Once Touched, Never Forgotten - By Natasha Tate Page 0,24
start until tomorrow, which means you have the rest of the day free.” He grinned, cocking his head as his gaze trailed over her face. “Care to continue this conversation over lunch?”
“No,” she told him as she stepped out into the hall and walked toward the elevator. “There’s nothing else to discuss until the designer arrives.”
“I can think of plenty to discuss,” Stephen said as he caught up to her and waylaid her departure with a hand upon her elbow. He loved that she’d chosen a sleeveless top today; he loved the access it provided to her soft, soft skin. “This new roommate of yours, for instance. How did you two meet?”
Her face blanched and she yanked her arm away to press the elevator button. “I don’t see that it’s any business of yours.”
He stood beside her, trying to read the thoughts churning behind those averted hazel eyes and remembering her furtive phone conversation with her roommate. She’d acted like he’d caught her stealing towels from the hotel laundry room, her evasive responses to his questions not quite ringing true. “What are you hiding?”
“Nothing.”
He frowned. What if this roommate of hers was a boyfriend? A boyfriend she’d claimed not to have?
His hands tightened at the thought. Though it would hardly be fair to expect her to remain perennially single, he found that the prospect of her having another lover didn’t sit well in his gut. In fact, it made him want to hit something.
Hard.
The familiar ding signaled the elevator’s arrival and she scurried inside without answering his question.
“Who is this roommate of yours, exactly?” he persisted. “It doesn’t concern you,” she said. “When his calls interrupt my meetings, it does.” “It won’t happen again,” she told the sliding doors. “Still doesn’t make up for today. We lost time.” She turned to face him, her rising temper making her golden eyes flash. “Five seconds, maybe! It’s hardly worth mentioning!”
“My time is very valuable,” he said with a bland stare. “I’m afraid you’ll just have to make it up to me.”
“Right.” She scowled, the fire in her eyes sending an arrow of heat to his groin. “You’ll demand an extra three hours of my time since mine is worth so much less than yours, right?”
“You make me sound so unreasonable,” he said, in a deliberately reasonable tone.
“Only because you are,” she snapped.
“Have lunch with me, and I’ll call it even.”
Her expression flattened into mulishness. “No.”
“We both have to eat. Why not kill two birds with one stone?”
“Because I don’t want to eat lunch with you,” she huffed. “If I’m not needed here, I’d rather go home.”
He smiled. “I don’t have a problem eating lunch at your house.”
“No!”
“No?” He shrugged one shoulder, wondering why she looked so distressed. “I could meet your roommate. See your house.”
Her eyes flared in alarm. “Absolutely not.”
“Then let me grab something for us from across the street. We’ll eat in the courtyard, just two business colleagues sharing a meal.”
“I—”
“We’re here,” he interrupted. “Go save us a spot. I’ll meet you in ten minutes.”
CHAPTER SIX
TEN minutes later, Stephen scanned the busy courtyard for a second time, the bagged lunches growing tepid and soggy in the afternoon heat. Colette, true to form, had not done as she’d been told.
The stubborn minx.
Fortunately, he could prove just as stubborn as she. So he spun on his heel and headed toward HR, intent on finding her address and tracking her down regardless. He wanted to meet this roommate of hers, anyway.
By the time he found her house, a cozy little cottage nearly twenty minutes outside Manhattan, his curiosity had been more than piqued. To keep his arrival off her radar, he’d driven a less flashy car, a small black BMW that blended in with the other vehicles of the city. He was grateful for his anonymity now, seeing the house she’d chosen. The tidy, whitewashed home looked like it had been built fifty years ago, with neat yellow shutters and window boxes overflowing with pink and purple flowers. His brow furrowed in confusion.
Colette had always claimed to prefer low-maintenance flats, the smaller the better. He’d never known a female to care less about material things, and she’d had no interest in shopping for home décor. Aside from her kitchen, she’d spent no money on feminine fripperies or coordinated furniture. She’d told him she was all about functionality and efficiency, and his one foray into her personal space had proved her claim.
Looking at the modest little house, surrounded by a well-groomed lawn, tidily trimmed