“What?”
“You think I’m entitled? Well, you’re putting me in the shade on that one, sweetheart.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve decided you know everything about me just because a bunch of other people, who also don’t know me, are talking about things they know nothing about. That’s pretty damn arrogant.”
“Which is not the same as entitled.”
“You really want to argue Websters’s dictionary with me?”
Right, the fact that they were bickering should not have been a total flippin’ turn-on, but holy hell it was. For every lob she tossed at him, he found himself looking at her body less and focusing on her eyes more—and that made her even sexier.
“Listen, can we just be done here?” she said. “I have to be back at the crack of dawn, and this conversation is not as important as the sleep I need to get.”
This time when she turned away, he stopped her with his voice. “I saw you out by the pool yesterday.”
She glared at him over her shoulder. “Yes, and I was pulling weeds. You got a problem with that?”
“You were staring at me. I saw you.”
Touché, he thought as she blinked.
“I was in the pool,” he whispered as he took a step closer to her. “And you liked what you saw, didn’t you. Even though you hate who you think I am, you like what you saw.”
“You’re delusional—”
“Honesty. You were the one to bring it up first.” He leaned in, turning his head to the side as if he were going to kiss her. “So do you have the guts to be honest?”
Her hands fiddled with the collar of her Easterly polo. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Liar.” He smiled a little. “Why do you think I stayed out there so long? It was because of you. I liked that you were watching my body.”
“You’re crazy.”
God, her false denial was better than the last full blown orgasm he’d had.
“Am I?” He focused on her lips, and in his mind, he started kissing them, licking his way into her, pulling her up against him. “I don’t think so. And I’d rather be a philandering snob than a coward.”
That was how he left her.
He’d turned away on that brick path, and walked toward the house, leaving her behind.
But he’d known, with every step he took away from her, that she wasn’t going to be able to let things rest like that.
Next time, she would come to him …
And sure enough, she did.
SEVEN
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
As Lizzie spoke, she stared at the flowers in the vase she was holding, and couldn’t remember what she’d meant to do with them—oh, right, put them in a bucket until she got off work; after which she would wrap them in a damp paper towel and a Kroger’s plastic bag, and take them home.
“I’m sorry, come again?” she said, glancing across the conservatory at Greta.
“I was speaking in English that time, too, you know.”
“I’m just all up in my head.”
“The tent people are demanding to be paid up front? Or they’re going to take down everything they’re putting up.”
“What?” Lizzie put the bouquet down next to the empty silver bowls. “Is this a new policy for them?”
“Guess so.”
“I’ll go talk to Rosalinda—do you have the total?”
“Tvelve sousand, four hundred, fifty-nine, zeventy-two.”
“Hold on, let me write that down.” Lizzie grabbed a pen. “One more time?”
After she got the total scribbled into her palm, she glanced out to the garden. The tent people had just stretched the fabric panels out flat and were beginning to lay the poles down as some of them got to stitching the huge sections together with ropes.
Two hours more work for them. Maybe three.
“They’re still going strong out there,” she murmured.
“Not for long.” Greta resumed cleaning the pink garden roses. “The rental office called me, and they’re prepared to order them back into the truck.”
“There’s no reason to get hysterical about this,” Lizzie muttered as she headed outside.
Rosalinda Freeland’s office was in the kitchen wing, and she took the longer, outdoor route because she was pretty damned sick and tired of running into Lane.
She was about halfway across the terrace, passing by the French doors that led out of the dining room, when she looked over toward the business center.