Page 11 of Megan's Mate
“No. We run the business by taking people out to sea or repairing their boats. Even building them.” He leaned forward on the desk, mostly so he could catch a better whiff of that soft, elusive scent that clung to her skin. “Me, I’ve never been much on paperwork, and Holt had his fill of it when he was on the force.” His smile spread. He didn’t figure she wore prim glasses, pulled-back hair and buttoned-up blouses so that a man would yearn to toss aside, muss up and unbutton. But the result was the same. “Maybe that’s why the accountant we hired to do the taxes this year developed this little tic.” He tapped a finger beside his left eye. “I heard he moved to Jamaica to sell straw baskets.”
She had to laugh. “I’m made of sterner stuff, I promise you.”
“Never doubted it.” He leaned back again, his swivel chair squeaking. “You’ve got a nice smile, Megan. When you use it.”
She knew that tone, lightly flirtatious, unmistakably male. Her defenses locked down like a vault. “You’re not paying me for my smile.”
“I’d rather it came free, anyhow. How’d you come to be an accountant?”
“I’m good with numbers.” She spread the ledger on the desk before opening her briefcase and taking out a calculator.
“So’s a bookie. I mean, why’d you pick it?”
“Because it’s a solid, dependable career.” She began to run numbers, hoping to ignore him.
“And because numbers only add up one way?”
She couldn’t ignore that—the faint hint of amusement in his voice. She slanted him a look, adjusted her glasses. “Accounting may be logical, Mr. Fury, but logic doesn’t eliminate surprises.”
“If you say so. Listen, we may have both come through the side door into the Calhouns’ extended family, but we’re there. Don’t you feel stupid calling me Mr. Fury?”
Her smile had all the warmth of an Atlantic gale. “No, I don’t.”
“Is it me, or all men, you’re determined to beat off with icicles?”
Patience, which she’d convinced herself she held in great store, was rapidly being depleted. “I’m here to do the books. That’s all I’m here for.”
“Never had a client for a friend?” He took a last puff on the cigar and stubbed it out. “You know, there’s a funny thing about me.”
“I’m sure you’re about to tell me what it is.”
“Right. I can have a pleasant conversation with a woman without being tempted to toss her on the floor and tear her clothes off. Now, you’re a real treat to look at, Meg, but I can control my more primitive urges—especially when all the signals say stop.”
Now she felt ridiculous. She’d been rude, or nearly so, since the moment she’d met him. Because, she admitted to herself, her reaction to him made her uncomfortable. But, damn it, he was the one who kept looking at her as though he’d like to nibble away.
“I’m sorry.” The apology was sincere, if a trifle stiff. “I’m making a lot of adjustments right now, so I haven’t felt very congenial. And the way you look at me puts me on edge.”
“Fair enough. But I have to tell you I figure it’s a man’s right to look. Anything more takes an invitation—of one kind or the other.”
“Then we can clear the air and start over, since I can tell you I won’t be putting out the welcome mat. Now, Nathaniel”—it was a concession she made with a smile “—do you suppose you could dig up your tax returns?”
“I can probably put my hands on them.” He scooted back his chair. The squeak of the wheels ended on a high-pitched yelp that had Megan jolting and scattering papers. “Damn it—forgot you were back there.” He picked up a wriggling, whimpering black puppy. “He sleeps a lot, so I end up stepping on him or running the damn chair over his tail,” he said to Megan as the pup licked frantically at his face. “Whenever I try to leave him home, he cries until I give in and bring him with me.”
“He’s darling.” Her fingers were already itching to stroke. “He looks a lot like the one Coco has.”
“Same litter.” Because he could read the sentiment in Megan’s eyes perfectly, Nathaniel handed the pup across the desk.
“Oh, aren’t you sweet? Aren’t you pretty?”
When she cooed to the dog, all defenses dropped, Nathaniel noted. She forgot to be businesslike and cool, and instead was all feminine warmth—those pretty hands stroking the pup’s fur, her smile soft, her eyes alight with pleasure.
He had to remind himself the invitation was for a dog, not for him.
“What’s his name?”
“Dog.”
She looked up from the puppy’s adoring eyes. “Dog? That’s it?”
