She was going to have to spell it out this time. So that he’d understand and never ask again. She couldn’t bear this.
“Because I’ve worked damn hard to get where I am. And I’m not having anyone denigrating my efforts by saying that I got there because I slept with one of the Almighty Jarrods.”
“That didn’t matter to you in New York.”
“Because I didn’t know you were a Jarrod then—not one of these Jarrods.” She drew a steadying breath, refusing to be provoked. “And in New York I didn’t know anyone—I was on temporary assignment. Here, at the Food and Wine Gala, there are a lot of people I know. People who respect me. People who may offer me work.”
She tilted her head back and gazed up at him.
“How long do you think their respect will last once they know I’m living in your penthouse suite?”
“It won’t be like that.”
“It’s always like that. Everyone will think me a lucky little gold digger who landed a rich lover—exactly what you accused me of only a few days ago.”
His gaze fell before hers.
“I apologize, I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No, you shouldn’t. Your apology is accepted. But it doesn’t change the fact that I’m not moving in with you.”
There was a long pause. Avery tensed, waiting for an argument, for him to sweep her up in his arms, for something.
But he only said, “We need to work on the presentation we’re giving tomorrow.”
Back to work. The professional relationship that was all she could ever afford to share with him.
So why did she want to sag with disappointment that he’d accepted her decision? At least she knew she could deal with Guy on the work front.
Hurriedly she said, “Well, we might as well talk about both presentations.” The second presentation was next Wednesday, less than a week away. “Give me an hour, I’ll come up to your suite.” She made herself give him a cheeky smile. “Have dinner ready, but don’t think that you can change my mind about staying the night.”
Avery was true to her word.
The intercom buzzed exactly an hour later—and Guy activated the private elevator for her to come up, then opened the door to his suite.
She stepped into his living room, a tote slung over her shoulder and a bright smile on her face. She was wearing high-heel slides, a pair of her trademark white jeans and a strawberry-ice silk blouse that clung to her curves. She looked good enough to lick.
“Come in,” said Guy huskily.
“Oh, that looks good.”
Her attention had homed in on an array of mouthwatering tapas spread on the low square coffee table where two sofas sat beside the empty fireplace. “Funny how the sight of food always seems to remind me of how long it’s been since I last ate.”
“Room service,” he said laconically.
She slid him an amused look as she sat down on the nearest sofa. “And there I thought you’d been slaving in the kitchen preparing our meal. You still owe me a meal—you promised to make me one in New York, and you never did.”
Never again. He’d done that on the night of her birthday…and had been left cooling his heels while she entertained herself with Jeff.
“We’ve got a lot of work to get through,” he said tersely. “Let’s get started.”
She didn’t take the hint. “You know, while I stayed with you most of our food was take out from Baratin’s—”
“What’s wrong with that? Most women would kill to never have to cook.”
“I cooked.”
“Very occasionally—and then only breakfast.” He tipped his head to the side. “Now that I think back, it was toast and cereal most mornings.”
“Do you have any idea how intimidating it is to cook for a chef? Obviously not! Except you never cooked—I’m seriously beginning to wonder if you actually know how to cook, or whether you’re just a fraud.” She slanted him a teasing glance from under those fluttery eyelashes.
Despite the gloom that the memory of her birthday had cast over him, Guy found himself laughing. She’d always been able to charm a smile from him.
“Avery, that’s something I sometimes wonder myself. I employ chefs these days. I seem to spend more time doing paperwork and juggling numbers than cooking. The business courses Dad insisted I take are being used more than my chef credentials.”
“I’m always impressed when I watch food shows.” She leaned back on the couch, folding her hands behind her head. With her glinting eyes half closed, she was all temptress. “Those so efficient chefs, chopping onions without weeping, producing masterpieces in minutes. You’ll have to show me how it’s done.”
Guy suppressed the urge to rush to the kitchen, don an apron, anything to impress her. Been there, never again. “Maybe one day.”
But he had no intention of exposing himself that way again.
Avery kicked off her slides. Guy caught a glimpse of pink-tipped toes before she tucked her feet underneath her. From her tote, she drew out a black notebook and a pen.
“Okay, so where shall we start?”
Guy was still admiring the picture she made, the way her white jeans clung to her thighs, and fantasizing about feeding her strawberries that he’d flambéed to impress her then licking the flavour from her lips.
Caught off guard by her businesslike demeanor he found himself stuttering, “Uh…I have a PowerPoint presentation that will provide some material.”
She tipped her face toward the flat-screen television that dominated the wall across from where she sat, then looked expectantly back at him. “Let’s watch it.”
Hell, he hadn’t linked his laptop.
Guy rubbed the back of his neck. “When we’ve finished talking.”
She shifted, a little wriggle that had Guy clenching his teeth in frustration, before she settled again.
He barely knew what they talked about for the next twenty minutes, except that Avery seemed to take copious notes…and make numerous suggestions—none of which he was likely to retain.
Not when she was such a tempting distraction.
Finally, Avery closed her notebook with a snap and said, “Good, that should wrap it up.”
Guy was simply relieved that the torture was at an end. Until she reached for a toothpick and speared a piece of spicy chorizo with it. Popping it in her mouth, she chewed, head tilted to one side, then said, “That was very tasty. There’s a smoky flavor that would go well with an oaked and well-aged red made from tempranillo grapes.”
“That would be a great match.”
A frown furrowed her brow. “I detect a spice I can’t place.”
Guy tried to tell himself that this was still work. Matching food and wine. But his body refused to believe him. All he could do was stare at her mouth like a hungry hound after a meal.
“Have you eaten?”
He shook his head, not trusting his voice. “You should.”
With delicate grace she took a second toothpick out of the white porcelain holder and spiked a piece of chorizo then added a sun-dried tomato, and offered it to him.
His heart thumped.
He bent his head, took it from her fingers, aware of the unconscious eroticism of the gesture.
The sweetness of the tomato and the spicy sausage complemented one another.
“What do you think?” Her brow had crinkled. “Can you identify that elusive spice?”
“Pimentón,” he said huskily, watching her help herself to a shrimp cake. “Spanish paprika.”
She snapped her fingers. “You’re right.” Then she speared a fat, shiny black olive. “So,” she said, “what thoughts do you have about the menus for the restaurants?”
This was work, what Jarrod Ridge was paying her for. No doubt she’d be keeping track of every second to bill the resort. He forced himself to concentrate. “A total re-vamp.”
Another olive went the same way as the last. Guy almost growled. But he managed to feed himself and stanch some of the physical hunger. Too soon the platters on the table were empty.
“When are you going to put the PowerPoint on?”
She had to be joking, right?
One glance revealed she wasn’t. The notebook was propped against her thigh, and a pencil twisted between her fingers. She expected them to work. Guy suppressed a sigh and hooked his laptop up to the flat screen. Then he settled down on the couch beside her.
He put his hand on her leg.
“Hey.”
He took it off. This time he sighed loudly.
With no choice he focused on the screen, conscious of every move of her hand as she scribbled the occasional note.
The room grew darker. There were a couple of clips of interviews and Avery put her pad and pencil down on the coffee table. “Seen enough?”
She shook her head. “I want to watch it all.”
Guy’s thoughts wandered. He’d seen parts of the presentation countless times. He was tempted to flick it forward, speed it up.
Dammit, he’d had enough of work.
He ached to kiss Avery. It had been too long. When her head brushed his shoulder, his pulse surged and he slung an arm around her. She rewarded him by snuggling up against him. Guy couldn’t wait for the program to finish.
Her breathing grew more regular. Guy peered down at her through the dim light, and suppressed a groan.
Avery had fallen asleep!
She looked so young, so innocent, with her dark lashes falling against smooth cheeks. Guy stroked the feathery bangs off her face with gentle fingers. She stirred, and he stilled, but instead of waking she only burrowed closer.
Emotion bolted through him, fierce and primitive and defying him to put a name to it.
With one hand he pressed the remote and the screen went black. Scooping Avery up into his arms, he rose and headed for his bedroom. Muted light spilled from the bedside lamp. There, surrounded by the burgundy and muted gold décor, he laid her down and gently arranged the covers over her, before shedding his shirt, dropping his jeans and lowering himself beside her.
Instantly she curled into him.
The spontaneity of the gesture pierced his heart. Guy gathered her close, and closed his eyes. Nuzzling at the soft fluff of her hair he was conscious of a welcome sense of contentment seeping through him.
This time he wasn’t going to let her go.
She woke in an unfamiliar room.
Avery blinked against the shaded glow of the bedside lamp. Shifting, she became aware of the warmth of a body in the bed beside her. Guy! They’d been in the sitting room of his suite, she’d felt replete and pleasantly tired. Then nothing…
They hadn’t made love. She would’ve remembered that.
Her body was curved into Guy’s spoon-fashion, her legs tangled with his. She suspected his were bare—unlike hers that were still clad in jeans.
At least he hadn’t undressed her.
He’d retained that much decency.
Nor had he made love to her.
Okay, so what did that prove? Only that Guy wasn’t a necrophiliac. She stifled a giggle and eased herself away from him. He groaned and rolled onto his back.
Avery slipped quickly out the king-size bed, her bare feet sinking into thick carpet. Guy’s arm was flung out above his head, his dark hair mussed. In sleep he looked younger, carefree, more like the Guy she’d met…what?…could it be only ten weeks ago now? She couldn’t remember what her life had been like before Guy.