Page 20 of Masquerade

“I don’t know you.”

A slow smile split his face. “You know me better than you did fifteen minutes ago.”

Heat rose up her throat. She lifted a hand to hide the telltale flush.

“A kiss in a darkened library doesn’t make us friends.” It did show he didn’t maul or demand something she didn’t offer freely.

“Will there be any consequences?” He peered at her closely. “I mean, I noticed the CCTV cameras when I came in.”

She closed her eyes at her unprecedented loss of control. It would be reassuring to believe she’d let herself respond so shamelessly because she remembered that particular camera wasn’t working properly. She couldn’t kid herself. Lost in Liam’s kiss, she doubted she’d have registered if the security guard had crash tackled her.

“That camera went down this afternoon”—she swallowed—“and they haven’t had time to get it back up.”

“Coincidence seems to follow us around. It’d be easier if we reached some kind of ceasefire.” He hesitated. “Niall told me you pushed him several times to tell me what was happening. Why?”

“Because it’s scary having your photo taken without your permission.” She’d hated the paparazzi hovering around her parents, taking unauthorised photos of her childhood. It added to her reasons for leaving Melbourne. “Even though you and Niall are individuals, you share a face, and people bring every fantastic or bizarre story they’ve ever heard about identical twins to the conversation.”

“Bizarre trumps fantastic in my experience.”

“Does this mean you’re talking to Niall?”

“He sent a message.” Shrugging it off didn’t hide his unhappiness. “Niall doesn’t want to speak to me.”

She made a decision. “Have you eaten?”

The purpose of tonight’s meeting was to plan how they’d work together. Sharing a meal gave them an activity rather than staring at each other or pretending not to stare at each other. “The pub has a good cook. The family restaurant’s Italian.”

“Is it licensed?”

“Tony likes to pick the wines to match his dishes.” She agreed with his choice; first the project, now the better place for dinner.

“Sounds like a good place to start a truce.” He handed back her glasses. “You’ll need these.”

She’d forgotten he had them. A mistake she couldn’t afford to repeat.

* * *

The restaurant wasa typical Italian-family eatery from an earlier era. Red-and-white checked curtains in the windows and red geraniums perched on windowsills reinforced the message. Liam’s nostrils twitched with the appetising scents of garlic and tomato and basil, transporting him to his childhood. A neighbouring farm in the North Coast hinterland had been worked by a generous Italian family who hosted end-of-harvest feasts. Aromatic herbs and spices wafting on the evening breeze had signalled the end of the day’s labours.

This eatery was a small, cheerful space where tables crowded each other and a few old-fashioned booths lined the walls. More checks—this time it was the tablecloths. Empty Chianti bottles with candles stuffed in the top sat on each table while faded posters of old Roma, Pisa, and Venezia adorned the walls. The combination made a nonsense of the adjacent towering steel and glass sanctuaries for corporate skulduggery. Liam absorbed the comfort. The short, plump, moustachioed man behind the bar completed the picture.

“Katie. You’ve brought a friend.”

“A colleague.” She corrected with a smile.

“How will you get bambinos if you don’t have a lover?” The man leaned on the bar and gestured for them to sit wherever they wanted.

“Food before bambinos, Tony.” Her answer came so fast Liam was sure Tony asked on a regular basis.

“Why not have both?” Tony waddled from behind the bar and handed them menus.

“We’ll take a booth,” she called out, heading towards the back wall, adding quietly for Liam’s benefit. “This gives us some privacy.”

Liam slid in opposite her. The booths were tiny, crowding in on them and creating an immediate and compelling intimacy.

Forget privacy.

The upright bench seat restricted their movements making it inevitable that his legs would brush against hers under the table. Their glances clashed, and she bent over a menu she must know by heart. Holy hell, he could still taste her. As enticing as the aromas swirling around this room, as forbidden as running a finger around his mother’s chocolate-cake bowl before the mixture had been poured into the cake tin.

---