"So I can boss you around, Chubbs."
"Right."
His slow grin made her pulse speed up. "Get my whip out."
"Right."
Evidently, he was kidding about the job. For just a moment she'd thought he was serious. When she reached for the wine to pour herself another glass, he beat her to it. "I expect any assistant of mine to be on call at a moment's notice, ready to leave with me as soon as I need them. Someone who knows me, can anticipate what I want, before I even know it. Someone unflappable in a crisis, who doesn't take my occasional bouts of bad temper personally."
She rolled her eyes. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph, where do I fill out the application form? Sounds like a dream job."
"Very funny, Mulligan."
Swinging her leg under the table she accidentally knocked her knee against his. The contact sent a jolt through her body, as well as the table. Wine spilled.
"You can't sit there," she muttered, dabbing hurriedly at the puddle with her napkin. "I'm waiting for someone."
He scratched his ear. "A date?" It was a damn shame that he should have hands like those, she thought peevishly. Why couldn't they be on a nice man? They were large, expressive hands with long fingers and he used them a lot when he talked. The thick, silver band of his wrist watch winked at her as he gestured, drawing attention to one of his best features. Regrettably.
People said he'd punched faces with those hands. Taken out the opposition. He fought dirty, they claimed.
Whomever handled his publicity these days had made an effort to turn his image around, make him appear less like the gutter fighter who built his empire with questionable methods. He was trying for a more legitimate image—the golden poster boy for the American dream. And it had been quite a successful campaign. But she wasn't fooled by the expensive suits, handmade shoes and charity work. He was still the tough-nosed, wise-cracking, arrogant boy from Brighton Beach who—as he once boasted to her— knew twenty ways to cheat her out of a buck and her panties.
Bry often found her mind wandering when she looked at his masterful hands, thinking what he might do with them. The latest fantasy involved cream pastries.
She gulped down the remaining wine in her glass. At this rate she'd be drunk before Helena arrived. Probably a good thing.
"I said," the man across the table repeated firmly, "is it a date?"
Why did he want to know? And what right did he have to ask? "Jealous?" she replied with another snort. Not very ladylike, Bryony, she heard her mother's voice.
He paused, eyes narrowed. "Maybe I am," he replied thoughtfully.
A shocked chuckle caught in her throat. She wished it was a date, just to show him. "Going to send a gypsy violinist to serenade us?"
"Not at lunch, no." He checked his cufflinks. "So who is he?"
She groaned. He'd find out sooner or later anyway. Sadly, she couldn't keep an air of mystery even if she wanted to. "It's Helena."
A little smile curved his thin lips and he blinked those deep, emerald green eyes. "Ah. Cousin Hel. How is she?"
That, she mused, remained to be seen. "Don't you speak to Carl these days?"
He drummed his fingers on the table, his darting gaze swiftly taking in the other diners. "Not...Not often. Been busy." She got the sense he was hiding something. "Aha! Here comes the waiter."
* * * *
So she hadn't heard the latest from her cousin. Yet. She'd no doubt find out over lunch. Better get out of the line of fire, away from the fallout. He'd already spent two hours last night with Carl who, for some reason, chose to spill intimate details about his marriage during the course of venting over beer and burgers. Ben was never comfortable knowing about other people's private lives and certainly never wanted to know about his cousin's sex life, but in those two hours he'd been given a blow-by-blow account. No pun intended. The thought of Helena in a naughty nurse outfit, offering to give Carl an enema, had almost brought the burger back up. Apparently it did the same for Carl who was completely rattled by his wife's sudden desire to explore new frontiers in sex.
"I don't get it," he'd moaned to Ben between chugs on a Dos Equis bottle. "I thought she was perfectly happy for sixteen years. You know, missionary position every Saturday without fail, a little outdoor from behind in the summer. Occasionally a crotchless, lace teddy or some edible undies, if it's my birthday. Nothing too out-there. Now, suddenly she wants to experiment. I've got Horny Housewife Helena on my hands. I blame the books she's been reading."
What, exactly, he expected Ben to say or do, was beyond him, so he'd just lent a listening ear, nodding as required, trying not to laugh.