Page 54 of The Refusal

This sends an electric thrill through me. We’re close right now, heads practically touching. Her hands are playing with her cutlery, and I lean in a little more. She smells like sweet rose and citrus. My whole body tenses right back up.

The waiter chooses this moment to arrive at our table in a flurry, and if I could reach out an arm and grab his collar and tell him to go away I would, but he’s out of range. Jo shifts, taking his proffered wine list and scanning down it, asking him a few questions before dispatching him with an efficiency that makes me wonder whether she wants him gone as much as I do.

I lean back, trying to calm my blood, pulling the thoughts from earlier forward. We have four days. Four days to persuade her I’m worth it. I know what the problem is now. I just have to knock the bricks down, one by one.

“Maybe it could be perfect for your business; perhaps the publicity could be helpful? Why has being with me got to be negative?”

“You’ve got no idea how women are viewed in this profession.”

“Yeah, I do. I just don’t think you should pay attention to it. Somebody has to lead the way. You can’t not have relationships just because of what the industry might say.”

My gaze roams over her red hair and freckles as a half smile flits across her face. I reach out and cup her chin with my hand and her eyes widen, before skipping down to my mouth. I tilt forward, giving her plenty of time to move away, and her eyes are on me right up to the point I’m too close. I brush my lips across hers. They are so small and soft and hesitant, and I’m shaking with how much more I want to do, but I lean back trying to take it easy. But, to my shock, her hand sneaks onto my thigh as she leans into me, and I don’t know how the second kiss happens, but somehow her mouth is soft on mine all over again. My cock tightens painfully in my trousers, ideas of slow disappearing like water down a plughole.

She draws back, bending her head down to the table and drawing a pattern on the white tablecloth. I examine the red lace on her shoulder, her bare arms. I run a thumb down the one nearest me. My hand is ridiculously large against her tiny arm, a myriad of freckles under my fingers, like jewels flung on cream silk.

“I like you too, Janus.” Her voice vibrates, and I only catch what she says because I’m leaning forward right into her space.

Sitting back into the red velvet seat, I take in her bowed head, my jaw loose. In four days, I hoped I might get her interested in me, but I threw away any thoughts she might be sold already: She’s been skittish with me so many times.

I open my mouth to say God knows what, but the waiter appears out of nowhere at my shoulder, making us both start. I’d love a weapon right now.

“Sir, madam.” He gives an obsequious little tilt of his head. “Can I run through the menu?”

“Steak,” I say, looking down but not seeing the list in front of me on the table. “Fries and green beans on the side.”

“Filet de boeuf. Pommes frites,” he mumbles into his pad, and I slide my gaze sideways to Jo, who’s doing the same to me with a smile on her lips.

“I’ll have the same,” she says.

He nods. “Would sir and madam like some wine to accompany your meal? I can recommend—”

“A bottle of champagne,” I interrupt.

This is not the right thing to have with steak and the waiter pauses infinitesimally. I can tell he’s wondering whether he should suggest a red and risk offending me.

He makes to open the wine list, but I shake my head.

“Your choice of maker will be fine.”

He doesn’t flicker, and we both sit in silence as he gathers up menus, inclines his head and drifts away.

Picking up her hand, I turn it over and trace the lines on her palm, then, tightening my hand on hers, I stand, pulling her up with me.

Her eyes widen. “What are you …?” she starts to say.

When I’m halfway out of the booth, the waiter comes hurrying over.

“Mr. Phillips, can I help?”

God love all fancy hotels because they will give you anything you want: That’s their job. At this moment I’ve never been more grateful for it.

“We’re going to eat in my suite,” I say. “Can you arrange to have food brought up there?”

“Certainly, sir.” He stands to one side and I pull on Jo’s hand, but she just pulls back.

“What are you doing?” she hisses.

I lean into the soft hair near her ear, lips brushing her skin.

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