He meant to enjoy watching her squirm.
Then succumb to his charm.
And then realise her mistake.
A glance at his watch told him it was time. He tapped on her door and had to bite back a grin when it flew open immediately, as if she’d been waiting on the other side. Then the grin slid right off his face. What the …?
She raked him up and down with her hot, brown gaze and then scowled right back at him. ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ she snapped. ‘You didn’t tell me this was formal, so it’s not my fault.’
He didn’t care that she’d elected to dress casually. It was the kind of casual she’d chosen that irked him. Perspiration prickled his scalp. She seemed to scream, big bad wolf.
‘What is that?’ He motioned to what she wore. He shouldn’t have asked, but he couldn’t help it.
‘A track suit,’ she returned with the kind of slow deliberation reserved for the bovine. Then she stifled a yawn. ‘Is dinner ready?’
He nodded.
A track suit? It was the baggiest track suit known to man. It was so baggy she could share it with three other people and still have room to house a small African nation.
The dismal colour did nothing for the clear brilliance of her skin either. Grey. It wasn’t even a deliberate grey, but one of those greys that looked as though it had been through the washing machine too many times. The women he knew wouldn’t be seen dead in an outfit like that.
Without a scrap of make-up and her hair pulled into a high ponytail, she looked all of sixteen.
Big bad wolf!
Irritation inched up his backbone. He wasn’t some slathering beast waiting to fasten his jaws about her delectable throat.
‘Are you going to let me out?’
He shook himself and stepped back and swept a gallant arm down the short hall. At least, he hoped it was gallant. All his muscles had bunched and stiffened as if they didn’t belong to him any more.
Manners; charm, he ordered. She’d be putty in his hands soon enough. He slipped past her to hold out her chair but she’d halted to seize the remote from the coffee table and click on the television.
‘Do you mind?’ She glanced up. ‘There’s a documentary that sounds—’
‘Yes, I do mind.’ He snatched the remote and clicked the television off again. ‘I’ve gone to all this trouble. The least you can do is appreciate it and pretend to enjoy it.’
‘Trouble?’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘What? You set the table?’
Nope, the waiter had taken care of that when he’d delivered the food. Dominic dropped his hands to her shoulders and propelled her to her seat. His outrage dissolved as her warmth crept through the thin cotton of her top and seeped into his hands. How many times had this thing been through the washing machine? It was so thin he could …
He snatched his hands back. He needed to remain cold and clinical if he was going to pull this off.
‘I know you haven’t actually cooked anything. Cooking a lovely meal, now that takes commitment.’ She drew the word out like a taunt. ‘I promise, when you make that sort of effort, I’ll appreciate it.’
At her words the feast in the kitchen suddenly developed a kind of moral mould, became cheap and self-indulgent. He gave himself a mental kick. Hell, no! It wasn’t cheap. It was the best money could buy.
‘You know, if you were doing take-out I’d have been just as happy with pizza.’
Pizza? Pizza! He tried to hide his indignation. ‘I’ll have you know this isn’t just any take-out.’
‘Oh?’
He pulled in a breath and tried a different tack, but then her scent slammed into him, all lemon zest and tang. ‘I wanted to make things nice for you.’ His jaw clenched. ‘Special,’ he ground out.
Charm, remember? Had he seriously thought seducing her—pseudo-seduction or otherwise—would be easy?
A soft touch she wasn’t, but the challenge fired his blood. ‘I wanted to celebrate.’
She stifled another yawn. ‘Celebrate what?’
‘The beginning of our working relationship,’ he said smoothly, keeping his voice low and intimate. He lifted the bottle chilling on ice. ‘Champagne?’
‘Is it French?’ she demanded, with a supercilious lift of one eyebrow. ‘I only drink French.’
He gritted his teeth and then pulled in a breath. ‘Naturally.’ He’d manage suave and charming if it killed him. She could shrug and yawn all she liked. What she’d get in return was cultured and courteous. Determination settled over him. He’d impress her with this meal. He’d impress her with his manners. He’d break down the barriers she’d erected, and he’d make her laugh, joke and spar with him and enjoy herself. He’d make her see he wasn’t a beast.
‘How do you know I haven’t cooked?’ He was honestly curious.
She sipped the champagne before answering. It left a shine on her lips and he found it difficult to drag his gaze away. She might’ve scorned make-up and glamorous clothing, but her bearing, her gestures, betrayed her innate sensuality. She moved with the fluid grace and assurance of a confident woman.
‘There are only finished-meal smells, no cooking smells.’
He blinked.
‘Plus, cooking is noisy and the apartment has been quiet all evening.’
Aha. So she had been aware.
‘You ought to serve the fish before it dries out.’
How the hell?
‘I can smell it,’ she said before he could ask.
She was a chef. Of course she could smell it.
She flipped out her napkin and smoothed it across her lap then raised an eyebrow. He jerked into action. He was supposed to be acting smooth, suave; serving food with finesse and style. Not standing there gaping at her like some uncouth teenager. Like a …
Like a sap!
He shot into the kitchen, braced his hands against a bench and counted to three.
He was not uncouth. He was not a sap. He was not a big bad wolf.
He would make her smile.
He opened his eyes, pushed his shoulders back and grabbed their plates. With a flourish he set the cod in white wine sauce in front of her, then slid into the seat opposite. Anticipation fired through him.
She sniffed. He leaned in closer, watching for the dreamy expression he’d imagined rippling across her face. If he had her pegged right, Bella would react to fine food the way other women reacted to jewellery.
‘They’ve used oregano in the sauce instead of marjoram.’ Her lips turned down. ‘Why overpower the delicate taste of the fish like that?’ Her clear eyes met his, disappointment etched in their depths. He lost the power to speak.
She picked up her fork, flaked off a small piece and brought it to her lips. He held his breath and waited. No dreamy expression appeared. Disappointment burned through him, hot and acrid.
As if she could feel his gaze, she glanced up and met it. ‘It’s nice and moist, though,’ she said with a faintly resigned, ‘it’s what I expected’ half smile, half grimace. As if she