When she did not immediately leap out from her hiding place to address him, Max’s footsteps stalked closer. With the swipe of one powerful arm, he shoved the offending folding screen out of the way and glared down at her for daring to disobey his unspoken wishes.
She grinned up at him. This was part of their routine. She was not the sort who obeyed, and he was the sort to act.
For the first time tonight, the intense focus of that dark glittering gaze was finally all hers. There were no more distractions. Just the two of them, and the live sparks crackling between.
“You were very sweet tonight,” she said to annoy him. “I love how benevolent you are to those who have nowhere else to turn. A soft heart is commendable.”
He was not amused. “You’ve read the journals. I make a tidy profit from my so-called benevolence.”
“Of course you do,” Bryony agreed. “How else would you continue to be the secret benefactor of the underworld?”
He folded his arms over his chest. “I could use the money earned from gaming tables.”
“No doubt you will.” Bryony considered the idea. “You’re in a much better position to distribute their excess spoils where it ought to go than any of those featherwits.”
Max turned and walked over to his desk without replying.
She smiled.
He knew her as well as she knew him. Of course she would follow close behind in order to take her customary place perched on the corner of his desk. She brought the journals with her.
Mining their secrets had become something of an obsession. This might be her last opportunity to make herself useful in a situation such as this.
Max might not have explicitly asked for her help, but he had given her the journals. Trusted her with their contents. Trusted her conclusions.
Max, who trusted no one.
Except Bryony.
Some of her happy warmth faded. If only helikedher. Although he might trust her with his business, he definitely didn’t trust her with his heart. She doubted he ever would.
“Are you done yet?” he asked.
“Ye of little faith.” She placed her working journal on the desk in front of him. “I finished the first project yesterday. Indexes A and B explain the variables charting profit relationships between game and table, as promised. I have moved on to more complex functions including position in the salon as well as time and day.”
This was exactly the sort of talk her mother had all but tried to beat out of her in desperation. No one liked a female who thought herself clever. How was she ever going to attract a man?
“Your impertinence is your second-best quality,” Max muttered as he accepted the journal and perused her handiwork.
She raised her brows in interest. “What is my best quality?”
He gestured without looking up from the charts she painstakingly created for him. “How your arse looks in trousers.”
Bryony’s pulse leaped. Hedidfind her attractive. Had carnal thoughts when he looked at her, just as she did when she thought of him. An excited shiver went up her spine.
Perhaps he hadn’t stopped being angry with her. But nor had he ceased being aware of her in all the same ways she was constantly aware of him. He hadn’t forgotten that almost kiss either.
And he liked how she looked in trousers. Her heart soared.
He flipped back and forth between two of the pages. “These charts are almost identical.”
Pulse still racing, she pulled her chair around to his side. “It surprised me as well. But when one plots the income the day before the Cloven Hoof closes for twenty-four hours, compared to Wednesdays when we reopen—”
Heads nearly touching, they spent the next hour inspecting and arguing every data point and conclusion. It was heaven. Debating with Max over the applications of raw mathematics in the context of real-world psychology were the most thrilling conversations Bryony had ever had. She cherished these moments more than any other.
There was no artifice between them. This was her. The things she thought. How she was. He pushed her, challenged her, but never tried to change her. He might never say so, but she suspected these had also become his favorite moments of the day.
Night, rather.
