub his crotch? Dear God. Sloping back to my chair, I wish I could slide under the table and hide, especially when not one but two members of staff arrive to sort out the mess I’ve made. My face starts to burn. I’ve always been clumsy but today I’ve hit a new threshold; the water in the plane, almost falling over in the bar, and now attempting to give Alex a shower and rub him down. I should come with an Official Government Warning: Spending time with this girl may be bad for your health/clothes/sanity.
The staff leave, taking away everything bundled in the fine linen tablecloth. People are staring, but Alex is consulting his phone, so I bury my nose in the menu. The waitress returns, laying out a new tablecloth and placing cutlery, napkins and crystal glasses out precisely. She gives me a small reassuring smile when I peek over the top of the leather bound booklet. ‘Thank you. Sorry.’
‘No problem, madam. It has happened before.’ She moves away, distracted by the next diner needing attention.
‘Now the drama’s over,’ Alex tucks his phone away, face taut, ‘shall we order?’
‘I apologised. It was an accident.’
‘I know. So have you decided?’
‘No. I need a minute.’
‘If you must.’
My teeth snap shut. He hasn’t forgiven me for my comments. Fingers gripping the menu, I focus on reading. Despite my turmoil I’m impressed by the delicious selection of Mediterranean dishes with international influences. ‘It all looks fantastic,’ I murmur finally. ‘I think I’ll have the carré de cabrito glaseado a la miel con setas.’
‘Rack of honey glazed meat with mushrooms?’ Alex translates fluidly. ‘I love a woman who’s not afraid to eat properly.’ He shakes his head. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.’
‘It’s fine.’ Waving his apology away. I can hardly criticise his behaviour when I’m so confused – and horrified – by my own.
Taking a breath, he neatly changes direction. ‘Have you been to Spain before? Your accent isn’t bad.’
‘Thanks. I took Spanish at school.’ I also handled occasional calls from international clients when at the casino, so I’m not as rusty as I might be.
‘Not French?’
‘Most of my friends took that.’
‘And you didn’t want to take the obvious choice.’
‘Guess not.’ I notice again the clarity of his blue eyes and the laughter lines that bracket his mouth.
‘It doesn’t surprise me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘At the risk of backlash, you’re quite strong-minded. You don’t seem like the kind of person to shy away from going your own way. You were probably about eleven if it was the first year of secondary school,’ he pauses and I nod, ‘and there would’ve been peer pressure to take the same language as friends, but you didn’t.’
Alex’s stare is unnerving. Is there something stuck to my face? Before there’s a chance to check, or ask him what his remark means, a waiter appears at my elbow. ‘You order first,’ Alex nods.
‘Thank you.’ I reel off my order and focus on picking up my iced water without incident, as Alex orders in Spanish just as well as I did. While drinking, I clock a glamorous blonde at the next table checking Alex out. She’s dining alone and has no shame about who the target of her interest is. I get the feeling if I wasn’t sat here she’d be in my chair right now starting a conversation with him. She catches me looking and I glare at her, then wonder why. It’s nothing to do with me.
‘So.’ The waiter retreats. I set my water down, hiding a smile when Alex eyes my glass warily. ‘How come you know how to speak Spanish? And where did you go to school?’
‘Let’s talk about work shall we?’ Alex bites. ‘It’s
why we’re here after all.’
‘All right.’ I rummage through my bag for pen and paper, annoyed at his tone. He really has got a ten-ton chip on his shoulder. Anything personal about him is clearly off the table. Rearranging my plate and cutlery to make room for my mini-notepad, I lift my head to find Alex frowning. ‘Is there a problem with me taking notes?’
‘No. As long as you’re careful with them. Sensitive information leaking onto the market could be disastrous.’
‘I didn’t know we’d be discussing trade secrets,’ I joke, then fall silent when his face doesn't change. ‘Don’t worry. I know how to protect data.’ I lick my lips. Now for the killer question. ‘You do trust me don’t you?’
‘I don’t know you. But perhaps I’m being overcautious. I keep forgetting the agency vetted you.’
‘Uh-huh.’ I clear my throat uncomfortably. They didn’t vet me well enough, otherwise they’d know where I used to work. And the way I left. ‘Well, if it helps, I’ll write in shorthand. It’s a bit of a dying art so not many people can read it nowadays. I learnt it—’
‘I don't need your life history,’ he says shortly. ‘Let’s just get on with it. I’ll start with the running order of the AGM.’
I clench my fingers around the pen. God, what on earth is eating him up?
Chapter Eight
While I work my way through a sumptuous main course and a satisfyingly chocolatey dessert, Alex goes through the schedule for the next few days, picking at his own meal. Unwinding incrementally as he talks, his voice softens, broad shoulders becoming less rigid. I take notes but mostly listen as he describes key events and gives background on employees we’ll be seeing for one-to-one meetings.
‘Is this one of your hotels?’ I ask when he finally trails off.
‘No.’ He leans back in his chair. ‘I tried that once, but it didn’t work. I couldn’t focus on the AGM, kept being pulled into issues or noticing things that needed correcting. Here I’m part of a visiting organisation. I can let other people do the worrying.’
‘Cool.’ Oops, not the most professional language.
But he surprises me by grinning. ‘Yes, indeed. Cool.’
Is he laughing at himself, recalling my comment to Jess earlier about complete sentence construction? Why can’t he show his sense of humour more consistently? It would make it so much easier to read him, understand how I can earn his trust.
He leans forward, resting crossed arms on the table. ‘Aren’t you going to finish that?’ He points at the half eaten chocolate cake in front of me.
‘I can’t,’ I answer regretfully, pushing it aside, my taste buds still delighting over the smooth richness of the icing.
‘What a waste,’ he shakes his head sorrowfully.
‘I know, sorry. I’ll pay for it if necessary.’ It’s an empty gesture. I’m broke.
‘I wasn’t serious.’
Thank God. I bet the meal would cost a fortune. ‘Oh.’ The light-hearted moment gives me an opportunity to ask what I’ve been wondering about. ‘So?’
‘So?’ he echoes.
‘We’ve done the business bit. Now will you tell me where you learnt Spanish?’
‘No point.’ Shrugging, he picks my dessert fork up and toys with it, his large hands on the tiny utensil looking like something out of Gulliver’s Travels. ‘It’s boring. And I told you enough about my background earlier.’
Blimey. Talk about guarded. I was hardly asking for his inside leg measurements. Did he train at spy school or something? The thought is ironic but then I realise I could totally imagine him as a secret agent, one of the hot guys from This Means War.
‘Fine, you can keep your secrets,’ I smile, ‘but you’ve got to give me something. Nothing too personal, I promise.’
He raises an eyebrow but plays along. ‘You’ll just keep badgering until I do, won’t you?’ He shakes his head when I simply smile. ‘Fine. Go on then.’ he grumbles.
‘Okay,’ I tap my finger on my chin. ‘You’re the CEO of a worldwide organisation, so … what’s the funniest thing someone’s ever done to impress you? Or the weirdest interview you’ve ever conducted?’
‘You wouldn’t believe me.’
‘Try me.’
Relaxing back in the chair: ‘All right,’ he smiles, ‘but you asked, just remember that.’ Does he curve his lips slowly and sexily on purpose or does it just come naturally?
‘I will. I’ll remember if I wake tomorrow scarred by your stories that you're responsible for the trauma.’
One corner of his mouth curls up further. ‘I can live with that if you can.’
‘Oh, I definitely can,’ I spark, before sitting back in shock. I’m flirting. Inappropriate and Not a Good Idea. Then another thought. Dread seeps through me. What if I did do the same with Tony? That despite saying I wasn’t interested I actually led him on? Hot nausea rolls in my stomach so I take a deep breath to deal with it, tucking the notion away. The horrible feeling is soon forgotten as Alex shares some of his funniest and strangest experiences, ending with one particularly close to my heart, given my co-dependent relationship with sweet food.
‘Then there was the woman who wanted to work in our PR department and sent in handmade baked goods every day for two months.’ He takes a swig of water and I’m hypnotised by the movement of his strong throat muscles as he swallows, the dark stubble just under the skin.
‘No! Two whole months?’
‘Yes. Pies, cakes, fresh bread, cookies. The staff in business support were ecstatic.’
‘I bet they were, but how did sending all of those things in relate to her application?’
‘She wrapped everything in copies of her CV.’
‘You’re kidding!’
‘I’m not. I think she wanted to prove how successful a targeted PR campaign could be.’
‘Well it’s an interesting approach.’
‘And a tasty one.’ He pauses, straightens his face. ‘Unfortunately she hadn’t read the job details properly.’
‘Oh no, what?’ Propping my elbows on the table, I lean in.
He shifts closer and shares in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘The post was based halfway across the world and she wasn’t looking to relocate.’
‘No,’ I groan, laughing, ‘after all that?’
‘I know. But if she couldn’t even read the ad properly there wasn’t much hope was there?’
‘Everyone makes mistakes.’ My comment somehow changes the tone of our conversation because his eyes fix on the darkness outside the window, face paling.
‘That’s right. People do,’ he rattles out, like unrelenting hail striking glass.
‘I didn’t mean anything by it. I wasn’t talking about you. Are you all right?’ My hand creeps across the tablecloth, wanting to comfort.
Swinging his attention inside, he looks down at my fingers, blinks, tucks both hands away under the table and forces a smile. ‘I’m fine.’ Meaning he isn’t. ‘Apologies. Right, I’ve shared my war stories. Your turn now.’
The most recent battle can’t be mentioned yet. I need more time before mentioning Tony. ‘No war stories. Ask again.’
‘Tell me where you grew up then. What was it like?’
This is easy. ‘I was born in a pretty little village, Holmes Brook, which I always think sounds like a nursing home. It’s on the Dorset–Hampshire border. It has the one pub, a village hall and a few shops. It’s surrounded by fields and has a river looping around it. In theory I had a good amount of freedom.’ Describing it takes me back to sunny summer days filled with the smell of hay and a wide expanse of blue sky, the taste of sweet crunchy apples and evenings that took forever to dim.
‘Sounds idyllic,’ he murmurs, echoing my thoughts. ‘So why freedom in theory?’
‘I’ve got three older brothers and one of them was always following me around keeping watch.’ I smile fondly. ‘It drove me nuts. I know they were just looking out for me though.’
‘I can understand that. What else?’
But he sighs and shares, ‘Sounds great to me. We had olive trees but we weren’t allowed to climb them.’
‘We?’
‘I have a younger brother.’
‘Oh. Well I’m sorry if I’ve given you tree envy,’ I joke.
‘So you should be,’ he smiles.
There’s a silence and I realise we’re staring into each other’s eyes. ‘So er, anyway,’ I bluster, ‘I ah, met my best friend Jess when I started primary school and we ended up buying a flat together in the city.’
‘And what do your parents do?’
For someone so fiercely private he's very interested in my life, but the more open I am, maybe the more he might trust me. ‘Dad was something in Defence for years, used to commute, got retired young, so chairs lots of committees on a voluntary basis. Mum devoted herself to us but took on charity work as we got older, running the WI, organising local events. I guess part of it is there’s family money and those are some of the expectations.’
‘Are your family well known in the village?’
‘You could say that!’ Laughing, I attempt to push the bitterness away. ‘They’ve always been the centre of everything. The spotlight was always on them. And on us.’ I didn’t mean to mention it, but he’s a good listener.
‘That was a problem?’
‘It taught me to be cautious,’ I admit, picking up my napkin and smoothing it out, ‘what people think of you matters in a small village. They don’t let you forget your mistakes in a hurry, that’s for sure.’ Absently, I fold the napkin at the corner, then back in on itself. ‘So you don’t take many risks.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Are you sure you want to hear this?’ I look up at him, fingers still working the napkin, folding and refolding.
‘Yes. Indulge me.’