“Why didn’t you just tell me? You didn’t have to pretend to be a customer.”
Anger. It rushes in to clear away the cobwebs. I can see it in the way her sleepy green eyes start to flash like two fiery emeralds.
“I wanted a few minutes alone with you before you went on guard. Like you are now.”
“Why? Am I being interviewed or something? I thought I was the one hiring you.”
“You are. But I like to know who I’m working for when I take a job like this.”
While the look on her face says she doesn’t approve of my tactic¸ she’s too curious to let it go. “And?”
“And what?”
“And what did you find out? What do you think you figured out about me in ten minutes of silence?”
I hold her gaze for long, quiet seconds before I speak. I sense how uncomfortable it makes her. I’m used to it. Such directness makes most people uncomfortable, but that doesn’t stop me. Keeping others off balance is always a benefit to me. “I don’t need to interrogate you to learn things about you. Being with you is enough.”
“Yeah, right,” she scoffs, trying for casual.
“For instance, you’re a hard worker who takes her job seriously, even though I don’t think it’s really the job you want to be working. You’re good at this, but you’re not quite at home here, which tells me that this isn’t permanent. You looked sad and distracted when I came in, like you might be missing someone. Maybe that is where home is. And then there’s the fact that you’re trying to hire me. I’d say that accounts for the worried frown I keep seeing between your eyebrows.”
Her mouth drops open for a few seconds before she snaps it shut. “Is that all?” she asks sarcastically, pulling her vest tighter around her middle like she feels naked. I’m used to that, too. No one likes to feel exposed, like their secrets aren’t theirs to keep anymore.
“No, that’s not all, but I doubt you want to hear the rest.”
She eyes me warily for a few seconds before she raises her chin, eyes locked bravely onto mine. “Of course I do.”
She’s courageous. Ballsy. I like that.
“Well, just off hand you have a good eye for color, which makes me think you’re artistic. Artists are usually very . . . emotional. I’d say that when you’re not consumed with concern you have a tendency to throw yourself into the way you feel regardless of potential outcomes.”
“You can’t possibly know that.”
“I can. And I do. Just like I know you wash your hair in something that contains lilac.” Her eyes widen, but she says nothing so I continue, leaning in ever so slightly. “And then there’s the fact that you’re attracted to me. You don’t want to be. You probably even think that you shouldn’t be, but that’s like catnip for you, isn’t it?”
She’s shaken. Visibly shaken, but I don’t back off. I don’t give her a centimeter of the space I can see that she needs. I want her this way—off balance, uncertain. She’s the kind of woman who would rather feel than think if she has a choice. And that’s good for me. Not only will it serve my purposes very well, it’s also sexy as hell.
Her cheeks blaze with a rush of blood and I think about running my finger over her skin to see if it’s as silky as it looks. But I don’t. At this point that would be too much. I’m nothing if not intuitive. And controlled. In my line of work, I have to be.
I actually smile when she steps out from between the desk and me. I can see by her expression that she’s choosing to ignore my assessment altogether. It’s much easier than trying to deny the truth.
“You, um, you said ‘take a job like this.’ A job like what? I thought this is what you do.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “My jobs aren’t exactly like this, but they’re close enough. The main thing is that I . . . find things. And I’m damn good at it. So tell me, beautiful, what can I find for you?”
THREE
Muse
His voice, his intensity . . . God! Is he really just asking me an innocent question? Because it seems like he’s asking me so much more.
“Uh, it’s not a ‘what.’ It’s a ‘who.’”
He nods once. Slowly. His eyes never leave mine, constantly boring, examining, searching. “Okay, then who can I find for you, Muse?”
Goose bumps spread down my arms as though he touched me when he said my name. He didn’t, of course, but he might as well have.
Who the hell is this guy? And what the hell is wrong with me?
Maybe the stress has finally driven me over the edge. Or maybe it’s just been so long since I’ve connected with someone—really connected—that I’m making more out of this than there actually is. Either way, it’s not a good thing. I can’t be thinking like this, feeling like this. There are more important things I need to focus on.