Five Exotic Fantasies: Love in Reverse, Book 3 (12 page)

“So you were only looking for some intelligent conversation,” she said in a sarcastic voice to cover her emotion. Tears pricked her eyes and resentment boiled as she remembered her mother’s determination to get her to go out. That’s what had pushed her to come into his office. What a mistake. “Yeah, right, Mr. I’ve-tried-to-move-on-quite-a-few-times. I bet you have. I bet you screw any girl who steps in your path and flutters her eyelashes at you. No, don’t deny it—I saw the way all the women reacted to you today as I gave you the tour of the office.” She batted her lashes. “‘Why Mr. Wilkinson, of course I’ll come sit on your knee and you can give me
dick
-tation.’” She took a step forward and said softly, “Well, if you were just looking for a good-time gal, you’re talking to the wrong woman.”

“Really.” He put his hands on his hips. “If there’s a woman out there more in need of a quick fuck than you, I’ve yet to meet her.”

Chapter Fourteen

They stared at each other for a good ten seconds. Coco’s chest heaved with indignation, as well as a strange excitement. The thought of a
quick fuck
with this gorgeous young lawyer made her head spin. Even the words—slightly shocking for a girl who rarely swore—made her aroused.

But then a shadow crossed his face, as if he’d been sitting in the sun and she’d leaned over him. He backed away, running a hand through his hair, his eyes widening.

“Shit,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

She blinked, taken aback by his apology, and blew out a breath. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.” He spoke vehemently. “What the hell am I doing?” He spoke more to himself than her, she thought, seeing him staring across the room. “I’m doing exactly what Dell did to that secretary.”

Coco’s mouth fell open. “No,” she said, but he wasn’t listening.

“Maybe this was what happened between them. He thought she was interested and pushed too hard.” He walked over to the window and stared out. “Jesus. I was so fucking self-righteous in there and here I am doing the exact same thing.”

Suddenly all her anger fled, his obvious angst making her soften. “Felix, no…”

“I am.” He turned to face her. “Why the hell did Christopher ask me to do this? I’m obviously completely unsuitable to judge whether a woman is willing or not.”

“This is nothing like what’s happening between Peter and Sasha,” she assured him. How could he think that?

“Isn’t it?” He glared at her. “How can I make a decision on what happened between them when I obviously can’t control my own actions?” He looked puzzled. “It’s so hard to read the signs sometimes—I can see how it would be easy to come onto a woman and make a move, only to realise you’ve read it completely wrong.”

“It’s not the same,” she said again, moving closer to him. “You didn’t misread the signs.”

He either didn’t hear her or didn’t register the words. “What if she’d led him on for weeks, flirted with him, made him think he stood a chance, so he cultivated an opportunity to be alone with her, and at the last minute she changed her mind? At what point does it become his fault?”

“Felix.” She waited for his eyes to focus on her, then reached up and touched his face. “You didn’t misread the signs.” Filled with a strange urge to comfort and reassure him, taking a deep breath, she raised herself on tiptoe and kissed him.

He froze, and for a brief moment she panicked and thought he was going to pull away and ask her what the hell she was doing. Gathering her courage, trying not to think that Rob or someone else might be standing in the doorway staring at them, she pressed her lips against his once, then again, lingering, willing him to respond, to understand.

And then his hand came up to cup her head, the other sliding around her waist, and he tightened his hold and responded, meeting the slow movement of her lips with kisses of his own, tentative, beautiful, soft kisses that took her breath away and made her want to cry.

She wanted it to go on forever, but after what could only have been fifteen seconds or so, he pulled back, dropped his hands and slid them into the pockets of his pants. She moved back a little, and they studied each other, the afternoon sunshine sliding through the windows and across the desk in front of them.

“Sorry,” she said, heart still pounding. God, he was gorgeous.

His eyes twinkled and his lips curved. “For what?”

“I don’t know.”

They both smiled.

“You didn’t get the signs wrong,” she whispered. “You mustn’t think that. I can understand how difficult it must be for a guy, trying to decide whether a woman is interested or not. The problem is that sometimes the heart says yes but the brain says no. We want to, but for some reason we’re telling ourselves we can’t. And sometimes we need the guy to push a little—that feeling of being wanted is nice.”

He listened thoughtfully and nodded.

“But that’s very different from a guy refusing to take no for an answer. If I didn’t want to go out with you, Felix, I wouldn’t just have said no—it would have been very clear, in body language as well as verbal language. I believe that men like Peter read the signs as well as any other men, but they choose to ignore them. And in fact they get off on it. They like showing a woman they’re going to have them, regardless of what they want. They like the power. That’s a million miles away from someone saying no but meaning yes, and I don’t believe a man like you would ever confuse the two.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I hope that’s the case anyway.”

“Well, look, so there’s no doubt, let me say, I’d like to go out for a drink with you tonight. But just for a drink, okay?”

His eyes creased at the edges as he smiled. “Okay.”

“On one condition—that we don’t talk about work. You take me out as Coco, not as Veronica Stark.”

He nodded. “Agreed.”

“Okay.” She picked up their empty mugs, her heart pounding at the thought of going on a date. “I’ll nip home and get changed, and meet you in town, shall I? Say, seven o’clock?”

“Sure. Can you recommend anywhere?”

“I don’t get out much,” she admitted, “but I’ve heard The Black Gull is nice, on the harbour front.”

“Sounds good. I’ll meet you there. Seven o’clock.”

She hesitated, her heart continuing to race at the look in his eyes. Was she making the right decision?

It’s just a drink
, she told herself.
Don’t get too excited.

She smiled and left the office.

Chapter Fifteen

At just after seven, Felix leaned on the counter and sipped from the glass of Mac’s Gold, scanning the bar to make sure he hadn’t missed Coco’s arrival. No, she wasn’t there yet. Would she show up? He wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t. Okay, she’d agreed to the date, but saying she’d be there and actually turning up were two different things.

He sighed. Perhaps it would be better if she didn’t show up—he shouldn’t really be meeting her, not while he was carrying out the investigation. And yet what harm were they actually doing? They’d agreed not to talk about work—it wasn’t as if he was going to quiz her about Dell, even if her summary of “men like Peter” had intrigued him. She spoke as if she had experience of what Sasha was going through, but surely that wasn’t the case? Wouldn’t she have told someone if Dell, or anyone else for that matter, had behaved inappropriately in the past? He couldn’t imagine she was the type of woman to put up with unsuitable sexual contact, not after the speech she’d given him about how to behave with the secretaries.

A movement in the doorway caught his eye and he turned, then stared as he saw her standing there, hesitating as she scanned the room looking for him.
Wow
, was his first thought, and at that moment he knew he’d been fooling himself by thinking he’d have preferred it if she hadn’t shown up. It was a cool evening, spring still continuing to blow its fresh breath across the city, and she wore jeans and a fashionable chocolate-brown jacket that she unzipped now to reveal a cream roll-neck sweater beneath. She wasn’t wearing her glasses, and she’d uncurled her hair from the tight bun so it hung around her shoulders in waves, topping it with a trendy felt hat the same colour as her jacket. She looked about ten years younger in the casual clothing, all softness and curves, and a smile spread across his face so that by the time her gaze fell on him, he had to stop himself beaming like an idiot.

He raised a hand and her face lit with relief before she made her way across to him. Had she worried he wouldn’t be there?

“Hey.” As she approached, he rested a hand on her upper arm, leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “I’m glad you came.”

“Me too,” she said, although he wasn’t sure if she meant she was pleased she’d come or relieved that he was there.

“What can I get you?”

She gestured to his glass. “Is that a Mac’s Gold? I’ll have the same, please.”

He ordered one for her, paid and indicated a table to one side of the bar. Because of the evening’s coolness, the wood fire had been lit and it crackled in the grate.

She walked before him to the seat, slipped off her jacket and hung it over one of the chairs to one side, then slid onto the bench facing the fire.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked, pointing to the space beside her.

“Sure.” She sipped her beer, her green eyes wide as he sat beside her, and she reached up and removed her hat, placing it on the table.

“Nice titfer,” he said.

“Pardon?”

He grinned. “Sorry. Tit-for-tat. Hat.”

She gave him a wry smile. “Okay, you’re going to have to explain this rhyming thing. How does it work, exactly? And why do you bother using it?”

He settled back, aware of her subtle perfume, the swell of her breasts under the sweater, the fact that her legs were long from hip to knee, her thighs shapely beneath the jeans. She’d turned heads as she walked into the bar, but she hadn’t noticed. He suspected she was well out of practice with the dating game. Why was that? Because of her mother?

“Okay,” he said, “lesson number one in Cockney rhyming slang. Most rhymes consist of two or three words, and the last one rhymes with the original word. But only the first one or two words is used, like a code. So, like tit-for-tat referring to hat, we’d never say ‘That’s a nice tit-for-tat,’ we’d say, ‘that’s a nice titfer.’”

She laughed. “I see. I think. So that’s why a wig is a syrup—syrup of figs.”

“That’s right. You’ve got it.”

“Tell me some more.” Her eyes danced. “Give me a description of something using Cockney rhymes.”

“All right.” Naughtiness surged through him. “How about if I describe you?”

“Me?”

“Yes.” He studied her mischievously, running his gaze down her. “I’ve already mentioned the titfer. I guess I have to say it looked very nice on your barnet.”

“Barnet?”

“Your blonde barnet. Barnet Fair. Hair.”

“Ha! Right.”

“And it frames your boat lovely.”

“Boat…oh, race?”

“Yup. Face.” He smiled. “And you have beautiful green minces.”

She frowned, trying to puzzle that one out. “Oh, mince pies? Eyes?”

“Yes! You’re good at this. Now, let’s start the other end—I know you’re wearing Converses today but in your high heels you had very dainty plates.”

“Plates of…” She thought about it. “Hmm…”

“Meat. Feet. And a nice pair of bacons.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Bacon and eggs, legs,” he teased. “Actually that one’s not used as much as the others. Now, moving up…” He grinned. “I have to say you have a very nice aris.”

“Why thank you. Explain please.”

“This gets more complicated—it’s a two-part rhyme. Aris stands for Aristotle, which means bottle. And bottle and glass means arse.”

“Good grief, talk about convoluted.” She smiled, a little shyly. “So you think I have a nice aris?”

“You have a beautiful aris. Almost as nice as your bristols.” He smirked.

“I know I’m going to regret this, but…bristols?”

“Bristol City.” He gestured to her breasts.

She giggled. “I love it. I’m going to learn Cockney and then we can speak code and nobody else will understand.”

“Yes, that’s kind of the point. It’s a way to exclude strangers from the conversation.”

“A bit like Morse code.”

“Exactly.”

“Okay, so what’s the biggest compliment I could pay you in Cockney?”

He grinned. “Probably something about the size of my Hampton.”

“Which is…”

“My Hampton Wick. You can guess that one. Leading to the famous phrase if you zip your pants up too quickly, ‘Ouch, I’ve got my Hampton Court.’”

She laughed and took a long swig of her beer. “That cheered me up, thank you.”

“No worries.” It was good to see her smile. She’d swapped the red lipstick for a more muted shade, but her lips still looked soft and kissable, and she had a pretty smile.

“So how are you enjoying Wellington?” she asked, settling back.

“Oh, I like the city itself. I’ve been here a few times—just not to the offices. The city seems busier than I’ve seen it before though.”