Page 73 of Masquerade

He took her brief smile as reward for his quick visit to the apartment to swap his suit for jeans and a leather jacket.

“You hate my suits.” He slid into the seat opposite. When she said nothing, a restlessness he couldn’t pin down made him push for more. “That’s one of those stories you were going to tell me sometime.”

“Sometime”—she murmured, as a waiter approached, before adding softly—“they warned me we have ninety minutes max.”

“Not a place to linger over your meal, then?” But the realisation she’d never told him the stories she’d promised took uncomfortable hold.

The waiter provided menus. “I’ll be back for your orders.”

“The couple behind you just got their five-minute warning.” She pulled a bottle of expensive Australian sparkling wine from a voluminous bag. “They’re not licensed, but you can bring your own wine. Congratulations.” She made a show of loosening the foil.

Liam swallowed his demand for an explanation about suits. “What are we celebrating?”

Some women celebrated a week in a relationship, or a month. Not Kate. She was a more practical soul who added to his cupboards when supplies grew low, who shared the cleaning.

The waiter set glass flutes on the table. “Are you ready to order?”

“I’ve heard their tasting menu is terrific.” She babbled, as if he were a casual acquaintance rather than the lover who’d brought her to moaning climax in the guest bedroom this morning.

“Suits me.” Liam turned to the waiter. “The tasting menu for two please.”

The waiter retreated.

“I saw you on TV today.” She poured the bubbly.

“You saw the press conference.” He was a blind eejit. Of course, she’d seen it.

“I thought you were still trying to set things up.” She glanced toward a landscape painting on the wall as if needing its serenity to keep her own.

“I was; we were. But the Premier’s office rang around two and said it was on for this afternoon.” He’d had no time to call her. He reached for her free hand, but she tucked it under the table. “What did you think of it?”

“It’s what the experts think that counts.” The fingers of her other hand locked on the slim stem of the crystal flute; the sparkling wine untasted. “Everyone registered your presence. Lots of compliments. They credited you with convincing the government to amend the legislation and provide more support for local farmers.”

“Political survival was the convincing argument,” he snorted, his stomach hollow. “Being able to minimise damage to the government by sacrificing one of their more corrupt members.”

“Congratulations on the partnership.” Her free hand aligned the cutlery precisely with the edge of the table.

The bubbles, her preoccupation with the cutlery, hell, this scratchiness over his partnership... Liam kicked himself.

“That’swhat we’re celebrating?”

“Were you going to tell me?” She toasted him with her glass.

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