Ella stopped buttering her bread roll to blink over at Mrs. Anderson. “Me? Model?” She looked as if she might laugh.
“Ella’s my housekeeper,” Tristan piped up.
Mrs. Anderson coughed on a mouthful of soup. “I beg your pardon? Did you say housekeeper?”
Tristan rested his hand on the back of Ella’s chair. “Her desserts are heaven on earth.”
While Ella’s smile said she was a little embarrassed by the attention, Tristan felt nothing but proud. From the expressions on the other men’s faces, they wished their help’s looks and charm compared. Housekeeper turned perfect special-occasion-partner. If things panned out, she’d become much more than that.
Ella and Mrs. Butler, who’d married a successful dot-com entrepreneur, struck up a conversation that lasted through mains. By dessert Ella was sharing recipes with the other women, who vowed to pass the secrets on to their own cooks and housekeepers. Betty Lipid suggested Ella put together her own celebrity cookbook.
Ella sipped her dessert wine. “I’m hardly a celebrity.”
Betty raised a brow. “But our Tristan is.” She directed her next words to him. “And might I say, you’re looking uncommonly well. All that good living?” She grinned. “Food, I mean.”
Tristan didn’t take offence. Let Betty Lipid and the others think what they would. In fact, soon he hoped their speculation over himself and Ella being more than employee and employer wouldn’t merely be gossip. The more he considered it, the more a proposal of marriage seemed to fit. She was attractive, poised, at-tentive, demure—he’d bet a bankroll Ella would make a great mother. He’d always envisioned himself with a big family of boys. He wanted to be the kind of dad his father had never been.
He took in Ella’s unsuspecting profile and his smile faded.
Her conversation with Mr. Scarpini last night was another reason this idea was a good one. Unless Scarpini was as stupid as he was cowardly, he would quit hassling Ella once he discovered her bystander-employer would soon become her protective husband.
Ella pushed away her mousse and held her stomach. “Delicious, but I can’t eat another bite.”
Tristan set his napkin on the table. “I’m done, too.”
When he stood and took her hand, a look of terror filled her eyes. “What are you doing?”
“They’re playing our song.”
He tugged and she reluctantly got to her feet. “We don’t have a song.”
“We do now.”
A step behind, she followed him out onto the dance floor. When he wound his arm around her, she stiffened, but as they began to move, her rigidity dissolved bit by bit. Positioned against each other like this, his body pressed lightly against her supple curves, he knew she was thinking about their kiss. So was he. He couldn’t wait to sample those honeyed lips a second, then a third time.
But he could wait…at least until he got her home.
“Have you spoken to your brother?” she asked.
Tristan frowned. If she’d wanted to temper his mood, it worked.
“No, we haven’t spoken,” he replied. “But I’ll need to, I suppose. Josh is holding a get-together tomorrow with his fiancée and her family. Cade will be there.”
Her grin was wry. “Good luck.”
Tristan’s palm traveled to the dip in her back. “Would you like to come?” he asked, swaying with her, enjoying the up close and personal contact more than she could know. With her alongside him, the family ordeal with Cade present wouldn’t seem half as un-pleasant, which was a bit of a revelation. He’d never felt so assured about a woman’s company before.
“Are they needing someone to serve?” she asked in-nocently, and he laughed.
“No, Ella, I want you to accompany me.”
She blinked and her sapphire eyes sparkled. “How will you explain me?”
He played with a frown. “How should I explain you?”
She trod on his toe and they both flinched. “How about as the woman who can’t dance to save herself?”
“You have other talents. You don’t need to dance well.”
She huffed good-humouredly. “At least you’re honest.”
“Not insensitive?”
“I can’t imagine you ever being that.”
Her lashes lowered and he gathered her slightly closer, smiling at the same feeling he’d experienced when he’d hired her months ago. This—she—felt right. Last night when he’d gone to bed, he hadn’t been able to shake the image of how good she’d looked in that pink bikini. Then the bikini had vanished and he’d imagined them together in his bed. The more he thought about it, the more he wanted it. Wanted her.
With his mouth resting against the shell of her ear, he murmured, “You look stunning in that gown.”
After a moment, she replied in a thready voice, “Thank you.”
“But you didn’t wear your earrings.”
He deliberately brushed his lips against her ear again and smiled as a tremor ran through her.
“I’m afraid they wouldn’t pass the ‘are they real or not’ test.”
He grinned. Yes, those sapphire drops he’d seen in the jewelry shop window would have looked perfect tonight. But perhaps Ella didn’t like sapphires. Some women preferred emeralds, others wanted only diamonds. He’d known a few women like that. “Do you have a favorite stone?”
“A gem, you mean? I’ve never thought about it.”
He heard the note of strain and uncertainty mixed with brewing arousal in her voice and realized how much pressure his palm had exerted on her lower back. He was aroused too, and Ella, as well as the area above her thighs, would no doubt have recognized the fact.
Not feeling nearly as contrite as he should, he said, “I’m making you uncomfortable.” She accidentally trod on his foot again. Hiding a wince, he pulled back and cleared his throat. “Would you prefer to sit down?
Her face was pained. “I think you would.”
He chuckled and admitted, “Next time I’ll wear steel-toe boots.”
“You’re a sucker for punishment.”
“It’s no hardship, believe me.”
No truer words had been spoken.
He wasn’t quite conscious of the movement, but as he smiled into her eyes, his head bowed over hers until her spine arched slightly back. He felt her intake of air and saw in her eyes…She wondered if he would kiss her again, here in front of everyone. And, God above, he was tempted.
Instead he found the strength to show some mercy and release her. On their way back to their table, they bumped smack-dab into Mayor Rufus.
Hiding his surprise—he wasn’t prepared for this meeting—Tristan squared his shoulders. “George. I didn’t realize you’d be here.”
They shook hands and the mayor nodded once. “Tristan. Nice to see you.” But the mayor’s tone wasn’t convincing.
Tristan set his jaw. He’d invested not only large amounts of money, but also his heart and soul into his current resort project. This man could seal the deal with a nod on rezoning, and just as easily run a red pen through and obliterate twelve months of Tristan’s working life—geological reports, feasibility studies, copious meetings with architects.
Did Rufus still blame Tristan