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“Excuse me?”
“What was that sniff? Did I detect a note of misogyny in that sniff?”
“Ibegyour pardon?”
“I notice that when a woman goes in search of a casual sexual encounter, it often gives men a lot of feelings.”
All he could do was blink. “When a woman goes in search of awhat?”
“A casual sexual encounter,” Imogen said matter-of-factly. “I think the Americans call it a ‘hookup.’”
So if Ms. Delaney and Mr. Miller were in a commercial, itwasn’ta wholesome one.
Something was happening to Matteo’s blood. It was getting colder, and it rather felt as if it were slowing down. Turning to sludge. A delayed reaction to all the outdoor time earlier, perhaps. His mind flipped through a series of things to say to Imogen, who was standing in front of him with her elbows on the bar looking pleased with herself.Ms. Delaney doesn’t know this man.Idon’t know this man. She’s here to work.But of course, verbalizing any of these sentiments would only prove Imogen’s point, and the degree to which that was unflattering was greater than Matteo’s desire to speak. He didn’t think of himself as someone who had different standards for women than for men. No, that was Noar, and his stubborn resistance to Ms. Delaney because she wasn’t her malecolleague. But what could his knee-jerk opinions about Ms. Delaney’s use of her free time mean if not that?
He resolved to do better.
Johannes was perfect. His English wasn’t that good, but that didn’t matter. He was friendly and flirty and ridiculously hunky. It started out well. They played darts, and Cara would have said he did that stupid thing men do when they show you how to do something sporty by wrapping their body around yours to put you into the proper stance, but in this case, she really did need the help. Her first try had sent her dart bouncing off the wall several inches off the actual dartboard.
And more to the point, they both knew why they were here, and it wasn’t to play darts. So his wrapping his body around hers could be seen as an efficient step on a path that ended with them wrapping their bodies around each other in a different way.
So what was the matter with her? Why wasn’t she feeling it?
She told herself she was rusty. She just needed to smile and laugh and touch his arm and do all that stuff a person does in these situations. Fake it till you make it.
Hopefully she wouldn’t have to fake it later.
“Should we evacuate?” Johannes asked.
She should be finding his tendency to use not quite the right word endearing. He had a certain earnestness that reminded her of Mr. Benz. Although Mr. Benz had a sense of humor beneath his starchiness. She thought back to his crack about cute villages on the way down the mountain. Johannes, who was still looking at her expectantly, seemed not to have a sense of humor at all.
Which, again, she reminded herself was fine. She didn’t need him to tell her jokes. After tonight, she would never see him again.
“Or perhaps you would favorite another drink?” Johannes asked when she didn’t answer his question about evacuation.
“Yes. I would favorite another drink,” she said, even though it was a bad idea. When she joined Johannes, he had been working on a bottle of wine. She’d accepted a glass, then another. And she’d already had that shot.
He smiled his agreement and was off to the bar before she could tell him that on second thought, she’d have a Diet Coke. Well, hell, it was Friday night. She didn’t have to see any kings or surly union stewards tomorrow. Or any maddening equerries. She’d probably see a lot less of Mr. Benz once she moved out of the palace. Which would, of course, be a huge relief.
She used Johannes’s absence to ask herself a question, namely, what was her problem? She couldn’t still be jet lagged. It had been a long day, yes, but normally she could and would rally in these types of situations. Plus, she’d hadtwocatnaps this evening. And Johannes wassogood-looking. If Mattel made a Goatherd Ken doll, it would look like Johannes. She turned toward the bar to remind herself of this fact.
And made eye contact with Mr. Benz.
He wasn’t sitting at his usual place at the bar, but at a small table in the middle of the room, and he was facing her. Had he been watching all this time?
Wasthatwhy she couldn’t get into the mood? Because her minder had been spying on her? Yes, the truce was over, but the idea that he was so quickly and easily back to his old ways, thathe could go from kissing her to sitting therejudgingher, made her blood boil. Howdarehe?
She marched over there and slammed her glass on his table, but she forgot it was empty—and also perhaps that this wasn’t appropriate behavior—so she miscalibrated. She bonked it too hard, and the stem broke clean off the bowl of the glass. Still, she’d come this far. So she might as well say what she’d come here to say, which was: “Why are you spying on me?”
He looked up at her—he hadn’t stood at her approach, which was out of character for the scrupulously chivalrous Mr. Benz—and blinked. As if he was confused. The gall.
Eventually he spoke, but not until they’d stared at each other for a long moment. “I assure you I am not spying on you, Ms. Delaney. Lord knows, I haven’t the time for that. I found myself rather peckish, so I came in for a bite.” He gestured toward the table. She dropped her eyes long enough to take in the half-finished plate of chips. When she met his eyes again, he was still gazing at her evenly, supremely unbothered.
“Oh, come on. You’re here to bust up my date.”
“Are you on a date? And here I thought you were playing darts.”
More of that blasted blinking, like he was a supremely patient adult and she a child making outlandish claims. “Yes. I am on a date. And you are ruining it.” She needed to shut up. Even though what she was saying was true, the vehemence with which she was saying it, and with which she was throwing around glassware, was unseemly.
