“You heard me,” Bart said. “Have dinner with me tonight, and I’ll tell you why the boys can’t play on the big stages.”
“You have to be kidding.”
Bart shook his head. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You want to know the truth, I’ll tell you, but I can’t do it here.”
Kitty rubbed at her now-throbbing temples. “Where then?”
“I’ll pick you up at six.”
She looked up sharply. “I’ll meet you.”
“If you want the truth, you’ll let me pick you up.”
“I’ll need my car after,” she protested.
“I’ll bring you back…after,” he said.
She felt a tingle deep in her belly and began to wonder what she feared more: that he wouldn’t bring her back, or that he would. Still, if there was a chance…
“Why?” she finally asked.
“Why what?”
“Why do you want to have dinner with me?”
He stared hard at her once more, then in a move so smooth she would forever wonder why she hadn’t seen it coming, he stepped close to her, and taking her face between his warm, powerful hands, he laid his lips on hers. He didn’t push her hard, only probed gently, but in another moment, she opened her mouth under his and their kiss deepened. She gripped the edge of her desk in a desperate attempt to ground herself, as he deepened it further, leaving her breathless and hot with a new kind of yearning.
When he stepped back at last, she gasped for breath. He continued to hold her face gently, until she finally managed to raise her eyes to his and refocus. He held her gaze for another long moment, then without a word, he turned away and headed for the door.
“Bartholomew!”
He glanced back, and this time she saw the smile in his eyes. “I’ll pick you up at six.”
With that, he opened the door and left her, closing it softly behind him.
She waited just a beat then covered her face with her hands.
“My God, what have I done?” she whispered.
Trembling, she made her way to her private bath, and flicking on the lights, she stared at herself in the mirror. Her once smooth chignon she always wore to work was coming loose, and her lipstick was gone. There was no doubt about it: she looked as though she had been thoroughly kissed.
“Well, you have, you twit,” she said, turning on the water and splashing her face. She gulped handfuls of the cool water then turned it off and reached for a towel.
Studying herself in the mirror once more, she considered her position. She wasn’t going to try to fool herself. Bart had asked her to dinner, but she suspected he likely would expect “afters.” The crazy thing was, she really hoped he did, because she wanted him, too—and, she realized suddenly, it had absolutely nothing to do with his nephews’ band.
43
“So, where are you taking me to dinner?” Kitty asked, as Bart handed her into his car. She recognized the blue, mid-sized sedan as belonging to Mel, which Kitty appreciated, because she knew Bart usually drove the family’s big SUV, and she had no illusions about being able to get in and out of that big black behemoth gracefully in a straight skirt and heels.
“You’ll see,” he said, waiting for her to pull her skirt clear of the opening before he shut the door firmly behind her.
Kitty didn’t say anything more when he got in beside her. Refusing to be dragged into a game of twenty questions, she simply buckled her seatbelt and sat back while he did the same then started the engine.
“You’re a stubborn woman, Kitty Konstantine,” he said as he drove them out of the parking lot, and she thought she heard humor in his voice.
“Not really. I just refuse to beat my head against an immovable object.”
He chuckled, then. “This from the woman who’s been hounding my nephews and me for over a year, now, trying to get them to play in the big house?”
“A lot of good it did me,” she said.
“Not your fault,” he said, surprising her.
“Not to hear my father tell it,” she said, before she could stop herself. She knew she sounded bitter but didn’t care.
“In some ways, your old man reminds me of Meg’s,” he said, referring to his youngest nephew’s new wife. “They both want to claim ownership of a daughter without making any effort whatsoever to be worthy of being called a father. Of course, Meg’s old man at least recognizes her talent, whereas you’re father is clueless about the talent you have.”
“I don’t have any musical talent.”
“I didn’t say ‘musical,’ darlin’. I just said talent. And you are—without a doubt—one of the most talented negotiators I’ve ever met. It takes someone special to be able to talk people from all over the place into seein’ things your way—and to then think what they’re seein’ was their idea in the first place.”
“Everyone but you,” she said, turning her head to study his profile.
He smiled. “Yeah, well, I’m special, too.”