Talking Dirty With the Boss (Talking Dirty#3) Read online

  She stared at him. Surely he didn’t mean that? She knew how important having his jacket all in order was to him, because every day when he came home from work, the first thing he did was take off his suit and hang it up so it remained perfectly pressed. He was a tidy kind of guy and she respected that, even if she didn’t understand it.

  “But…it’ll get dirty.”

  “I’ll get it dry-cleaned afterward.” And when she hesitated, he gestured toward it again. “Go on, sit.”

  So she did, tucking up her dress around her, watching from underneath her lashes as Luke, after hesitating, pulled at his trousers and sat next to her, legs outstretched in front of him.

  Strange man. He could be so detached sometimes and yet he was capable of caring. And of being quite romantic.

  Not that she wanted romance, of course. She had sex, and that was enough. She didn’t need romance, too.

  “So,” she said, getting out her lettuce and tomato sandwich. “What’s with the lunch thing?”

  “I thought we should talk.” Luke fastidiously folded the paper bag around his ham roll.

  “Uh-huh. About what? The baby?”

  “Actually I thought we should talk about ourselves. Get to know each other a little better. We’re going to be bringing up a child together and yet we know next to nothing about each other.”

  “Au contraire. I know you don’t like Volvos, you enjoy having sex on car bonnets, and you like driving fast. How am I doing so far?”

  His dark brows drew together. “I don’t mean those kinds of things. I mean your hopes and your dreams. What you want for the future.”

  “Sounds like a job interview. Shall I tell you what my biggest weaknesses are and where I see myself in ten years’ time, too?”

  Luke regarded her for a long moment. “Why do you do that all the time? Make things into a joke?”

  Oh hell. Marisa looked away, uncomfortable. He always seemed to notice when she tried to deflect things and he always called her on it. “I don’t mean to. I…” She stopped, trying to figure out why she was so uneasy. “Is this because you want to know about me or only because I happen to be the mother of your child and it seems appropriate?”

  The frown on his face didn’t lift, and he was obviously giving her question consideration. “Both, I think.”

  Why it should matter to her she didn’t know, but something relaxed inside her. “Okay then. What do you want to know?”

  Reaching out, Luke touched the blue bead around her neck, his fingers grazing the skin at her throat, sparks from his touch scattering everywhere. She tried not to shiver.

  “This,” he said softly. “The bead is all misshapen and not quite round, yet you wear it all the time. It’s got some significance, doesn’t it? Tell me about that.”

  Automatically, her hand reached for the smooth glass. “It’s the first piece of glass I ever made. My dad helped me make it and then put a hole in it and strung it on a necklace for me.” Gently, she rubbed the bead with her thumb.

  “Your father made glass?”

  “Yeah. We had a studio in our back garden and I used to love going and watching him create stuff. Vases and sculptures and bowls. All kinds of things. It was amazing. Glass is such a fragile medium and temperamental, but dad could do the most incredible things with it.” She paused, because the next bit was always hard. “He passed away when I was sixteen. And that’s when I decided I wanted to be an artist like him.”

  Unexpectedly something warm covered her hand where it rested on the grass. Luke’s hand over hers. Something locked tight in her chest and when she met his eyes, she saw sympathy there.

  “So what happened?” he asked.

  “Good question.” Marisa moved her hand away, trying to ignore the constriction in her chest. She picked up her hot chocolate instead, which really wasn’t what she wanted but had patiently let Luke order for her anyway, and took a sip. “I’m not exactly living my dream, am I? If you must know, I kind of got sidetracked. First by my mother, then by Alistair.”

  Luke was scowling now. “Who’s Alistair?”

  “That guy I told you about. My ex. A photographer I met during a modeling shoot when I was eighteen. I’d won a fairly major beauty pageant and he told me he could make my career take off and I… Well, he was handsome and charming, and I was an idiot and let him sweep me off my feet.”

  Luke was silent a long moment. Then he said, “This was the guy who was married and bad-mouthed you everywhere?”

  “Yeah, that’s him. He…liked spending, liked a certain lifestyle, and used to get me to pay for stuff when we were together. And I did because I loved him. I thought he needed me. Then I found out about his wife and that he’d been getting me to pay for things so she wouldn’t notice all his expenses. That’s why I was left with a whole lot of debt.” She let out a breath. Years ago, yet the memories remained painful ones. “But you know that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was how he lied to me. The whole damn time we were together. And I felt so stupid when it all blew up in my face. How dumb not to see any of the signs or pay attention to the rumors. People warned me about him but I didn’t listen. He lied to me and I was too infatuated, too young, and too stupid to see it.”

  The expression in Luke’s eyes flickered. He glanced away. “You weren’t stupid, Marisa.”

  She realized she’d picked up a daisy and had pulled it to bits, the petals all over her skirt. Carefully she brushed her skirt off. “It’s okay, Luke. It was a long time ago.”

  “Still. You weren’t stupid. You were young. And probably innocent.”

  She laughed at that. “Innocent? Moi?”

  He didn’t smile. “You were eighteen. He took advantage of you. That was wrong.”

  That tightness in her chest was back with a vengeance. She didn’t like it, so she looked back down to the half-eaten sandwich that she suddenly didn’t want any more of. “Some of it was my fault, you know. I think a part of me knew what he was doing but I let it happen anyway. He had a tortured-bad-boy thing going on and I thought I could heal him.” She made herself smile. “Eighteen-year-old girl crack, in other words.”

  Luke’s face remained unsmiling. “You mentioned getting sidetracked by your mother, too?”

  Marisa wrapped her sandwich up, her appetite gone. “Oh, Mum was an ex-beauty queen and got me onto the pageant circuit when I was a teenager. Thought it was good for my confidence and crap. After Dad died it became really important to her so I thought, why not?”

  His gaze was like an X-ray, seeing all the way inside her. “I thought you said you wanted to be a glass artist like your father?”

  Marisa closed her fingers around her sandwich. “Yeah, I know. But Mum was so upset after his death. The pageant stuff was the only thing that kept her going and it was no skin off my nose to keep doing it. I could go off and be an artist at any time, but you can only do the beauty-queen stuff when you’re young.”

  “You didn’t want to do it, though, did you?”

  No. She hadn’t.

  You and I have the looks in this family, Marisa. Your father is the one with the talent. Don’t waste your time with that.

  Her gaze slid away from him, tension gathering inside her. “It was fine. It’s not like I didn’t get anything out of it. I liked the dresses and the makeup and looking pretty. Winning was cool, too.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  Marisa bit her lip. She didn’t want to keep going down that path. Because wherever it was going to end up, she had a feeling she wouldn’t like it. “The past is the past, Luke. I made my choices and no, they weren’t good ones, but I can’t change them now.”

  He was silent a moment. “So what about your dreams? Of being an artist?”

  Relieved he wasn’t going to push, Marisa allowed herself a breath. “I’m getting there. I’m going to pay of all my Alistair debt with the help of your ingenious financial brain and then, one day, I’ll get myself a glass studio.”

  A silence fell betw
een them.

  “What about you?” she asked finally. “What about your hopes and dreams? Your plans for the future?”

  …

  Luke shifted, leaning his elbows on his knees as Marisa’s beautiful face turned toward him. He’d almost gotten used to sitting here on the ground like this, but her question made him uncomfortable all over again.

  “My plans generally involve my company. Growing McNamara Financial.” At least, that’s what he’d always thought whenever the issue of the future came up. Not that he let himself think too hard about the future when managing the day-to-day always took up so much of his time. Compared to her dreams, though, his sounded so…vague. And small.

  “That’s it?”

  He glanced at her. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing but… You don’t have any particular dreams?

  Luke glanced away, turning to watch a group of students playing a rowdy game of hacky-sack without a care in the world. Not like him. He’d never been one of those students. Unable to let go and enjoy himself the way they did. He hadn’t been able to. Sometimes it rankled. Hell, not sometimes. It had bothered him all the time. But then that’s what he’d been stuck with, wasn’t it? So he had to deal with it.

  “Not particularly. I manage McNamara Financial, Marisa. That’s as much of a dream as I can afford right now.”

  “Luke,” her voice was soft. “You have to have dreams. How else do you get through the day?”

  He didn’t want to meet her eyes. The sympathy in her voice was hard enough to deal with as it was. Because he couldn’t tell her his secret, not after what she’d revealed about her ex and his lies.

  What would she say if he confessed his own lie? That he’d deliberately concealed one of the most important things about himself?

  She would be hurt, that seemed clear, and God knew, he’d already hurt her enough by being insensitive over the past few weeks. He didn’t want to hurt her again. He’d find another moment to tell her. Some other time.

  He looked away. “How do I get through the day? One minute at a time.”

  “No.” This time it was she who put her hand over his. And he felt the warmth of it deep inside him, touching a place he didn’t think was vulnerable. “There should be more than that.”

  Of course there was more. Dreams of a wife, a child. Dreams of a family. Dreams of a normal life without the OCD. A life he couldn’t have, therefore never allowed himself to think about or admit to wanting.

  But now you have her. Now you have the baby. That’s most of the dream already.

  It was. Yet something was missing. He didn’t know what that thing was, only that it made him ache. An ache that only got more intense when she was near.

  “There is no more.” He let out a breath and took his hand out from under hers on the pretense of looking at his watch. “It’s time for us to go.”

  “Luke.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t you ever wish…” She hesitated, and the expression on her face made that ache spread out in his chest like a creeping frost. “Don’t you ever wish things were different?”

  At last. A question he could give a truthful answer to. “Every day, Marisa. I wish things were different every single day.”

  She turned abruptly away, but not before he saw the gleam of liquid in her eyes. “Yeah,” she murmured, her voice husky. “So do I.”

  Tension filled the silence for one unbearable minute.

  “Come on, then,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  She got to her feet and handed him his jacket, and he brushed the dirt off and folded it over his arm. Pulled his cuffs down. His tie was a little loose, but before he could do anything about it, she’d reached up and tightened it for him. Even making sure the knot was sitting where he liked it, dead center.

  He couldn’t take his eyes off her. “Why did you do that?”

  She blinked as if she hadn’t been aware of what she’d been doing. “Uh…because you like it that way.”

  “Thank you,” he said softly.

  She blushed and he couldn’t help himself. His fingers caught her beneath the chin, tilting her head back. Then he bent and kissed her. And it was sweet. Different from the hungry kisses they exchanged at night in bed together.

  A kiss that intensified the ache into a pain that went deep into his heart.

  Dangerous.

  Marisa pulled away from him. “Come on, McNamara,” she said, sounding a little unsteady. “You don’t want to be late, do you?”

  They weren’t late.

  Yet much later that day, Luke found himself walking back and forth in front of his office windows, hands behind his back, thinking furiously. Turning the conversation about dreams over and over in his head. In fact he’d been so distracted, some of the work he’d intended to spend the afternoon doing hadn’t gotten done, so he’d had to stay later at the office—something he hated if he hadn’t planned on it. The disruption to his routine always unsettled him.

  But Marisa unsettled him more.

  She’d seemed more like a princess than ever in her white dress, golden curls clustering around her face. One who shouldn’t be sitting on the ground, and offering her his jacket to sit on had been simply a matter of course.

  Then she’d spoken about her father. About her dreams of being an artist. About the bastard who’d broken her heart. And about her mother. Somehow, somewhere along the line, Marisa had put her dreams aside. Dreams that had been important to her.

  Which meant he had to do something. He couldn’t tell her the truth about himself—at least not yet—but he could help her achieve those dreams in some way. Take away the shadow in her blue eyes. That shadow offended his sense of order. Princesses should be happy, not tragic.

  Your sense of order, eh? Keep telling yourself that.

  Luke halted by his desk, moved a pen. Of course it wasn’t only about his sense of order. She was the mother of his child. His responsibility. That meant taking care of her, making sure she was happy. And the happier she was, the more likely she’d stay with him. And she had to stay with him.

  Whatever happened with the OCD, her moving out once their “trial period” was over wasn’t going to happen, not if he could help it. She was his and so was the baby, a little piece of his dream right there.

  So what would make her happy?

  Helping her achieve her dreams of being artist. That’s what she wanted most.

  He thought back over the various conversations they’d had about it, about her wanting her own glass studio. Perhaps her art was like his obsession with cars? Perhaps she needed the studio to channel her creativity into? In which case, he’d provide one for her. He had the money to build it, which meant she wouldn’t have to put her dreams off any longer.

  The idea was intensely satisfying to him.

  Pleased with himself, he stopped pacing and rounded the desk. Sat down in his chair.

  And began to do some research.

  Chapter Ten

  Marisa looked at the time on her phone and scowled. The university dean was running late, which meant he was going to be late to their meeting.

  Which meant she would be late returning to work. Goddammit.

  She shook out the women’s magazine she was reading and tried to pay attention to the article on some actress or other’s post-baby workout—which was more like her idea of torture—but her attention kept wandering.

  If the dean was late and her meeting was late, being back to work late wasn’t the only problem. She’d be late for her lunch date with Luke.

  They’d been stealing secret lunch dates for over a week now, arranging to meet at their “spot” in Albert Park each day at one o’clock. Luke’s idea. All part of his “get to know you” plan.

  And each day, before one, she’d find her heart beating a little faster, anticipation coiling tight in her stomach. Anticipation that would dissolve into a burst of excitement the moment she saw him waiting for her. Because she enjoyed having lunch with him. H
e was so uptight normally, and yet at lunch he seemed to relax. He’d loosen his tie and they’d talk about stuff. Or not talk if they didn’t feel like it. Which wasn’t uncomfortable, just companionable.

  She didn’t want to miss lunch today. She didn’t want to miss it at all. Especially because he would be expecting her and when she didn’t turn up… Well, the thought hurt in a way she wasn’t expecting.

  Why should you care?

  That was the thing. After she’d seen the bleakness in his eyes that day at lunch, when they talked about dreams, and he’d told her he got through his day minute by minute.

  I wish things were different every single day.

  Even now thinking about it made her want to cry. And God knew she was already prone to waterworks because of the damn pregnancy. There was something wrong in his life, something he wasn’t telling her.

  Which was a worry. It reminded her too much of Alistair’s big secret, and she knew she should ask him about it but she was afraid. Afraid of what the answer might be, and that too was a worry. Because if she was afraid, it meant she cared. About him. And God knew she didn’t want to care. Didn’t want to have all these feelings for him at all, and yet she couldn’t seem to brush them aside.

  Which really frightened her. He frightened her. He had the power to make her care deeply, and she didn’t want to go down that path with him. She’d been down it once before with Alistair and had been scratched by the brambles, then fell in the huge muddy puddle at the end of it.

  Feelings sucked. Especially feelings for guys who only wanted “two-week girlfriends” and not relationships.

  She hit the message app on her phone and texted him a quick message.

  Sorry. I’m not sure I can make lunch today. Have a meeting that’s running late.

  Almost as soon as she sent the text, her phone rang. No surprises as to who that was. “Hi, Luke.”

  “Why will you be late?” he demanded without preamble. “Where are you?”

  A small jab of annoyance poked at her, joining the guilt that already sat heavy in the pit of her stomach. “Hey, take it easy. I’m at the university meeting with the fine arts dean. I want to know whether I’m eligible for that degree before applying. But the guy’s running late and—”