Relatively Risky (4 page)

He extended a hand with a gracefully studied flourish. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Miss Whitby.”

She matched his move, minus the flourish or the grace. She wasn't clumsy, just prim, librarian-ish, he supposed. His fingers swept around hers in a gentle caress, the tips of his fingers settling on her pulse. A bit disconcerting to find it placid and unaffected. He held back a frown, rather proud he'd managed it. He started to lift her hand to his mouth, but it somehow slid free of his.

She had already begun her turn to lead him to the office. “Please call me Nell, Mr. Afoniki.”

Had he been glad she didn't gush? He halted her move by not following her. She paused halfway through her turn, one brow lifted in inquiry.

“You must call me Dimitri,” he said, shocked by his tone. It wasn't gushing. He did not gush, but it was…rather friendly. He would need to be careful. Too much friendly gave women ideas.

She blinked, the slow sweep of her lashes softening the austerity of her face, but when the lashes lifted again, the look in her eyes showed no inclination toward getting ideas. He had a fleeting feeling of
déjà vu
from her steady brown gaze. As if this had happened to him before, but that was not possible. Women fell at his feet, had for as long as he could recall.

“If you'll come with me, I'm sure we can get your issue sorted out.” The tone held gentle prodding, but not much else.

He'd have been piqued, but then he recalled he'd seen the tactic once or twice before. This pretended indifference to get his attention. He would allow her to continue the charade. For now. This time he allowed the change of location by following her down the cool hallway. She led him without the usual self-conscious shimmy. She faked indifference very well. Almost her games amused. Almost. Her figure was not up to his standards, the rear her best side, even minus the shimmy. She had the height for a few adjustments, some enhancements, though the face would take more than a little work to bring it up to code. Not that he planned to try. This game they played was not the usual one. Information, not sex, was on the table.

She turned at the door to the office. “Can I get you something?”

The provocative question was so prosaically offered, he was genuinely amused, he noted, rather surprised. Few men had managed this level of composure in his presence, the women never. His certainty faltered briefly. It was possible she did not know—but her gaze found him, studying him like a policeman. Or, it came to him in a flash, that assistant principal. He had not thought of her in years. The private Catholic school was, for the most part, run by nuns. Easy prey. Even at eight he knew how to make them giggle and blush. He'd caused the fight that had landed him in her office, but he knew teachers weren't allowed to assess blame or disbelieve him. It might damage his tender psyche. Oh, he'd get punished, but so would his victim. A win-win.

He'd been laughing inside until that calm, stern gaze latched onto him. This one sliced and diced him with the same calm, seeing dispassion. Oh yes, she knew exactly what she was doing. Her eyes lost focus for several seconds. Not a good idea in the presence of the Russian Tiger.

She blinked, returning to the present, with no sign of discomposure. “Sorry, was just thinking about rutabagas.”

He frowned. Did she plan to offer him a vegetable tray? He replaced the frown with a smolder. “I prefer the sweet to the savory.” He waited for her to return this serve. Or at least blush.

She studied him thoughtfully, distantly. “I'm afraid we don't have a lot of variety. Just bottled water and maybe a soft drink or two, but I'm happy to check.”

Was that a return of his serve or—it was his turn to blink, trying to connect the proper dots. Rutabagas to drinks? She was not what he'd expected, despite keeping his expectations low. Not that he was disappointed. He was not entirely sure what he was. Nothing felt familiar, a novel sensation that he hoped never to encounter again.

“I'm fine.” He wasn't, exactly, but he would be. Ordinary women were not on his radar, but she was a woman. The management of an ordinary one couldn't be that different.

“Right then, let me pull up your uncle's file.” She crossed to the chair tucked in behind a small, but well-crafted desk and sat. “Please.” She gestured toward the wing back chairs in front of the desk. “This will just take a minute.” Her hand covered the mouse, waking up the computer screen, then attacked the keyboard with an economy of movement.

Her fingers were long, nicely shaped and showed some care. No polish or talon nails. They were her only good feature, so she might have enhanced them with an understated polish, but she hadn't. She'd accepted her ordinariness, he concluded. He lowered himself into one of the chairs, studying her with professional curiosity. She made no effort to flirt or acknowledge him as a man, because she knew what she was and what she wasn't? Would that make her vulnerable to a modest charm offensive? Would she know the basic moves? Almost, she'd seemed to look through him—but that would be a feint, a pretense. No woman looked past his face. Ever.

He relaxed in the chair. “You don't sound local.” Idle conversation first. A circling of the prey before moving in.

The shift of attention toward him was brief. “No. I'm from Wyoming.” A pause. “Not Star Valley.”

He felt free to frown at this, her attention wholly on her screen. “Of course not.” Why did he feel as if he'd missed a cue? He never missed cues. “You're very far from home.” A slight nod, something that might have been a smile. “What brought you to New Orleans?”

That pulled her attention off her screen. The careful way she considered her answer confirmed his suspicion that they played a game.

“Sarah—Miss Burland—was my roommate in college. When she started the business, she asked me to come help out.”

Cagey, very cagey. Seemed to deliver information without delivering. A clever woman. He supposed it was the fall-back position of the ordinary, but it gave him no hint to her purpose. Did she seek to hide her past? Or her reason for being in New Orleans? He'd read her file. She seemed an open book…

Was that the key? “Don't you write books or something?”

This nudged a smile out of her, one that improved the austerity of her features, but it faded quickly. “I've published one children's book.”

She followed this with a look that made him add, “I was looking for a gift for my…cousin's child and…” He realized he was explaining—which he never did—so he smiled. It was what he did.

She seemed about to comment, but gave a sort of nod instead. When she did speak it was to offer, “I'm sorry. The computer is a bit slow today.”

Was she uneasy? No sign of it on her face and her gaze appeared singularly untroubled. In profile she seemed less, well, it verged on—he shook his head, not sure what he thought. Which was not typical. He was spoiled, he realized, hovering between amused and annoyed. He'd come here expecting easy. It had been some time since he'd faced a real challenge. Not that he considered her a real challenge. Not yet. His thoughts kept circling back to: not what he'd expected.

When he took her features, her figure apart, there was nothing special, and yet…somehow the sum was something more than not-special. Was it her eyes? There was intelligence in them and humor. Not the malicious kind, but he did resist a need to shift in his chair. If she was here for some hidden purpose, why wait two years to act? Unless…was that her aim? Force them to make their move? Or perhaps her plans were long term? If so, she was a cool customer. Very cool.

“There.” A final tap and she looked at him. “What seems to be the problem?”

Besides her? He shifted, leaning in so that his arms rested on the desk top, pretending an intention to look at the screen, but instead he looked at her. His eyes, he'd been told, were more dangerous than his smile. And his smile was most dangerous indeed.

“Miss Burland mentioned something about the date?”

Most women could not construct a coherent sentence while he looked at them. Except that assistant principal. He'd stopped picking fights that year, waited until she'd changed schools. “Yes.” He leaned closer and asked, “Do you like New Orleans? It must be very different from Wyoming.”

She leaned back in her chair, as if giving the question serious consideration, not putting distance between them, her retreat so smoothly managed it didn't look like a retreat at all.

“It's almost completely opposite. But yes, I like it.” Then she grinned. “I love the food. The heat, not so much.”

He could not pretend the grin was for him. He might have—regretted how quickly it was gone. When she smiled she was almost…

“I, too, do not care for the heat.” He boosted the accent. Women liked it and she was a woman. Now they would chat—

“It's a beast.” She turned back to the screen. “According to your file, we have your dinner booked for the nineteenth.”

It seemed casual chatting was not her game. Was she afraid of what she would betray? She should be.

“My uncle insists he told me the twelfth, but I checked my notes and I have the nineteenth as well.” He moved his shoulders in a “what can you do” shrug. His shoulders were broad and he moved with tigerish grace. At this angle, he could see her pulse, see it not change. Surely even ordinary women had biological responses to wildly attractive men?

“The twelfth. Let me see…” Her right hand moved the mouse, clicked.

Did she swing the other direction? Sarah had not acted indifferent to him, though she had taken care to remain professional, but the two women did live together.

“We are booked for the twelfth, and according to Sarah's notes, that booking was made before your initial visit. With our system, it isn't possible to double book.”

He fought the odd sense of being pulled into the unfamiliar as she continued—saying, while managing to not say—that if a mistake had been made, he'd made it.

“We can try to find you a different date or cancel the booking. You will,” she looked professionally regretful, “have to forfeit your deposit if you cancel.”

The brown gaze was sympathetic, regretful, but devoid of all the things he come to take for granted when a woman gazed at him. He summoned another smile, though it felt off, unfamiliar. For the first time he understood what an alternate reality might be like.

“I am going to risk my uncle's wrath and hold the current booking,” he said. That she didn't look away this time helped, for it seemed to him that finally she looked, and in this looking, finally saw him. He boosted the smile with
I'm bad and spoiled, so why fight it?
His lids half-masted again. He was a very bad boy, quite possibly the worst she'd ever meet.

Nell didn't blush. Or wriggle. Or giggle. She blinked, the thick, silky fan almost endearing as it made the trip down to her cheeks, then rose again. “We are happy to hold your booking while you check. Just don't forget there are additional cancellation penalties if he changes his mind later. The sooner you confirm or cancel, the better.”

He'd have liked to pretend there was a double meaning in there, but he hadn't risen to second in command of his uncle's empire by pretending. That also meant he knew when to push. “I can take my punishment.” He gave her a wicked, intimate smile—

And she
chuckled
. Her tone both dry and librarian-ish, she said, “Because men are so good at taking their punishment.”

She was very like that assistant principal.

“You should laugh always.” The imperious tone brought her gaze back to his, her brows shooting up. “It is most pleasing.”

Another of slow blink. “Thank you.”

He waited for a laugh or a smile. Instead she sobered, her gaze turning more librarian-like. What did she think of—

“Though sustained laughing might be annoying. And it would be difficult to sustain,” she pointed out quite seriously. “There is that need to breathe…”

She did not seem to be making fun of him, but seriously considering the problem. He tried a different tack.

“Have we…met before now? You seem familiar?”

She considered this question seriously as well. “I don't think so, unless, have you been to a party catered by Blue Bayou? I pass out the canapés and petite fours and such.” Her hands lifted from the keys and she fluttered her fingers in the region of her shoulders. “This is my wait get up, too. Most waits dress like this, only pants, not skirts.”

It was his turn to blink. Had she truly missed his point? Did she think he noticed the wait staff? Or did she choose to ignore it? He summoned a smile, though it was getting more difficult. “I doubt I could forget you, even for canapés.”

It was clumsy. He knew it. She knew it. So the kindness in her slight smile surprised him. Was this, could this be his opening? She turned back to her keyboard.

“I'm putting a note in the file for Miss Burland.” She finished and hit “save,” then leaned back once more. “Was there anything else I can help you with, Mr. Afoniki?”

It was an opening—or a trap. He could admire her skill, even though he was seriously unhappy. His uncle would not be pleased. He was not pleased. Usually all he had to do was look at a woman and she did what he wanted. They were, after all, the intuitive sex, though this one made him wonder.

A distant sound of a door closing and footsteps approaching brightened her expression. “Miss Burland's back.”

He nodded, as if pleased, while inside he cursed the timing. As the tap of heels against wood grew closer, he rose, trying to frame a question that would provide an opening.

Nell rose, the principal manner back. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Afoniki.”

So polite. Like a child. And yet, her eyes were wiser than a child's, older. Was that what made them so unsettling? The mix of innocence and old? His window of opportunity was closing.