Page 17 of Resisting Mr Black

I can’t suppress my smile of relief. “And there was me thinking I’d shouted my mouth off.”

“You did, and I wouldn’t usually take shit like that from anybody.” His tone suggests he’s not joking. There’s an edge beneath the charming, handsome veneer.

He tilts his head to the left and his dark eyes search my face as if trying to find an answer to a puzzle. “You’ve a beautiful smile.”

My heart starts jumping around in my chest, and I know he’s reeling me in.

“Let me take you to dinner this evening.”

Talk about striking when the iron’s hot.

I stare at my hands in my lap because I can’t think straight when he looks at me. With my sensible head on, I ask myself what’s changed in the past twenty-four hours since he last asked me to dinner, and the answer is nothing. Even though I know a little more about him, my heart can’t take that risk.

“I can’t, Art.”

Five long seconds pass as his dark eyes widen, and he doesn’t move a muscle. When he eventually speaks his voice is deep and breathy. “That’s the first time you’ve said my name.”

Is it? Maybe it is. What does that mean?

He seems to come to his senses and drags his gaze back to the gardens in front of us. “Right. I have to go, there’s some business stuff that I need to sort out.”

I’m surprised that a tiny part of me can’t help but feel a little disappointed that he has to leave and I have no idea where the next question comes from. “Nothing too taxing I hope, it is Saturday afternoon.”

He shifts forward in the seat and rubs his lovely hands together. I notice the expensive black leather watch on his right wrist is a Rolex. The leather strap is showing some signs of wear and the gold face looks an older design. It’s not as flashy and pristine as the rest of his image and has my interest piqued.

“One of my staff popped in earlier. Tara, the woman you saw me talking to. Something has cropped up which I need to sort.”

How did he know I’d seen him?

Before I can ask any more questions, he gets up and puts his hands in his pockets.

“I’ll see you later.” He throws me an easy smile which makes my heart turn over and leans forward ever so slightly, brushing his fingers over the top of my knuckles with a feather-light stroke that sends a weird electrical current zapping through my bones making them melt. He swaggers away towards the car park and leaves me swooning, with an uninterrupted view of his gorgeous arse, again.

Shit. I’m in trouble.

The sound of laughter and lively chatter from the baby shower pours through into the entrance hall as I head back into the hotel. Olly is leaning against the desk in reception, deep in conversation with Lucy, and they both look up as I approach. The guilty looks on their faces tell me they’ve been gossiping about someone.

“The boss has gone, I see.” Lucy sits back in her chair and a wry smile spreads across her face as she spins round to face me.

“Is everything okay?” Olly’s brow twitches into a frown as he straightens up. “I mean, he hasn’t upset you or anything, has he? Because he's a rude twat and if he has…” He trails off and I’m not sure what the end of the sentence would be. Olly’s misplaced protectiveness is endearing, but his tall, lanky frame would be no match for Art’s toned, lean muscular physique.

“No, no.” I shake my head not wanting him to get the wrong end of the stick. “He’s been fine with me.”

“He’s been more than fine with you,” Lucy scoffs, lounging back in the chair.

Olly’s green eyes narrow ever so slightly as he looks from Lucy to me and I’m not planning on hanging about to see if he works out what she meant.

I carry on down the corridor and make my way back to my office, pushing open the door. Then I stop. Something’s different. A short glass Mason jar sits on the desk beside my laptop, overflowing with a bunch of forget-me-nots.

I slump down on the chair perplexed and twist the jar around, admiring the pretty blue flowers.

Who put them here? Definitely not Art. This is far too romantic for someone so cocky and direct. Olly? I could imagine him doing something like this and being too shy to mention it. Whomever they are from, it’s a nice gesture.

I shift the jar onto the window ledge and smile to myself.

Five

“Fucking hell.” I complain under my breath as I finish pinning my hair into a messy up-do and give myself a quick once-over in the mirror. I’ve barely had time to come home from work and change before Magda is knocking at the front door. She’s clearly on a mission.

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