The Billionaire’s Hotline(8)
“No.” Her voice sounded ragged. “Let’s have a pretzel,” she suggested desperately, making her way to the soft pretzel vendor and securing a giant twist of salty dough. He shook his head when offered a bite, but subsided and waited for her to finish.
“I suppose we should go to the concert hall now,” Jasper said, offering his arm.
When his hired car pulled up and he seated her in it, they sped luxuriantly to the venue, his hand on her knee, hot through the thin fabric. Their tickets were at the will-call window, but an usher made Jasper don a borrowed suit jacket to enter—it was tight across the shoulders and shiny with age. She knew he wasn’t dressed for the symphony and she had her suspicions why, suspicions that made her hold his arm more closely, rest her cheek against his sleeve when they were seated.
The music was exquisite, and her trained ear appreciated the precision and brightness of the instruments and their players. During the final movement, she was preoccupied with how to get rid of Jasper and avoid ending up in his apartment with her borrowed dress on the floor. His practiced touch was overwhelming, a temptation nearly impossible to combat. When she turned to glimpse him, to gauge his interest in the music, she found that he was watching her, not the orchestra below. Startled, she flushed and he put his hand to her cheek. They sat motionless for minutes, his hand on her face, her eyes locked on his, breathless, before the music changed and the moment passed.
“Thank you for a lovely evening. I know from that jacket that this isn’t what you had planned.”
“I was going to return it, but I think I’ll give it a decent burial instead.” He regarded it critically, gesturing to Hannah to help remove it because the sleeves were so snug. She peeled the jacket off him and stepped back before she could be tempted to remove anything else.
“It was a wonderful evening. I’m going to take a cab home. I have some work to do—”
He caught her in his arms midsentence. “You’re lying,” he challenged, his face mere inches from hers.
“What?”
“Your voice lowered and you looked to the left. I have it on good authority that you just committed a classic lying tell. As a punishment for your utter lack of sincerity, I insist you come to my apartment for coffee.”
“You don’t drink coffee.”
“Interestingly enough, I have a French press and the ingredients to make a truly superior espresso, or so Miss Hollingford assured me.”
“A French press? You might as well offer to show me your etchings.”
“Etchings wouldn’t get you in the door. With a French press, you’re mine.”
“How long have you had it? Does it still work?”
“It had better. I sent Miss Hollister out to get one this morning in hopes of enticing you to my lair.”
“It’s working. But I’m not sure I can work a French press dressed like this.”
“I’m sure I have something you could put on.”
“I won’t fit into anything left behind by a six foot blonde.”
“I meant something of mine. I wouldn’t mind seeing you in my robe. Or my sheets.” She bit her lip, mainly to keep from biting his.
In the dark of the car, his hands found her hair and tugged the pins out, letting it spill over his hands as he stroked her scalp, easing the tension there. She leaned over to kiss him and he pulled her across his lap, his fingers splayed warm against the triangular cutout above her stomach. The heat of his touch made her shudder. She knew as she stepped into the elevator with him that it was a terrible idea, possibly the best terrible idea she’d ever had.
His apartment was clinically neat and expansive, with high ceilings and pale wooden floors. She followed him to the kitchen and assembled the French press while he washed his hands at the sink.
“Do you have a thing about germs?” she asked.
“Excuse me? I thought washing one’s hands prior to food or beverage preparation was customary,” he said coldly.
“You’ve used hand sanitizer about twenty times tonight. Anytime you touched me, or a doorknob, or the car. It’s just an observation.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“Oh, there’s plenty wrong with you. You’re misanthropic and controlling and almost criminally obnoxious. Somehow it’s an endearing combination to me, which makes me question my sanity, not yours.” She put down the assembly and put her hands on his shoulders. “Your blood pressure cannot be good with the level of stress you’re putting on yourself. I have never met anyone as tightly wound as you, and I work with actors and musicians, who don’t have a reputation for being Zen. You have GOT to calm the fuck down.”
He turned away.
“I’ve upset you. I’m sorry,” she said, laying a hand on his arm.
“Hardly. Here. Percolate away.”
She brought him coffee, setting a white mug before him. “Sugar?” she offered.
He shook his head, wanting her to leave. “No thanks,” he managed.
“Your place is really big,” she remarked. “Clean and angular.”
“Are you going to analyze my apartment size and tell me it reflects insecurity?”
“I thought it had more to do with you having a lot of money,” she said simply, sipping her coffee and smiling. “This is really good. I’m going to have to get a French press.”
“Have that one. I don’t need it,” he said, more dismissive than generous.
“I liked the symphony,” she said, waiting for him to reply. When he remained quiet, she continued. “You said with a French press I was yours. So what will you do with me?” She looked up almost coquettishly, and the dark timbre of her voice nearly undid him with desire.
“Besides disinfecting you with hand sanitizer?” Jasper said wryly. He managed a half-smile.
“I’m sorry. I don’t think sometimes when I say something. I spend most of my time alone, working. I guess I have the social skills of a bridge troll sometimes, Jasper. I’m sorry.” Her gentleness rubbed him raw more than her scrutiny. The intimacy made him start to sweat.
“It’s fine.”
“So talk to me. I’ve missed you the last few minutes, since I pissed you off.”
“I’m going to Dubai tomorrow afternoon for a week.”
“That’s interesting. Have you been there before? I’ve seen it in the movies, the colorful markets and stuff.”
“I’ve been there for business, yes.”
“I don’t guess you’d bring me a scarf. I don’t wear scarves. I’d just hang it over a mirror and look at it and wish I had the kind of attitude that could pull off a scarf with regular clothes.”
“What color?”
“Purple,” she said instantly. “Or should I text it to Miss Hollingford?”
“I think you’ve alienated her for life.”
“I told her I was sorry. I thought you were stalking me and being pushy.”
“I’m assertive. You have to be in business.”
“This isn’t business.”
“Everything is business, Hannah.”
“Yeah, you’re a true romantic,” she scoffed, downing her coffee. “Do you have something I could wear? This is sort of binding,” she admitted, poking at the waist cincher through her dress resentfully.
Jasper brought her some clothes from a drawer. She went into his fancy marble bathroom and shucked off her borrowed dress and hateful corset, the softness of his t-shirt and shorts a relief. She took a fluffy washcloth and scrubbed off her makeup, making herself at home. Hannah padded barefoot into the cavernous living room.
He sat composedly on the black leather couch, not sprawled territorially like most men did on upholstered furniture. She curled up against him, catlike, and kissed his cheek, liking the rasp of stubble along his jaw when she pressed her lips to his face.
“Where were we in the car? Before the lights hit us and made us awkward,” he asked, nuzzling his neck. Jasper pulled her into his lap and claimed her with a kiss, his hands almost punishing in her hair. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m overdue for my five hours’ sleep.”
“I didn’t mean to waste your time.” She drew back, feeling bruised.
“No. That isn’t what I said. I said I was tired. Use your linguistic skills, Hannah,” he chided.
“I’ll go,” she said, wanting him to ask her to stay. He knows he has me. He doesn’t even need to take off my clothes to consider the conquest complete, she thought sadly. She kissed him full on the lips, not going gentle into that good night. He might be through pursuing her, but she hadn’t had all she wanted of Jasper Cates.
“You can keep the clothes,” he said against her lips, his tongue sliding into her mouth. She wound her arms around his neck, pulling him into her, his hand pushing up the back of her shirt, touching bare skin.
“What if I want to give them back now?” she offered, never breaking the kiss. “What if I could make you forget everything else?” Her hands opened the buttons of his shirt, rubbing her palms against his smooth, muscled chest. He cupped her bottom and kissed her neck, his teeth grazing tender skin. She understood why women would be lining up for those disposable phones as she shivered under his touch.