Thankfully the doors opened and she became too busy to dwell on it further. There was no sign of Daniel the entire evening and she was glad, glad, glad.
She got home a little after four. She knew she was too pumped to have any chance of sleep and so, after stripping to her sleeping attire of singlet and panties, headed to the kitchen. She stood in the doorway of the fridge and nearly jumped a foot when she heard the front door opening. Daniel appeared. In full tuxedo. Oh, my. James Bond was nothing on this guy. His jacket sat snug across his broad swimmer’s shoulders. Clean lines. The black and white suited him, damn it.
She stared, wondering for a moment if her insomnia-addled brain was playing tricks on her and this was some sort of heavenly hallucination.
‘Can’t sleep?’
No. He was real.
She shook her head. ‘Just getting some warm milk.’
He nodded. ‘Put enough in for me, will you? I think I’ll be needing it too.’ His tone was bland but she risked a quick glance. With the only light in the kitchen coming from the open fridge door, those gold-tinged eyes were giving nothing away. She looked over his tux again. Tried not to be attracted to it but failed.
She reminded herself that people in power—and Daniel was on his way to that—didn’t listen. Didn’t care. Daniel would be no different. She poured some milk into a jug. Painfully aware of how little she was wearing, she turned her back to him, keeping an eye on the milk in the microwave, compelled to make small talk to slice through her heavy awareness. ‘Good night?’
‘Yes. How was the club?’
‘Good. Busy.’
‘Good.’
End of conversation. Beginning of surreptitious looks. She encountered his gaze every time. Her stress level increased, and her body temperature soared as wicked wants started whispering in her mind. Too scary. She flashed back to the moment on the pool table when she’d come to—where after the initial terror she’d relaxed completely in his arms again. Too vulnerable. Thankfully the microwave pinged and she grabbed two mugs and filled them. Snatching one from the counter, she clutched it to her and headed away quickly. Her mind had latched onto the one thing that she knew would be an instant cure for insomnia.
Rampant sex.
‘Hope you get some sleep.’ His voice was low and a little husky and he didn’t move as she walked away from the kitchen, meaning she had to brush past just that bit too close. She squawked some sort of unintelligible reply and practically ran to her room. The recovery time was a good two hours.
Nights passed as Lucy worked in the bar. She worked hard and slept little. Tiredness made every bone creak but she refused to acknowledge it—she was determined to work harder than ever. She’d show Daniel exactly how good she was at this job—that she was mediocre no more. For once in her life she was going to shine.
The staff told her the bar was busier than usual. She’d love to think it had something to do with her, but probably it was a result of the incredibly warm weather they were having this week. The idea that she was influencing the success of the bar would be too good to be true.
Yet Isabel suggested otherwise. ‘Lara just liked having a place to hang with her mates. It was never a serious business venture for her. She never bothered with that side of it; she left it to the manager and he was useless.’
Lucy had figured that—given the state of the office. The club had only been open a year and the paperwork was in a mess. She rolled up her sleeves and discovered putting things in order was actually enjoyable. She must have inherited more of her father’s accountancy gene than she’d realised. She worked late night after night and hid in her room until she was sure Daniel had gone to work for the day. Really she should be moving out, but until she saw the first pay cheque she had little option but to stay where she was.
She didn’t see him again until after one of her shifts later that week. This time he was the one raiding the fridge and not wearing enough clothing.
‘Warm milk?’ The thread of humour was so thin she wondered if she’d dreamt it.
She shook her head. Unable to speak at the sight of him in his boxers. For a few days there she’d thought she’d got over him. It only took one second of seeing him again to return her pulse to agitated state and her desire to fever pitch. The worst thing was he knew—he saw the flame in her face before she established the control to cover it. His eyes narrowed. They engaged in one of their silent staring duels—and she was first to look away.
The following night she let Isabel and Corey finish up, getting herself to the apartment by eleven p.m. Vainly hoping for a decent sleep. Impossible. She listened for signs of Daniel—none. By midnight he still hadn’t walked in the door. He worked way too hard. She felt irrationally irritable and there was only one cure for that. She rifled through her CD file and, with favourite in hand, marched to his state-of-the-art stereo system. She put in the disc and pressed the button. The music blared. She smiled. Dancing was her answer to everything—freedom on her terms. Alone, wild and crazy—giving up control, just letting her mind go and her body move to the music. Safe. She didn’t go dancing to pick up a guy, she went to be free. To have fun. And that was why she found herself loving this job, because she could create the environment for others to do the same.
But in Daniel’s apartment right now she felt restricted—by her attraction to him, and the feeling of vulnerability that came with it. She was stunned she’d slept in his arms. It scared her. What scared her more was the feeling of safety she’d had in them. But her instinct had been well wrong on that count. He’d backed off faster than a hirsute man offered a chest wax.
She pushed the worry from her mind, turned up the volume and focused on the beat. Dance crazy and she’d wear herself out so she could sleep—that was the aim, and nothing beat dancing wildly to her favourite group. Stomping her feet and slapping her thighs, she was having a fine old time working out pure frustration.
Then the music suddenly stopped. She whirled around and saw Daniel standing at the stereo. He was impeccably dressed as ever except for the curious expression on his face. At least he wasn’t flat on the floor laughing.
‘You always do what you want, when you want to?’
She cleared her throat nervously. ‘No.’ If she did she’d be over there and on him about now. If he didn’t look so disapproving.
‘Music’s a little loud for my neighbours downstairs. It’s late.’
She snatched back her mettle. ‘Wouldn’t want them thinking you were having fun, Daniel.’
‘It’s not possible to have fun to country music, Lucy.’
‘You think? You should try it some time.’ She cast a disparaging look over him, flicked her hair with an air of studied nonchalance and hoped she could saunter to her bedroom.
‘What’s with this attitude towards honest, hard-working men in suits? Don’t you like the work ethic it represents?’
‘It doesn’t represent work ethic. It represents power, authority, status.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘I have an aversion to authority.’ He stood for everything she couldn’t stand—arrogance and an inability to understand.
‘Really.’ He laughed. ‘Do tell.’
‘I prefer an individual approach to life. I don’t like being told what to do—by anyone.’
‘So you’re the arty, flaky type through and through.’
She stopped her bad saunter and glared at him.
He strolled towards her. ‘You think you’re so cool, don’t you? No boring office wear for you in your funky, feathery clothes.’ He gestured to her multi-layered look. ‘You couldn’t possibly