It was busy, the hum of laughter and conversation quietly relaxed and delectable smells of herbs and garlic pervading the atmosphere. Caz was warmly greeted by the smiling proprietor and they were immediately shown to a corner table, where two glasses of prosecco were placed in front of them.
To her shame, Tarn realised her mouth was watering.
Caz raised his glass. ‘Salute.’
She returned the toast haltingly, glad when menus soon followed and she could focus on something other than the man watching her with frank intensity across the table.
Get a grip, she castigated herself, as she scanned the listed dishes. If he finds you attractive, make the most of it. If he was anyone else, you’d be relishing the situation and wondering how soon you could begin to flirt a little.
And all this talk of him avoiding office entanglements is just garbage. Evie wasn’t a one-off. He’s making that perfectly clear right now.
But if he’s to suffer as much as he deserves, then you need him to be more than simply attracted to you. He has to want you so badly that it’s like a sickness with him. A sickness for which you will never provide the cure.
And you’re used to keeping men at arms’ length. You’ve been doing it since adolescence. You can manage it again for as long as it’s necessary.
Besides, he’s the boss and you’re just a lowly handmaid toiling on one of the Brandon Organisation’s many publications, so you have every excuse for maintaining a respectful distance. But, it’s also time to move from awkward to friendly.
She sighed lightly and looked at him her eyes smiling under her sweep of lashes. ‘I seem to be spoiled for choice. As you eat here regularly, what can you recommend?’
He returned her smile. ‘If you don’t object to veal, the Saltimbocca Romagna is usually excellent.’
‘I have no real hang-ups about food,’ she said. ‘I’ll have it, with the gnocchi to start.’
‘And I’ll have the same, but begin with the wild mushroom risotto.’
He gave the order, and they agreed on a bottle of Friulano to go with it.
‘So,’ he said when the waiter had departed, leaving bowls of olive oil and chunks of bread to dip into them on the table.
‘You seem to be enjoying your work on All Your Own. How do you rate it as a magazine?’
Tarn thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘I’d say it hits most of its targets.’
‘It certainly used to,’ he said drily. ‘However, the previous editor was keen on attracting a much younger readership.’ He drank some prosecco. ‘The numbers took a dive as a result.’
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘So that’s why I’ve been re-writing Annetta’s story. It was intended for the youth market.’
‘Re-writing?’ His brows lifted. ‘Is that within an assistant’s remit?’
‘Anything would have been an improvement on the original submission,’ Tarn said, mentally kicking herself. ‘But Lisa will naturally do the final draft.’
‘I wasn’t being critical. I’m seriously impressed.’ He pushed a bowl of herb-flavoured oil closer to her. ‘Try this with some bread. You look ready to fade away with hunger.’
His caring side, thought Tarn, fighting down cold fury as she tasted and made appreciative noises. And it was certainly a lovely restaurant, its tables far enough apart for privacy and set with snowy cloths, gleaming silver and crystal. But its air of quiet luxury was enhanced by a good atmosphere, and later arrivals than themselves were being accorded the same friendly welcome.
I wonder if this was where he brought Evie—that first time, she thought. If he also suggested to her what she might order. Asked if she was enjoying her work.
And Evie would have lapped it up. Unused to places like this, she would have gazed around her, getting more excited by the minute. Unable to believe how lucky she was to be in this glamorous restaurant with this equally glamorous man.
Everything about him spoke money—the exquisite tailoring, the expensive shirt, the plain platinum wristwatch. And all this, allied to the aura of power he carried so effortlessly, added up to a lethal combination.
She was like a lamb to the slaughter, Tarn thought bitterly. And he’s probably used the same first date script with me as he did with her—learned by heart and used to decide whether the girl rates a follow-up rendezvous.
And I have to make it imperative for him to see me again—and not just by accident next time, but because he can’t keep away.
He said reflectively, ‘Tarn. That’s a very lovely name—and unusual too.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘A little too much so, I used to think. There can’t be many girls called after a mountain lake, so naturally, when I went to school, I got re-christened “Drippy”.’
His brows lifted. ‘Anyone less so I’ve yet to meet. What did you do?’
‘Nothing.’ Tarn shrugged. ‘Just pretended I hadn’t heard and didn’t care. But the name stuck and followed me from year to year. I hoped they’d get tired of the joke but they didn’t.’
He pulled a face. ‘Kids can be monsters. Have you ever told your parents what they put you through and extracted a grovelling apology?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I never did.’ And paused. ‘Anyway, where did Caz come from?’
He sighed. ‘You’re not the only sufferer. I was born on January the Sixth and my mother insisted I should be called after one of the three Kings, and fortunately she picked Caspar over Melchior and Balthazar or I should have been in even more trouble.’
He smiled at her. ‘So that’s the first thing we have in common.’
‘And probably the one and only.’ She managed to infuse her tone with a note of faint regret.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ She shrugged again. ‘You own the company. I work for it.’
‘And you find that an insuperable obstacle in the way of our better acquaintance?’
‘I think it has to be.’ She gave him a reflective look. ‘And if you’re honest, so do you.’
Except honesty isn’t really your thing, is it, Mr Mighty Publishing Tycoon?
He spoke slowly, his lean, brown fingers toying with the stem of his glass in a way that dried her throat in some inexplicable manner. ‘If you’re asking whether or not I usually date my employees, the answer is an emphatic “No.”’ He added, ‘Besides, this isn’t really a date.’
She flushed. ‘No—no, I understand that.’
‘But it will be next time.’ It was said casually, almost thrown away, and, with that, the wine arrived, followed almost immediately by their first course choices, and Tarn, biting back an instinctive gasp of surprise, was left floundering, even wondering if she’d heard him correctly.
Because it was all happening too fast. And this was not part of the plan at all. He was not supposed to be in control. She was.
She tried to concentrate her whole attention on the gnocchi in its wonderful creamy sauce, but, in spite of herself, found that she was stealing covert glances at him under her lashes. No matter what her secret feelings might be, she could not deny his attraction. Or this slow, almost inexorable build in her physical awareness of him. His mouth—the way his smile lit his eyes, just as Evie had said—his hands…
All of them things she had not allowed for. And what she least wanted to deal with.