Page 66 of Masquerade

“Hello.” Liam smiled into her troubled face, holding her against him, enjoying her closeness while resenting the layers of clothes between them—she was back in her city uniform. Turning them towards the kitchen, he kept her tucked firmly under his arm.

“Knowing you’d be waiting is the only thing that’s kept me sane all day.” He ushered her into the kitchen ahead of him and looked around. Something had spooked her. He wasn’t sure what. “Didn’t you help yourself to a drink?”

She shook her head.

“It’s been a killer of a day, but a celebration is called for on several counts.” He pulled open a cupboard, revealing a concealed fridge, and produced a bottle of Tasmanian bubbles.

“I wondered where your fridge was.”Okay—she didn’t like his kitchen.

He poured two glasses and raised his in a silent toast to her. “Now, tell me about your day, and what almost scared you away.”

She scuttled behind the counter as if seeking cover. “What makes you say that?”

“You had your serious frown on.” He shucked his jacket, putting it on the back of the kitchen chair. “And you looked on the verge of leaving.”

“It crossed my mind.” She wrinkled her nose in a thumbs-down expression. “This apartment is a bit alienating.” But her glance of discomfort included his suit jacket.

“I agree. I’m glad you stayed.” He loosened his tie. Her gaze tracked his action, and it wasn’t a sexy I’m-undressing-you-with-my-eyes kind of interest. More a you-have-to-wear-a-tie revulsion. He tried to recall what he’d been wearing at their various meetings.

“It doesn’t seem to be your style.” She waved a hand in the direction of the rest of the apartment.

“It isn’t.” He took another sip of champagne. “Or not really. I didn’t have much stuff when I moved in. A bed and my books. I stupidly gave one of those furniture supply companiescarte blancheto decorate the other rooms. I don’t use most of them. Occasionally I feel obliged to clean them.” Her reaction to his interior design made him even more curious about what she was hiding or protecting at her cottage. “The location’s good for work. I live out here. The garden’s mine.”

“I like the garden.” A powerful compliment because her disdain for the rest of the apartment was so honest.

He caught hold of her hand, anchoring her to him to kiss behind her ear. The intercom sounded. “That’ll be dinner.”

“Saved by the bell.” She scampered back to pick up her drink, again putting the kitchen counter between them. He’d had the sense she was a frightened filly when he’d arrived.

He buzzed the delivery through.

“Do you mind if I change before we eat?” He noticed the infinitesimal relaxation of her shoulders. “You hate the suit.” Pointing at himself he asked, “Is it the style, the colour or the material?”

“All of the above.” She shrugged. “I hate suits. But I’m working on it.”

“Sounds like a long story. Care to tell me about it?”

“Another time.” She softened her rejection with a half-smile. “You change, and I’ll set the table. Then you can tell me about your killer day.”

“That works, and I’ll accept a raincheck on your story.”

She’d asked for a raincheck at Montveau. Not that he was keeping tabs.

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