Playboy Boss, Pregnancy Of Passion Part 15

'What did you have in mind for tomorrow night?'

You, me and nothing in between. He just about stopped himself saying it. 'Just dinner. Is there any food you don't like?'

'I'm easy to please. What's the dress code?'

'Whatever you like. Oh, and your new shoes.'

'I didn't buy any.'

'Oh.'

'But I did buy something else.' Her voice was full of amus.e.m.e.nt. And there was a sensual note that made him feel as if she were stroking his skin. Kissing her way down his body.

Uh.

He really, really had to get himself back under control. Before he said something really stupid. Like begging her to come over and show him this very second. And he really, really didn't want her to know just how needy he was feeling right now.

He didn't do needy. He'd spent half his life standing on his own two feet, and it was going to stay that way.

'Aren't you going to ask me what?' she teased.

'No. I'll see you tomorrow,' he said, more abruptly than he'd intended. 'Goodnight.' But when he cut the connection he felt awful.

What was wrong with him?

He liked Sara, for pity's sake. He enjoyed her company. So why was he blowing hot and cold like this, behaving like a moody teenager whose hormones were running riot?

There was an explanation-but it wasn't one he was prepared to countenance. How could you fall in love with someone when you didn't believe in love?

Utterly ridiculous.

So instead he went down to the office and worked through various sets of figures until he was too tired to see straight.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

'WHY didn't you tell me?' Sara asked as Luke unlocked his front door the following evening.

'What?'

'That you live above your office.'

He shrugged. 'It wasn't relevant.'

'Wasn't relevant?' She stared at him. 'Luke Holloway, I can't believe you sometimes.'

'What's the problem?'

'You work crazy hours and you live right above your office.'

He sighed. 'All it means is that I have a short commute to work. And I do leave my work in my office. I never bring work home with me.'

'You don't need to, do you? All you have to do is walk downstairs.' She shook her head. 'There's no hope for you.'

'Sara, I don't see what the fuss is about.'

'No. You wouldn't.' And it wasn't Luke's fault that her ex was out of the same mould. She shouldn't take out her insecurities on him. 'Sorry,' she muttered.

'Women. They're another species,' he said lightly. 'Come and see the views.' He ushered her into the living room. 'What do you think?'

It was as stunning as she'd guessed it would be, the very first day she'd seen the building. Luke lived in the duplex pent-house apartment, and his living room was right at the top of the tower. The side overlooking the Thames and the city was floor-to-ceiling gla.s.s, so the view was incredible. And, with the sun still out, the river sparkled-it was like looking down onto a magical world.

'It's fabulous,' she breathed.

'And that wall means the room gets lots of natural light. It's one of the things I love most about living here.'

In most other male preserves, she thought, there would be a state-of-the-art TV and several games consoles as the focal point of the room. But Luke's living room was furnished extremely simply. No clutter anywhere. Just three enormous leather sofas, which looked as if they'd be b.u.t.ter-soft to the touch, grouped round an extremely modern fireplace; a coffee table near one of the sofas; a stereo system which looked sleek and stylish and she'd just bet was the very top of the range; and a bookcase which seemed to contain mainly business-oriented textbooks. There was also a gla.s.s-topped dining table with eight chairs on the other side of the room. At one end of the table, two places had been set opposite each other with what looked like granite place mats, cutlery that shone with the l.u.s.tre of real silver and the finest, thinnest crystal gla.s.ses. A fat white candle stood in a scooped silver bowl, nestled on top of flowing curved legs: a Celtic knot design, she thought, stripped down to its simplest form.

There wasn't a single photograph: nothing at all personal to give away what kind of man Luke was. They could've been standing in an extremely posh hotel suite. Admittedly, with that incredible gla.s.s wall, Luke didn't really need any pictures: the views were enough. Over the mantelpiece-bare of anything except a small unadorned clock-there was a large mirror, reflecting the views. And it made it very clear to her that Luke was completely self-contained. He didn't need anything or anyone.

This really didn't bode well for the beginning of their relations.h.i.+p, she thought.

Yet there had been moments in Scarborough where he'd seemed to let her in. When he'd told her about his father teaching him to fly a kite, when he'd walked with her at the edge of the sea, when he'd shared the chocolate dipping platter with her. Or was she deluding herself?

'It's gorgeous-though it's pretty minimalist,' she remarked.

He shrugged. 'I hate clutter.'

She knew that already, from his office. He really wouldn't be able to cope with Louisa's toddler, Maisie, she thought-the little girl was going through the stage of trailing clutter everywhere.

'Would you like a gla.s.s of wine before dinner?' he asked.

'Thank you.' She followed him through to the next room; the kitchen had granite worktops, what looked like handmade pale wood cabinets and a state-of-the-art range cooker. There was practically nothing on any of the work surfaces, apart from a wooden fruit bowl and a kettle. No cork pin-board on the wall above the breakfast bar, crowded with memos and recipes and business cards, as there was in her parents' kitchen; no postcards or photographs held onto the stainless steel American fridge with little magnets.

And, more to the point, she couldn't smell anything. Nothing cooking, nothing marinating.

Odd.

He took a bottle of Chablis from the fridge and poured them both a gla.s.s. 'Cheers,' he said, raising his gla.s.s in a toast.

'Cheers.' She paused. 'So if we're having dinner here tonight-does this mean you're cooking for me?'

'Not exactly.'

'I'm not with you...' Then the penny dropped and she grinned. 'Ah. You cheated and bought stuff you're going to heat up in the microwave.'

'Slightly worse,' he said.

'How much worse?'

'I sweet-talked the cafe manager at one of the gyms to make something for me that I could heat through,' he admitted. 'It's in the fridge.'

Unbelievable. 'You have a kitchen like this and you don't cook?' she asked, flabbergasted.

'I don't need to cook, apart from breakfast-and even then I might nip down to the coffee bar and grab a bagel because it's quicker. If I'm in the office, I'll have a sandwich for lunch.'

And eat it at his desk, with his other hand annotating reports, she thought. Apart from the occasion when she'd taken him to St Dunstan's and the time they'd gone to the pizza place. Lunch dates they hadn't repeated.

'Though if I'm at one of the businesses, I'll eat in the cafe there.'

'And you do the same for dinner.'

'Pretty much. I eat sensibly.' He shrugged. 'It's better than living on burgers and doughnuts. And it also means I get to do some quality checking on the health club cafes; I can make sure the food and the service are what I'd want them to be. Double whammy, you might say.'

She shook her head. 'You're missing out on a lot, you know. Cooking's one of the best ways I know to relax.'

His eyes lit with amus.e.m.e.nt. 'I know other ways. Though, if I give you a demonstration, dinner will be very, very late.'

She could guess exactly what he was talking about. And the remembered feel of his hands and his mouth against her skin sent a shaft of pure desire through her. To cover her confusion, she took a sip of wine and pretended he hadn't said a thing. 'I used to love cooking with my mum-mind you, I drove her insane because I was always rearranging her cupboards.' She smiled. 'Mum used to rearrange them right back and leave me sarcastic little notes for the next time I sneaked into the kitchen to do it.'

'Then you've always been the orderly type?' At her nod, he raised an eyebrow. 'So why were you giving me a hard time just now for having a tidy flat?'

'There's tidy, like me, and there's extreme minimalist,' she said.

'I get it. You like having all the clutter-but you also like having it all lined up and put away.'

'Yup.'

'I would really like to know,' he said, 'just how many pairs of shoes you have. And whether you arrange them by colour, style or fabric.'

'That,' she retorted, 'would be telling.'

'Come and sit down and I'll feed you,' he said. He held the chair out for her that faced the view.

'But that means you can't see the view,' she protested.

'I see it all the time.'

He was being polite, and she was the guest. She'd better remember that.

He lit the candle and the scent of vanilla filled the air.

'This is lovely-and I like that holder. The legs look a bit like a Celtic knot, only simpler.'

He smiled. 'What do you expect from-I quote-"an extreme minimalist"?' He walked over to the stereo system and pressed a couple of switches.

Sara raised an eyebrow as the first notes slid into the air. 'What, no dinosaur rock?' she teased.

'Hey, you're the one who had piano lessons as a kid. I a.s.sumed you'd like this.'

'You can never go wrong with Mozart,' she said. Good food accompanied by candlelight and the most beautiful piano music. Utter bliss. 'This sonata's one of my favourites.'

'Don't tell me-you can play it?'

'I used to be able to,' she admitted. 'But I haven't played for ages. I'd make a real mess of it now.'

'Would you rather I changed the music?' he asked.

'No, this is fine. Do you want a hand in the kitchen with anything?'

'No, that's OK. It's practically all done.'

He brought through two plates of prawns mixed with avocado and baby spinach leaves, drizzled with lime juice and olive oil.

'Wow, this is fantastic,' Sara said after the first taste.

'Exactly. So when I have food like this available, why would I bother cooking?'

'Point taken.'

The main course was cold chicken with baby new potatoes and salad. 'Are you telling me you actually sullied a saucepan with this?' she teased.

'You must be joking. Too much was.h.i.+ng up,' he retorted.

'I love the dressing.'

'Pomegranate and orange. Apparently Cathy got the recipe for this one from Lily after we did a tasting thing for her.'

And pudding was utterly perfect. Fresh raspberries and best-quality vanilla ice cream. Had he remembered her favourite? she wondered.

'This,' she said, 'is bliss. My brothers and sister tease me about it, but you just can't get better than really good vanilla ice cream. Especially with lovely tart English raspberries.' She smiled. 'It always makes me think of the summer holidays when I was a kid, raiding the garden. There's nothing like fruit that's freshly picked and still warm from the sun when you eat it.'

'Glad you like it.'

'Well, that was fabulous. Even if it was utterly cheating on your part.'

'Hey, I washed the raspberries myself,' he protested, laughing.

'That,' she said, 'isn't cooking.'

'Yeah, yeah.' He cleared the table. 'Go and sit down in comfort. I'll bring the coffee through.'

Sara curled up on one of the huge leather sofas and just looked at the lights. Now it was dusk, the lights had come on outside, brilliant whites and deep blues reflected on the Thames. 'This is beautiful,' she said as Luke returned bearing coffee and a box of chocolates.