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Fingers on a doorknob; it turned, slowly, creaking a little. He read the sixth line of the report, glowering. The letters and numbers swirled before his eyes with the force of his concentration.
If she emerged from the bathroom naked, the decision would be made for him.
He tapped his pen once more, lifting his head with all the appearance of casual inquiry, but the second his eyes landed on her body, he knew he hadn’t fooled her. His gaze narrowed, his lips twisting in a smile that felt laced with mockery.
She was wearing her pyjamas – sensible, cotton shorts and a t-shirt that was about three sizes too big for her.
Her eyes fell to the papers. “You’re working.” The words were rushed from her lips. With relief or regret?
He made a gruff noise of agreement. The slender column of her throat convulsed as she swallowed, hard.
The cotton of her shirt shifted as she moved, showing the outline of her body, soft fabric on softer breasts. His gut clenched and rolled. Desire punched him hard in the solar plexus.
“Just reading a report.”
Focus, damn it. Focus.
“Oh.”
Cristo. Disappointment flooded the single syllable. With a sense of fatalism, he laid the papers down. She moved towards him, fidgeting her fingers nervously in front of her.
“On what?”
He frowned. “A consortium we’re considering acquiring.”
“The Watney Group?” Her voice shook a little. He stayed where he was, back propped against the old timber headboard, legs kicked out in front of him.
“Yes.”
“I read that report. Last week.” Her uncertainty was doing silly things to him, pulling at his desire in a way he hadn’t expected. After all, he was used to experienced lovers, women who were well-versed in the usual rules of seduction. Nervousness was never a part of foreplay, in his experience.
And this wasn’t foreplay, he reminded himself. Unless he was going to sleep with her, in which case, this whole weekend had been an agonising build up.
“What did you think?” He asked the question to stall for time – so that he could read her better. Not because he expected an answer.
“I think their textile businesses seem dodgy.”
He frowned, the observation momentarily spearing through the building desire. Her assessment precisely accorded with his own. “In what way?”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. You don’t need my opinion.”
“I asked for it,” he reminded her, his tone gruff.
She reached over him for the report, so her arm brushed his legs, and he knew her well enough to know that it was a complete accident. She startled as though an electric shock had travelled between them, her eyes huge as she looked at him. He could see a fine pulse point hammering at the base of her throat, and it snapped the last of his resolve. The papers dropped from her fingertips.
“Luca…”
It was a plea.
He stared at her, uncharacteristically ambivalent, all the reasons for holding firm locked inside of him, falling lower down, as an impulse and instinct began to drum faster, harder, demanding a response.
He couldn’t stay where he was; not a moment longer. He moved quickly, standing, surprising her as he brought himself toe to toe with her, towering over her petite frame, his chest sawing with each rough indrawn breath.
Her hands lifted, her fingertips splayed against his chest, her eyes awash with emotions as she met his hard stare.
“I –,”
He waited, every cell in his body reverberating.
