She began to flip the pages until she found the first blank one. She smoothed out the paper, letting the act soothe her. Any difficult problem could be solved if she put pen to paper. This had always been true, and she refused to acknowledge this problem might be too complex and fraught.
She would find a way. She labeled one side of the pageExpectationsand the otherRules. She was so intent on writing each letter precisely so it would be aesthetically pleasing, a physical representation of the perfection she sought, that she did not notice Luciano had gotten up and come to stand behind her.
Until he spoke, making her jump and accidentally draw a harsh line across the corner of the page.
“What is this?” he asked.
“My notes,” she replied, staring at the ugly line. Ruining her perfection. Just likehim. Because of course Luciano Ascione had never had to be perfect.
“On paper?”
“I find I think best when I can write everything longhand,” she replied loftily. Later, when she was blissfully alone, she would rip out this ruined sheet and rewrite all her notes quite carefully. But for now, she would have to make do.
“You are a far stranger creature than I could have ever given you credit for, Serena.”
She did not like the way he said her name. He seemed to linger on the consonants, drawing it out. Unnecessarily, in her estimation.
She was tempted to write under rules,Do not say my name. But that was ridiculous and petty.
Perhaps in the back, when he wasn’t here, she’d make a ridiculous and petty list. Just for her own amusement.
For now, she would focus on building the scaffolding she needed to survive this without resorting to violence.
“I feel it should go without saying, and I’m sure you were justjestingbefore, but obviously we will not share a bed.”
“Metaphorically or literally?”
She gritted her teeth at the silky way he spoke. No doubt it worked on whatever targets he actually wanted to talk into bed, but when it was aimed at her, it just felt like… Something sharp and confusing. He was jumbling her up purposefully, but she felt out of her depth because she did not understand this kind of…jumble.
“Both.” Then, in her precise, careful script, she wrote it down.
Will not share a bed—literal/figurative.
When he snorted, she did notglareat him. She moved down to the next line and wrote the number two.
“Number two, I should think, would be to not flirt with a CEO in the camp of our enemies.”
She could not understand why he kept harping on that. “There is professional flirting and then there is private flirting. One is necessary, and no one will think twice about it. Particularly coming from me.” She’d never considered it flirting so much as…stroking the male ego. And none of the businessmen she’d encountered had ever taken it as more than that.
Perhaps Luciano did not understand this because he was so handsome and charismatic, because he wanted that kind of attention. Men simply did not look at her that way and she knew it was a combination of how she handled herself and how little…sparkshe had. Her mother had been explaining that to her since she’d been a child.
“Is this so? You will have to explain to me the difference between professional flirting and personal flirting.”
She sighed. No doubt all the flirtinghedid was meant to lead to the bedroom, so he could not understand the fine art ofactuallydoing business. Wooing clients. Soothing concerns. “Professional flirting is like manners. No one thinks it’s leading anywhere. It’s…friendly. A little ego boost for the party who needs it.”
“And how is this magically construed as different thanprivateflirting?”
“It’s simply part of theprofessionalinteraction. No direct invitations made.” She looked down at the paper rather than himloomingover her. “Private flirting is probably anythingyoudo,” she muttered irritably. She’d seen him do it. Maybe he’d dialed it down at the event,pretendedto aim all that charm at her instead of the kind of woman he usually had on his arm.
And thinking of that frustrated her, because she understood just how potent and effective it could be if you believed in an Ascione scorpion.
Luckilyshewould not. She was too smart to think a little flutter, a little eye contact that had her pulse scrambling, mattered. Even if she could still feel all those things right now.
“Perhaps you could be more specific?” He was closer then, somehow, and he lifted her to her feet by the elbow, then turned her so that they stood face to face. Then he smiled. And it didn’t look likemalice. It looked like intent, which even she knew was different.
Not that she trusted it.
“Show me,” he said, his hand still cupped there on her elbow, and even though she was wearing a sweatshirt she couldfeelthe heat of his palm through the fabric.
