I have to grit my teeth, because, who-fucking-eee!, the car is fine. I want to rub my cheeks against the butter soft leather and play with the array of buttons so badly my fingers twitch.
Gabriel eyes me for a long moment as the driver shuts the door with a soft thud. “Go on,” he says in a cajoling voice. “Give it a little bounce. You know you’re dying for it.”
With his heavy-lidded stare and deep rumbling tone, he makes this sound illicit. I cross my legs, and his eyes track the movement. His lids lower just a bit more, and a shimmer of unwanted heat licks under my shirt.
“I’m good,” I tell him with false lightness.
He grunts in response. The car pulls away from the curb, all smoothness and power, and I sit back in my plush seat with a sigh. Whatever happens from here on out, I’ll have this small moment of complete comfort.
We sit in silence as the car heads toward London. I can’t look out the windows without being disoriented; it’s just wrong to be driving on the left side of the road. I keep expecting to crash into an oncoming car.
Gabriel is already back on his phone. This time he’s talking to someone named Jules, peppering him or her with questions—is his house ready, have certain contracts arrived, and so on. The cool-yet-even tone of his voice soothes me in the cozy quiet of the car.
I lean my head back and let my eyes close—until I hear his last line of questioning: Is the hotel room ready and sufficiently prepared for Ms. Darling?
Hearing him discuss my lodging arrangement drives home the fact that I’m truly interviewing for his company. And I can’t decide if I’m disappointed or excited. Perhaps a bit of both.
“You’re not going to try to talk Ms. James out of hiring me, are you?” I ask when he hangs up with Jules.
“Because we spent time together on the plane, you mean?” His brow lifts as his lips flatten. “I’d be a right prat if I did.”
“Your words, not mine.”
“Are you saying you think I’m a prat?” He appears so honestly offended, even a bit hurt, that I instantly feel tiny and petty.
“No, no. I’m sorry. I don’t know what the hell I’m saying.” I wave a hand because I can’t stay still. “I’m flustered. It’s not every day you antagonize your prospective employer for hours on end.”
A small smile creeps up along the outer corners of his eyes. “Yes, well, technically I’m not your employer. Brenna and I are partners of a sort. But I’ll take note of your remorse.”
“Remorse implies I did something wrong. This is more awkward embarrassment.”
The smile moves to his mouth, pulling at it. But he won’t let it unfurl. I wonder if I’ll ever see this man smile with ease. I wonder how long I’ll even know him. My chances of landing a job in a business that he’s a part of feels slim. I’m not the button-down type.
“You’re still not going to tell me what you do?” I ask.
“You could Google my name or Brenna’s at any time.” He gestures toward my handbag with a tilt of his arrogant, stubborn chin. “So go on then. Pull out your phone and check.”
Oh, I’m tempted. So very tempted. But it feels like cheating somehow. “Maybe I want you to trust me enough to tell me.”
A soft scoffing noise escapes him. “It isn’t a matter of trust. I hardly consider this a secret since you’re going to find out soon enough. It is a matter of respecting Brenna’s somewhat overzealous but apparently adamant desire to keep you uninformed until the time of the interview.”
I flop back against the leather seat with a huff. “You’re right. I’ll respect her wishes too. But this just means I’ll have to use my imagination.”
“No doubt you’ll have me pegged as an international spy by the time we arrive,” he deadpans, though amusement glints in his eyes.
“Hey, I only thought that once.”
The corner of his lip twitches, and then his phone chimes. He glances down at it before tapping out a message.
“Is that Brenna?”
“Chatty and nosey.” He doesn’t look up from his phone. “A winning combination.”
“You love it,” I counter with false bravado. Nerves are starting to make me jumpy. And I’m seriously considering poking him right now just to get an answer—something I think he knows because he glances my way, and that stern expression of his returns.
“Yes, that was Brenna. I informed her I had the package on board and ready for delivery.”
“Har.”
He turns toward me in his seat, leaning against the corner, his big body sprawled like some Armani ad come to life. All that harsh male beauty focuses on me; it’s like being under stage lights—exposing, blinding, hot.