Talking Dirty With the Boss(32)

“No. My housekeeper did.”

“Unbelievable,” Marisa muttered. Then she shook out the material, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose. And as he watched, trying not to protest as she proceeded to decimate his perfectly clean linen, she opened her purse and got out a pocket mirror. Then she cleaned herself up, getting rid of the signs of distress before whipping out a tube of mascara and applying it with an expert hand.

He found the whole procedure oddly familiar and somehow fascinating. It was her equivalent of a ritual. A routine. Applying the mask, putting herself to rights the way he often did.

If she found his watching her odd, she didn’t comment. Once she’d applied her mascara, touched up her lipstick, and put away her mirror, she held out the now-soggy handkerchief to him.

He didn’t look at it. “Keep it.”

She frowned but then shrugged and tucked the material away in her purse. Then after a moment she said, “All right, fine. We’ll go to your place and have your little talk. But there better be ice cream, okay?” Another of her mercurial changes of mood altered her expression. “Oh, and I meant it about having to borrow money. Because I have no idea how I’m going to pay for this damn auction.”

…

“Leave the auction money to me,” Luke said, doing another of those clothing adjustment things he seemed to do a lot of. Maybe it was a nervous tic? “I’ll handle it.”

Marisa pulled a face. “Yes, but I’m the one who kept bidding when I shouldn’t have.”

“I’ll lend you the money then.” He turned toward the door. “At a nominal interest rate.”

Well, she didn’t much like the sound of that, either, not when she’d only now paid off her credit card. Man, why had she inherited her mother’s looks instead of her penny-pinching ways? Those would be a damn sight more useful, that’s for sure.

“Okay,” she said. “But it’s going to be years before I can pay you back the whole amount.”

Luke stood by the door. “We’ll solve that one once I have some time to go through your finances.”

“Excuse me?”

“Whether you meant to or not, you bought my financial services for six months. So that’s what you’ll get.” He pulled open the door for her courteously. “After you.”

Marisa didn’t quite know how to respond to that, so she said nothing as she walked through the door and out into the corridor beyond. Because his financial services weren’t exactly high priority right now. Not when she was so consumed with the embarrassment of completely losing it in front of him.

The shock of the pregnancy and her idiocy at the auction, reality sinking in about having a baby with a man she didn’t know, who happened to also be her boss, coupled with the fact that after angsting about how to tell him, he’d guessed anyway, had overwhelmed her completely. Pregnancy hormones had only added to the disaster of tears and running mascara and snot.

Ugh. While he’d stood there, wooden as a stick, patting her on the shoulder and saying “there, there.”

Oddly enough, though, she’d found his calm detachment helpful in pulling herself together. Perhaps if he’d gotten angry or panicked, it might have been a different story. He’d been cool and calm and logical. For some reason that had been more comforting than hugs or any amount of soothing.

“About the ice cream,” he said as they walked down the corridor toward the foyer together. “I don’t have any.”

“Then we need to stop and get some.” If she couldn’t have a glass of wine, she was damn well having a sundae. With chocolate sauce.

“How does having ice cream help?”

“It’s a girl thing. You wouldn’t understand.”

A frown flickered over his handsome features. “It’ll delay us.”

“No ice cream, no discussion.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “Unless you want me to snot-cry over another one of your handkerchiefs again?”

An expression of distaste crossed his face. “I’m sure we have time to stop, in that case.”

As they got to the entrance, Luke went to speak to one of the theater staffers while Marisa flicked off a quick text to Christie.

Sorting out the finance stuff with Luke. Then going home. Catch you later, St. John.

She’d tell her friend the real deal at some point. Soon. When things had been sorted between Luke and herself. If that were possible.

The theater had arranged valet parking for the event, so she and Luke waited outside while Luke’s car was brought around the front. Expecting something staid and safe like a Volvo, Marisa was rather surprised to see a low-slung, glossy black Aston Martin pulling up in front of them. It was beautiful, all long, lean curves, built for speed, not city driving.