George was right. No matter what his private feelings were, it wasn’t just his neck on the line here. If Brontë O’Brian gave ED7 a damning report, a lot of heads would roll. Heads belonging to people he knew. People who had families, commitments, mortgages, so somehow he had to placate this woman, get her onside, and he squared his chin.
‘Brontë, can we talk?’ he said when she drew level with him.
‘It’s a free country,’ she replied.
Which wasn’t exactly the most encouraging of answers and he gritted his teeth. He didn’t ‘do’ apologies—had never in his life felt the need to apologise for anything he’d done—but he was going to apologise now if it killed him.
‘About this morning…What I said…’ He gritted his teeth even harder. ‘I probably seemed a bit arrogant to you, a bit of a prat.’
‘Can’t argue with that,’ she said, and he clenched his fists until the knuckles gleamed white.
She was enjoying this. He would bet money she was enjoying it, and if it hadn’t been for George he would have told her to take a hike.
‘What I said this morning,’ he continued determinedly, ‘I shouldn’t have said it.’
‘No, you shouldn’t.’
‘Look, I’m apologising here,’ he exclaimed, ‘so couldn’t you at least give me a break, and meet me halfway?’
She tilted her head thoughtfully to one side.
‘You’ve said you were arrogant, and you’ve said you were a prat,’ she observed, ‘but I’m not hearing any apology.’
‘Okay, all right,’ he snapped. ‘I’m sorry. I was wrong, okay? I shouldn’t have said what I did, and I’m sorry.’
For a second she said nothing, then, to his surprise, the corners of her mouth tilted slightly upwards.
‘Why do I get the feeling you’d rather have your fingernails pulled out one by one than apologise to anyone about anything?’ she said.
A reluctant answering smile was drawn from him. Damn, she was smart, though not for the world would he ever have said so.
‘Can we call a truce and start again?’ he said. ‘I promise I won’t open my big mouth if—’
‘I don’t refer to your ex-girlfriends,’ she finished for him, and he nodded.
‘So, do we have a deal?’ he asked, holding out his hand.
Oh, shoot, she thought, as she took his hand and felt a jolt of electricity run right up her arm. She’d come into work tonight still angry with him, still furious, and yet now she was all too aware that a lean, muscular, highly desirable man was holding her hand, and it felt so good, much too good. How had he done that? How had he managed to turn her emotions upside down in an instant?
Practice, Brontë. Years and years of practice, so watch your step, or you’ll end up like all the other girls he’s dumped.
‘You’re frowning at me,’ Eli continued, irritation replacing the smile on his face. ‘Does that mean you’re planning on making me apologise some more, or…?’
‘We have a deal,’ she agreed, releasing his hand quickly. ‘Except…’
His dark eyebrows snapped together. ‘Except what?’
‘Can I ask you something?’ she replied. ‘You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,’ she added quickly as his eyebrows lowered still further, ‘but do you ever plan on settling down with just one woman?’
‘Heck, no,’ he replied. ‘I’ve never been married, or engaged, and I don’t intend to be. No ties, no responsibilities, that’s my idea of perfection.’
‘Sounds to me like someone hurt you pretty badly at some point,’ she observed, and he rolled his eyes impatiently.
‘Why does there have to be some deep-seated psychological reason for the fact I don’t want to be tied down, trapped?’
‘There doesn’t, I suppose,’ she replied, ‘but I’m just curious as to what makes a serial dater like you tick.’
One corner of his mouth turned up. ‘Sex.’
‘And that’s it?’ she protested.
He grinned. ‘Pretty much.’
It was her turn to roll her eyes. ‘You’re impossible.’
‘Look, what you call “serial dating,” I call fun,’ he declared. ‘If more people would only realise—accept—nothing lasts, and you should just enjoy the moment, the happier everyone would be.’
Her grey eyes searched his face curiously. ‘And are you happy?’
Of all the dumb questions she could have asked, that had to be the dumbest, he decided.
‘Of course I’m happy,’ he declared. ‘I have a job I love, a nice flat, a good circle of friends—why wouldn’t I be happy?’
‘I’m pleased for you. No, I mean it,’ she added as he raised a right eyebrow, clearly challenging her remark. ‘To be content with your life, to want nothing more, feel you need nothing more…You’re very lucky.’
It wasn’t luck, he thought, as they both heard their MDT bleep, and Brontë hurried to read the message. It was being realistic, seeing the world for what it was. And he hadn’t been lying when he’d said he was happy. Of course he was happy. Okay, so his three months’ self-imposed celibacy was beginning to irk big time, and his flat felt empty, lonely, with just himself rattling around it, but the celibacy had been essential after what happened with Zoe. That was a mistake he most definitely didn’t want to make again.
‘Middle-aged man collapsed in supermarket,’ Brontë announced. ‘Seems to be unconscious, no family with him, but the supermarket first-aider is in attendance.’
‘Could be anything,’ Eli replied. ‘Heart attack, drunk, or faker.’
The first-aider clearly didn’t think the middle-aged man was faking. She was flapping around in panic when they arrived, and her relief at seeing them was palpable.
‘He was standing at the checkout, and just keeled over,’ she declared. ‘I’ve put him in the recovery position, but I’m not qualified to do anything else. The first-aid course I went on—it only lasted four weekends—and—’
‘You’ve done exactly the right thing,’ Eli interrupted, smiling widely at her. ‘We’ll take over now.’
Brontë shook her head as the young first-aider turned bright red and walked away in a clear daze.
‘Not fair. That poor girl was in a big enough spin before, but now you’ve got her practically hyperventilating.’
‘Can I help it if I’m charming?’ Eli protested, his blue eyes dancing, and Brontë only just restrained herself from sticking out her tongue at him.
Except he was probably right, she thought as she watched him begin the standard Glasgow coma scale assessment tests to check the man’s overall physical condition. Being charming was undoubtedly as natural to Eli as breathing. So, unfortunately, was the fact he was as unreliable as the weather forecast.
But you like him.
Oh, I could, she thought, as she stared at his long, slender fingers, and, unbidden, and unwanted, an image came into her mind of those fingers touching her, caressing her. I could so easily like him very much indeed, but never in a million years would she allow herself to get involved with him. At least with the other men she’d dated she’d been completely unaware of what lay ahead, but with Eli Munroe she knew only too well.
‘I’m