Bargaining with the Boss (6 page)

Like, say, the wild sexual chemistry that had coursed through both of them like rivers of fire.

She clicked the door closed behind her and he zeroed in on her, smiling as his icy eyes glinted in the afternoon light.

"Hello there," he said. Casually. Like he hadn't been all up on her lady business.

"What the hell," she spluttered.

"Sorry?" He sat his feet back on the ground, and then motioned for her to sit in one of the leather chairs opposite him.

"You want me to just sit there like this is some kind of meeting?"

"You're welcome to sit on my desk if that would make you more comfortable."

He patted the wood and she opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. "Don't be dumb with me. You could have at least had the courtesy to say something."

"And what is it you would like me to say?"

"I don't know...that it was weird. And it'll never happen again. And we can forget it."

He knitted his brow. "So...you want me to lie to you?"

"No-not lie. It's not a lie."

"But, it
is
a lie." He nodded. "At least, it is for me. It's going to happen again and I definitely won't forget it."

His gaze became molten and suddenly she felt even more exposed than she had last night. The memory of his kiss still seared her lips, and she might have reached up to touch them if she hadn't felt like she was a specimen on his observation block.

"Bu—I left and..."

"Obviously I'd like things to end differently next time, but I like that you didn't jump right in. I respect it."

"And the bargain is...?"

"Still on the table."

She pursed her lips. Something about the bargain, about the whole of the conversation, was different now. And still—

No. This was just another part of his master plan. She couldn't let herself slide back into his clutches. He was her boss and this was wrong and she wasn't ready.

"You know what, never mind. I should have just gone on with my day and hoped you really weren't here. At least then I could get a little peace." She opened the door, but then, in that maddening way of his, he said, "Okay, I'll see you tonight."

"Tonight?"

So soon? Or...ever?

"You were just angry I didn't say anything to you, now you're angry I want to see you again? Make up your mind, woman."

Just say no.

Just say no.

It doesn't matter how gorgeously heart-shatteringly blue his eyes are. Just say no.

"No, it's just...I have plans." There. That wasn't so hard.

"No, you don't." He picked up a piece of paper from his desk, and then strode toward the door. "Sorry, but I have a meeting with Garret. I have to run. See you tonight."

"No you won't." She tried again, but he only smiled, opened the door, and walked away.

"
G
ood evening entertainment fans
, tonight we have an exclusive interview with the woman who has been commanding the headlines: none other than Gianna Torreini. Gianna, how are you this evening?" The helmet-haired anchor nodded toward the sniveling blond in the white leather seat beside her, no doubt trying to look sympathetic in spite of the shark-like gleam in her arctic gaze.

Natalie rolled her eyes, but sat back on the couch, hoping against hope that the blonde was about to retract everything she'd said about Franco in the past few days.

Fat chance.

Instead, she shook back her wave of golden hair and sniffed away nonexistent tears. "You know, I'm hanging in there. I feel more free than I have in a long time."

"Tell me what you mean by that." The anchor reached toward the model in a show of comfort and, probably, for the photo op that would inevitably grace tomorrow's papers.

"You know, break-ups can be so hard, but now that Franco and I are no longer together, I can see all of the flaws that I used to ignore." Gianna reached for a tissue and dabbed at her bone dry cheeks.

"I can't believe I wanted to have children with that man. He's...well, I don't want to say anything negative, but he hates children. He said--"

That was quite enough.

Natalie flicked over to the next channel, debating between reaching for her cell phone or just stuffing her face in her sofa cushion and screaming for a good long while.

She'd already called Franco five times since she'd gotten home, and it was all to no avail. With any luck, he'd been too busy trying to negotiate with Gianna's PR team. More likely, though, he was lounging in his living room, drinking a beer, watching
Sports Center
, completely unaffected by the slander that could wreck his entire life.

The dummy.

If she didn't do something, she was going to while away her whole night trying to fix his problems only to have him, in all likelihood, not listen to her advice. No, she had to do something to get her mind off of Franco and Gianna and...

And Brooks.

She pulled her bathroom tighter around her and walked toward the kitchen. Maybe moving around would help her shake that anxious excitement that settled in her chest whenever she thought of Brooks.

Which, of course, was stupid.

She'd decidedly shrugged him off. For sure.

Franco didn't want her help, and after what had happened in that hotel room...

Pasta sauce.

She was going to make her special homemade pasta sauce. That always calmed her down, and at the very least an influx of carbs would make her artificially happy. Which, if she didn't think about it too hard, was almost like the same thing.

After bustling into the living room and turning up the TV, she went into action. Opening cans, mincing garlic, dicing basil. All the things she used to do when she'd been cooking for more than just herself.

Not that it had ever been good enough. She'd learned the recipe from scratch, practiced it for weeks before her husband's birthday and then...

She sighed.

None of that mattered now. She liked her sauce and there was no point in making it if she was just going to find something else to drive herself insane over. No, she had to put every man she'd ever known aside and focus on food.

Like healthy people did.

Once the butter had melted she added the rest of her ingredients into the pot and stirred, breathing deep. Yep, once this sauce was done, she'd feel like herself again. She'd be a whole new woman, ready to take on the world and--

Ding dong.

Her heart flipped over in her chest. Nobody visited her. Ever.

She met with friends at their houses, never threw parties, never—

Ding dong.

She pulled her robe tight again, leaving the wooden spoon inside the pot as she rushed to the door. Was there such a thing as evening deliveries? Or maybe...

But there was no point.

She knew. Knew before opening the door who was going to be standing there, staring down at her fluffy pink bathrobe with the most annoying blend of amusement and confusion.

"Big plans tonight, huh?" Brooks smiled at her, his bulky frame taking up nearly the entire passageway.

If she’d been a smart woman, she would have closed the door and end things right there and then. In the morning, she'd march into his office and declare her surrender.

That's definitely what a smart woman would have done.

What she did, though, was stammer.

She stammered so much that she couldn't have picked out a single
actual
word. Like a baby who was learning to talk. Or like the big dumb stupid idiot that she, yet again, had become.

"Now, I know I look good, but I didn't think I could ever make you lost for words." He walked--no, strutted--into the hallway and she stayed there, the door still in her hand, staring. He wasn't wrong. He looked good.

Beyond good. His dark washed jeans clung to his lean frame and instead of his business casual suit, he wore an old T-shirt that looked like it had gone through the dryer one too many times.

In vain, she struggled to read the words on the shirt, then realized how it must look with her standing there dumbly, squinting at his chest. Dammit, ten seconds in and she'd already colossally screwed up.

That was what he wanted, though. She had to fix it. Just as soon as she could untie her tongue.

Come on, speak.

"How do you know where I live?" She closed the door, hating every ounce of heat that rushed to her face.

"Personnel files."

Of course. What else.

"Why are you here?" She tried again, following him as he strolled into her living room, hands in his jeans pockets.

"I just thought I'd see what your big busy night is. Jeopardy, huh?" He nodded toward the TV. Alex Trebek was in the middle of pronouncing something in one of his affected accents, and she rushed to the remote, but he picked it up and held it in the palm of his hand.

That hand. Why was it that, since that night in the hotel, she hadn't been able to think about anything other than his hands? They were big and strong, sure. And rough. But also strangely smooth. And...

"Potpourri is my best category." He grinned, and she realized with another start that she'd fallen silent once more.

Come on, get it together. Say something. Anything.

"I was just getting ready to go," she said.

"I can tell. Unless, of course, you always rock that pink fluffy robe after work. I like it. It gives off a very devil-may-care vibe. Did it come with the first divorce or the second?"

"Very funny. And I don't wear this all the time. I was just, erm, getting ready to go to a friend's house when I was rudely interrupted by the uninvited guest at my door."

He ignored the subtext and shot straight for the gut. "Which friend?"

"Rachael." She'd said it before she had a chance to think.

If she'd bothered to do that, she might have even remembered that Brooks had more reason to know Rachael's whereabouts than most.

Before he'd responded, she knew that lie spelled out strike number two.

"Rachael is tasting cakes tonight with my brother."

"Right, I know. I was, um, going for moral support."

A corner of Brook's full, sexy stupid mouth lifted. "You're a good friend to be with her in these trying times."

"I am."

She stared at him, willing that taunting smile to wither and die on his lips. Or maybe just for his lips to wither and die. That way, she wouldn't be so forcefully reminded of what they'd felt like on her own, or how soft they'd been as they travelled down her neck and caressed her collar bone...

"Hey, I don't mean to be rude, but what's that smell?" His dark brow crinkled and she sniffed the air.

Shit.

Burned Garlic.

"Shit." She ran toward the kitchen, nearly slipping when her soles met the slick linoleum floor. On the stove, her huge metal pot from Italy was smoking from the sides of the burner and acrid grey fumes were pouring from the pot's contents. She rushed to move the pot, muttering curses under her breath as she went.

She'd never be able to get another pot like this one. It had been so perfect and beautiful. A gift on her wedding day.

The one good thing about her wedding day.

"Double shit," she grumbled, then lifted her wooden spoon to find a red charred disaster in its place. Staring at the inside of the pot, though, it might have been a miracle the wood hadn't just disintegrated into the boiling bubbling goo that was her pasta sauce.

"I'm really sorry." His deep voice grumbled from behind her and she turned to find Brooks staring at the spoon.

"It's okay. No big deal. I can get something on the road." She dropped the mangled wood into the pot and leaned back against the builder's special slab that passed for her countertop.

Of course this was what would happen when Brooks Adams just randomly stopped by her house. He couldn't have caught her on her way to the opera, festooned in diamonds and class. No, he had to drop by when she was one set of curlers shy of running a cat hotel and nearly catching her damned house on fire.

At least she could live up to his expectations.

Brooks took a step toward her and her breath caught despite herself. Even after all of this, she reacted to him?

Life was getting more unfair by the second

"Natalie," he started, "you and I both know your big plans for tonight were to watch
Jeopardy
and eat...I'm sorry, I can't really tell what that was supposed to be?"

"Spaghetti sauce." She mumbled.

"I messed it up. Let me order you a pizza to make up for it."

She surveyed him. He
did
look sincere. Of course, that was probably pretty easy for him to fake with those big, baby blue eyes of his.

But if she let him order the pizza, did that mean he'd stay to eat it? And if he stayed, did that mean...

Her heart thumped harder in her chest, and she cleared her throat. "Uh, no, that's okay."

"Right. What do you like on your pizza?" He pulled a cell phone from his pocket, and then gazed down at it as he entered in the numbers.

"No, I said—"

"I know what you said, but I can't imagine anything sadder than you spending tonight alone in your bunny slippers watching Jeopardy and eating burned spaghetti. So, what do you like on your pizza?"

"They're not bunnies, they're—"

"Natalie."

She sighed. "Mushrooms, please." She hated herself for answering. Or, at least she wanted to.

In truth, if he'd been anyone else, it might have been kind of...sweet. His concern for her.

As it was, though, this was probably just a ploy to set their deal in motion.

But if he was staying for pizza, that didn't mean she had to fall into his clutches. Pizza could just be pizza. Friends could just be friends. And she and Brooks...

Well, they could stay passive enemies for the rest of their days if she so desired.

The first step was to put her game face on. And the second was to put on some clothes.

A
fter he ordered
, Natalie disappeared into her bedroom to change, and Brooks stayed in the kitchen, staring around the little place and waiting.

It was much nicer than he might have expected. On a secretary's salary (though, admittedly, he had no idea how much that was), he thought it would be nice, but modest. Sure, the rooms were small, but the things inside were...surprising.

The pots hanging from the rack in the kitchen were beautiful copper-bottomed things, almost like the ones his housekeeper had bought for him in France.

The living room was even more mysterious. Mixed in with the
People
magazines and stacks of books were pictures of Natalie in cities all over the world.

Paris, Amsterdam, Beijing, Tokyo...

How the hell could a woman her age have gone to so may different places? And how--

The door on the far side of the room opened and Natalie reappeared, this time dressed in a pair of sinfully sexy jeans and a tight T-shirt. Her brown hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail.

It was probably the sort of thing she thought was safe--what someone might wear to the mall. But on her? On her, the outfit made his throat go dry and his heart pound a little harder.

He sat back on the couch, then patted the space beside him. Hopefully, he could get that red blush of anger to take over, but instead she rolled her eyes and sat as far away from him on the couch as she could.

"So, this is quite a place you've got here," he said.

"It's the best I could get on the scraps I get for pay." She smiled and he resisted the urge to smile back. It was too early to show his hand.

"You could always ask your dear old friend Franco for help. Maybe he'll buy you a house."

She
pshaw
ed, but didn't offer up any more details. Which, strangely, made that kernel of jealousy in his chest flare up and grow. "What's the deal there? You said—"

"I said it was none of your business. And I stand by my word. Now, would you care to play some
Jeopardy
while we wait for this pizza, or are you too chicken?"

Avoiding him again. Dammit. Maybe if he could change the subject to those damned flowers—

"Well, are you in or are you out? The second round is about to start." She raised her eyebrows.

"You sure you want to play
Jeopardy
against me?"

"I could ask you the same question."

"You're on."

The final commercial for AARP or the like ended, and then Alex began introducing the categories. After each, Brooks was careful to glance toward Natalie and gauge her reaction, but her poker face was better than expected.

The contestant chose the etiquette category, and Brooks glanced at Natalie again as Alex read the question: "In this country, it is considered rude to cut your potatoes."

"Germany." The answer shot from her before he'd had the opportunity to open his mouth.

"How the hell would you know something like that?" he asked.