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He grins. The fucking bastard. ‘I love it when your cheeks go all red.’
I scowl.
His grin stretches. ‘Imagine how red they’ll be when I’m through with you.’ He takes a tactical bite of his apple. And there we have it. Loud and clear. He should get a new therapist, pronto.
‘Weren’t you supposed to be somewhere this morning?’ I ask, referring to his supposed meeting about the Spanish tapestry, the one that required me to be at work an hour early. He’s still in his sweats at midday. I dip and collect my scattered carrots.
‘Rescheduled for this afternoon.’
I huff to myself. It’s likely that the so-called meeting was never arranged for this morning in the first place. I reach for my final carrot and make to stand, but Becker crouches in front of me, his hand resting over mine on the carrot. The warmth paralyses every muscle in my body.
‘I’d love to see how rosy I can make all of your cheeks.’
I flip my stunned eyes up. His face is deadpan. Beautiful. Mesmerising. All my cheeks? I can’t do this any more. It’s draining. I want no part of this game he’s playing. It’s beginning to frighten me, for no other reason than how it will end. Which, basically, will be me unemployed and bitter.
I force myself to hold his angel eyes in a show of strength. ‘You’re incorrigible.’
‘Does that mean you like me?’
‘No, it means you give me a headache. Stop it.’
‘Stop what?’
‘You know what.’
‘Okay, then. You stop it, too.’
‘Me?’ I gawk at him.
‘Yes, you.’
I give up. I snatch my hand from under his and stand, escaping to the other side of the kitchen. I yank drawers open until I find a vegetable peeler and a knife, then slap my carrots on to the worktop and start a carrot massacre. My hand viciously yanks the peeler down repeatedly until I have a pile of bald carrots. Then I start hacking at them with my knife, building up a mountain of questionably shaped pieces that Mrs Potts will no doubt disapprove of.
I know he’s behind me, probably watching me cautiously. Or – given the knife I’m brandishing – he might have wisely dipped out before I can add him to my mound of carrots.
I hack and chop, feeling myself getting more worked up, and then . . . ‘Ouch,’ I hiss and drop the knife, glancing at my finger. Blood. ‘Oh shit.’ I grab a tea towel and press it to my finger. Blood. God, it makes me so queasy. I drop to my knees and blink repeatedly to clear my vision when it goes blurry, feeling hot, sweaty, cold, and sick. ‘Fucking hell.’ I squeeze the tea towel harder when my finger begins to throb. I won’t cry. I also won’t look at the damage I’ve caused. Blood. I feel my stomach turn and clench my eyes shut, trying to breathe my way through my light-headedness.
Then I feel his touch around my wrist, and my eyes open to find Becker kneeling in front of me. His lips are straight, his face serious. ‘Are you okay?’
My bottom lip begins to tremble, stupid emotion sneaking up on me. I’m being a baby. It really doesn’t hurt that much. Have our constant back-and-forth games worn me down? Exhausted me and made me all girlie? ‘Ouch,’ I mumble, dropping my head, feeling silly. Yes, they have. I’m drained of fight. Worn out by it all.
‘Here, let me see.’ He tries to pull my arm towards him, but I snatch it away.
‘I’m fine,’ I mutter, starting to unbend my body to stand. ‘Stop being all nice and attentive.’
‘Why?’
‘It doesn’t suit you.’
He rolls his eyes. ‘Let me help.’
‘I’d rather bleed to death.’
He laughs deeply, the sweet sound filling the kitchen. ‘Yeah, well, I don’t want the hassle of a dead employee’s body to dispose of.’ He swipes me from my feet in one swift move, making me squeal in shock, which he totally ignores, and strides over to the counter with me draped across his arms. I tense up in his hold, my lips clamping closed. ‘As your boss, I’m ordering you to obey me.’ He places me on the worktop and grins when he catches my look of disgust. ‘Got it?’
I scowl, pulling at the hem of my dress which has inched its way up my thighs.
‘Let me help.’ Becker takes over the rearranging of my dress, his hand skimming my bare leg. I stiffen, and I know he’s noticed, because he’s smirking. Good God, the urge to slap him and snog him are causing havoc with my willpower. I imagine what it would be like to slap him and to snog him. I’m not sure which I’d enjoy most.
‘Okay,’ I say, pushing him away. ‘The dress is fixed.’
Becker bats my hands down. ‘Not quite.’ He takes his time torturing me with strategic skims of his flesh over mine, nodding his approval and taking a deep breath once he’s done. Then he braces his hands on the worktop either side of my thighs. I lean back as he stares at me. I’m caged in. Trapped. I’m a sitting bloody duck. ‘Are you going to let me take a look?’
