More Than Perfect(14)

 Her grip tightened on her wrap and she refused to look at him, afraid to look in case she lost the tenuous hold she maintained on her self-control. What would he do if she fisted her hands in that black silk jacket and yanked him to her? Kissed him in a way no employee had any business kissing her boss? Would he take her? Or reject her?

 “You disapprove of my choice?” she asked.

 The power of his gaze grew weightier, sharper. So tightly focused she could feel it laser into her very bones. “Hell, no. Though now that I’ve seen you in this, I’m not sure I can stand having you wear any more of those chair upholstery suits you favor.”

 “That isn’t your decision.” Her head swiveled in his direction and she fought to keep her voice cold and distant. “Nor do you have any say in the matter.”

 “And if I insist on having a say? If I claim the way you dress reflects on me? On Diablo?”

 Furious words rose up, fighting for escape, trembling on the verge of utterance. To her profound relief, the cab pulled to a stop in front of her house. Not waiting for Lucius to play the part of the gentleman, she erupted from the cab. “Thank you for escorting me home. I’ll see you Monday morning.”

 She slammed the door closed before he had a chance to reply and flew up the steps of her 1940s era Craftsman cottage. She fumbled in her envelope purse for her key, found it and was just about to jam it into the lock when she heard the slow, deliberate footsteps climbing the stairs behind her. She spun around. The cab was gone.

 Lucius wasn’t.

 “Well?” he asked. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

 Bad idea. Very bad idea. “Sure.” Idiot. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

 “Sounds perfect.”

 She fought to address him with a casual air and came within waving distance. Not that she fooled him. Lucius wasn’t a man to fool, or a man to make a fool of. He continued to regard her with a watchful gaze, seeing far too much for her peace of mind. “I’ll give you the grand tour while it’s brewing. Not that it’s all that grand,” she chattered. It took four tries to get her key into the lock and the door opened. She threw a brilliant smile over her shoulder. “I guess the first improvement on my list is better lighting so I can see to open the door.”

 He returned her smile, though his eyes were knowing. Of course they were, damn him. Devlin never missed a thing. He stepped across the threshold and closed the door behind him, overpowering the dainty, feminine foyer with an excess of testosterone. He glanced around, nodding in approval. “This is charming, Angie.”

 “It needs paint. Carpets. Upgraded plumbing.” Babbling! “But the electrical is sound, as is the basic structure.”

 He took his time looking around. “I like that the place has its original molding and hardwood floors. So many of the older homes have had those things stripped out and sold to restoration companies.”

 She led the way to the kitchen and started the coffee brewing. “Speaking of restoration, I was thinking about restoring the ’40s look of the place, sort of like what Moretti did with the Diamondt building. Retro appliances. Antiques from that time period.” She removed cups and saucers from the cupboard, her enthusiasm taking over. “It has two bedrooms and baths on this level, along with a powder room. One of the baths would be perfect for a claw-foot tub and one of those elegant pedestal sinks. Then there’s the upstairs. It’s unfinished right now and I’m not sure whether I want to put in a master suite up there or an office.”

 “A master suite would add more to the resell value. You can always turn one of the downstairs bedrooms into a home office.”

 She poured the coffee and turned to hand him a cup. He was so close she almost dumped it on him. “Sorry,” she murmured, taking a swift step backward that jammed her up against the counter. For some reason she had difficulty meeting his gaze. “There are times I think this place is built more like a dollhouse than a house meant for adults.”

 “You’re nervous. That’s a first for you.” He tilted his head to one side, his eyes as black as the bowels of hell. “Why is that, Angie?”

 She made a helpless shrug. “You’re my boss. And we’re in my home.”

 “And we’re blurring the lines?”

 “Something like that,” she admitted. Honesty forced her to confess, “Okay, totally that.”

 “Normally, we aren’t the sort of people who blur lines.”