“Go ahead,” he says, still with that teasing grin.
“I should have ordered mineral water,” I mutter.
He laughs, then pours some from his bottle into my water glass. “We can share,” he says. “But I honestly don’t mind if you drink.”
I look at him then and I know he can see the question in my eyes, the one I’d asked so rudely a moment before.
“I don’t drink,” he says, leaning forwards, resting his forearms on the table, “because I lost a friend just over a year ago. Drink driving.”
Myles
I can’t stop looking at Zara.
The smooth curve of her shoulder, the hollows at her collarbone just begging to be kissed, the swell of her breasts under the soft lace of her camisole top. She has a scarf around her shoulders but it keeps sliding down, distracting me. I can feel myself getting hard under the table and I need to control myself, somehow.
And then she blushes, looking down, her lashes like fans resting on her smooth cheekbones. Christ, I want her. She bites her lip, worrying the soft pink flesh between her teeth and it’s all I can do not to take her hand and pull her out of here with me, take her back to my room.
I do touch her hand, just for a moment. She flinches, and I realise I need to calm down.
So I tell her about Blake.
“Oh no,” she says, her hand coming to her mouth. Her brown eyes crease with concern. “Myles, I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t have?—”
“You didn’t know. Hardly anyone does, really. And it was his fault.”
“It was?” Her brows come together.
I nod. “I love surfing. It’s why I am where I am, why we’re sitting here together in this glorious place.” She’s leaning towards me, the vee between her breasts distracting. I realise I’m doing the same. It’s as though she’s pulling me towards her, strong as the current that nearly took her out to sea. “But it can have a bit of a drinking culture around it. And Blake was part of that. A wicked surfer, but a hothead. Aussie guy, and a good friend. But he decided to drive home drunk from the pub one night, and ended up going off a cliff into the ocean.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. And he took another car with him, a middle-aged couple. Killed them both. They had a teenage daughter.”
“Oh, Myles, that’s so awful.”
“It was awful. There was an insurance payout, but I made sure the daughter was taken care of as well.” I shrug. It had seemed like the least I could do for her. “Since then, I stopped drinking. I never really went too hard, but now I don’t want to be part of it at all.”
Zara blinks, her eyes bright and soft. Her throat moves before she speaks again. “I understand,” she says. “I’m sorry I ordered the champagne.”
“Why? You didn’t know.” I realise how close our heads are to each other.
“I don’t really drink either,” she says, pink in her cheeks again. “I just thought… I don’t know.”
I want to reach for her, tell her it’s okay. The waiter arrives with perfect timing. Zara and I both spring apart, leaning back against the cushions. I stare out at the view, feeling warm all over despite the cool evening breeze coming through the open doors.
I need to remember what I’m doing. She’s my employee, we’re here on business and it’s just a meal to talk about… Idon’t even know what we’re going to talk about. The effect Zara has on me is overwhelming.
I don’t tell anyone that story. Not really. My lawyer knows, and Blake’s family, of course. It was news for a little while, then it went away. I don’t discuss it, ever. Yet something about Zara’s wide brown eyes and the softness of her voice makes me want to open up to her, to share every part of myself with her.
And that terrifies and excites me at the same time. I flash back to the dream I had, how real it had seemed, her soft curves open to my gaze, her long legs parting, the heat and wetness, the way she’d moaned my name. Then the way she’d clung to me on the beach, how I’d wanted to protect her, to keep her safe. And now this. I feel as though I could talk to her all night, tell her everything about me. Though there are other things I want to do to her all night, as well.
But this is still a long game, no matter how I blur the lines, and I need to play it carefully. Still, as she eats her meal and gradually relaxes, telling me stories about her life in London, laughing and shrugging her slender shoulders, I find myself wishing the game didn’t have to be so long, after all.
The waiter clears our dishes, then brings dessert. I watch her eat the crème brûlée, her eyes closing in pleasure, the way her lips fold around the spoon. She knows I’m watching her, I can see by the way her gaze flicks to me.
Yet there’s defiance in her, and fire. Other women would have played it coy and turned away, or been overly bold, playing a part to try and impress me. But she is just Zara. She holds her own against me, meeting me halfway. Nogames. Just her. It’s the most exciting dinner I’ve had in a long time.
So, at the end, when the waiter clears our plates, I decide to take another risk. I know the lines are blurring, but it hits me again that I’m her boss, and she’s my employee. This could go really wrong.
