want to know about me, what I studied in college, my ‘objectives—’” And I had made up some serious bull about my future goals. “—is there on my résumé.”
“Which I haven’t seen,” he replied.
I stared at the plate of linguine in front of me. Why had I thought ordering a pasta dish filled with four kinds of seafood would be a good idea?
“I feel like I’m being interviewed, but for some other position,” I whispered, wishing, just after I had done so, that I could take the words back. What was my problem? I couldn’t bring myself to discuss the real reason I was there, and yet I blurted out that I thought he was hitting on me?
I felt more than saw him lean forward. His hand—long, well-shaped fingers with the lightest dusting of hair visible beneath the cuff of his shirt—entered my peripheral vision, reaching for my hand. He was touching me and there was nothing in my head except the warmth of his hand on mine and the sharply exquisite and surprising sensation of desire.
“A position you might want?”
Time stopped. Or slowed. Or something, because the clatter of dishes in the background was painfully loud and yet right there at our table, everything was thick silence. I was hot and cold and drowning in something way bigger than I could handle.
“Isn’t this against the rules?” I said desperately, looking for some way to take control of the situation.
“Am I harassing you?” His hand tensed as if he were about to pull away.
“No,” I said softly. He relaxed, the tension in his wrist easing. Although maybe this touch, his hand on mine, maybe that wasn’t fair. But it wasn’t fair because this Daniel Hartmann wasn’t fair, not because he was my boss. “But interoffice dating?” I pressed. “Isn’t it verboten?” He let go of my hand. Cold air rushed in, as if I had lost something.
“Dating,” he repeated, studying me over his wine glass.
I flushed. That’s what I got for trying to be sophisticated, a set-down for making assumptions.
“You move faster than me, Emily,” he said with that same deep, caressing murmur. “I’m impressed.”
I wanted, needed, to get away from him. To collect my thoughts, to remind myself that Hartmann was dangerous, that I shouldn’t want him, shouldn’t be thinking about how the skin at his neck would taste.
“Obviously I was mistaken,” I returned coldly and gave my meal all of my attention. Well, almost all. OK, nearly none, but I did focus intently on swirling spaghetti around my fork. I knew nothing about business. How had I ever thought I would bring this man down by taking a position in his marketing department? And was that really what I had thought I would do?
I almost dropped my fork, stunned by the truth of my actions. Maybe at twenty-one, Hartmann had been driven enough to do just that to my father, but I was a sculptor for goodness’ sake. An artist! Not some Machiavellian schemer.
What I needed to do was quit, accept that the games Hartmann and his ilk played were clearly beyond me. Do as my dad had and find some Buddhist Zen about it all.
Hartmann laughed. I looked up, startled, found his expression open, charming and boyish, as if he were any other guy I’d ever known.
“I want to get to know you, Emily,” he said, and warmth crept down my spine despite myself. So maybe there was a simple explanation to this lunch. He was as curious about me as I was about him. After all, our lives were intertwined in a strange way. “I’d better get you back to the office before we compromise your job.” I still had a job? I opened my mouth to speak, but he was still talking. “ … but tomorrow night. Tomorrow night, I’m going to kiss you.”
I must have looked like some anime figure at that moment with comically wide eyes. Kiss me?
All right, then. There really wasn’t a simple explanation for that.
Chapter 3
The afternoon at work was painful and Happy Hour at the Belmont was an exercise in modern torture. Even if there weren’t the uncomfortable “elephant in the room” of my lunch with the company CEO, I wouldn’t have enjoyed the scene. Crowded, a smoky haze obscuring the no-smoking signs, and loud. Eyes darting every which way, despite conversations supposedly so engaging that they elicited piercing laughter. It wasn’t just a “meet market”; it was a “meet market” with ambition.
James stared at me, acted as though