When Lady Daniela reached out to touch her new possession, her fingers drifted to the hat itself, tracing the sweat-stained band inside, her gaze rising to his forehead, lingering over the strands of his hair.
“It seems I owe you a dance, then,” she said. “Provided this bit of nonsense is true.”
“It’s true enough. What’s a flaming Pom doing out here, love? One with a bloody title?” Now that he had her commitment to a dance, he saw no reason to rush what might end up being only a dance. Though when he took another swallow of his beer, he found the way she studied the motion, riveting on his mouth as if she’d like to lick the foam off, a serious strain on his control. But in England he’d once seen a very pretty snow owl who, despite the inviting look of her soft feathers, still had a beak as sharp as a spear and the eyes of a predator. Watching, gauging.
Sliding onto the stool next to him, she leaned back, the white shirt she wore tightening over her pleasingly shaped breasts, drawing his attention back to the crevice where the amulet hung. The brown trousers creased up at the top of her thighs, making him want to reach out and trace those tiny gatherings of fabric. Follow their diagonal slant across her inseam, push her thighs open so he could rub between them, feel her heat reach out to him through cotton. He would have paid good money for another look at her backside. Why in the hell did he care about her background? Why’d he even ask?
“I’m returning to my family’s station to take it over.” She studied her egg, a thoughtful look crossing her face. When she didn’t say anything further, he cleared his throat.
“Sounds like you don’t really want the job.”
“It needs to be done.” Her gaze shifted back to him. “You strike me as the type of man who knows his way around the business of a station.”
“This a job interview, love?” He signaled Elle for another beer. He was setting too fast a pace, but if Lady D was going to dig around his past, he’d need to toss back a few more before he could accommodate her.
“You also don’t strike me as a man looking for work. I’d be interested in your opinion, though.” When the beer came into his hand, before he could pop off the top, she laid her own over it, preventing the motion. Her fingers curved in a bit, her nails pressing into the side of his hand.
“The current management is strongly opposed to me coming in and taking over,” she went on. “Do I try diplomacy right from the off, or do I invite them to dinner and stake them out on an anthill, letting their screams be an example to the others?” She cocked her head. “Hypothetically, of course.”
“Depends on whether you’re planning on serving red or white wine with the dinner.” When he directed a pointed look at his beer, she withdrew her hand, though with a smile. Ignoring the lingering tingle in his skin from her touch, he removed the top and brought it to his lips for a bracing swallow. He’d often wondered why men needed drink to give them courage around women. She was a blatant answer to that question. Her hand had settled on his thigh, was tracing it with a touch that was damn proprietary. He’d tell her to move it. After he finished the beer.
“The staking out seems a trifle heavy-handed. Might make them fall in line, but they won’t respect you. They’ll be afraid of you, and that’s one step away from contempt. The moment you stumble—and you always stumble—they’ll tear the flesh from your bones.
Hypothetically, of course.”
Hooking his arm on the back of his bar stool, he flicked a glance toward her hand. She’d turned it over, was stroking him with her knuckles way up high, too high. His cock was about to buck like a brumby in his pants. He cleared his throat. “But say you walk in, pull a gun and shoot two of them. Quick, no emotion, do the job. That says you’re a right bad girl, but you’re there with an objective. You’re not making it personal. Then you bring in the fancy talk. Explain to those left standing why it’ll profit them to look at things your way. Show them you’re not afraid to seize ’em by the balls, but you’d rather make everyone rich and better off.
Hypothetically,” he added again.