Secretary on Demand (10 page)

‘London isn't just about pubs and wine bars and swinging clubs,' he pointed out. ‘What about the theatres, the operas, the restaurants, the art galleries, the museums?'

‘What about them?' Shannon shot back airily. She decided that she would get some fun out of the remainder of the evening after all and play him at his own game of being patronising. She brushed past him as he held open the door for her to enter the restaurant, which was not quite empty but nearly.

‘What do you mean “what about them?”'

‘Well…' She allowed herself to be relieved of her coat and then waited until she had sat down at the small table. ‘Yes, there
is
the theatre,' she agreed, ticking off option one on her finger. ‘But if I could afford constant trips to the theatre I would have enough money to move out of that hole I call home away from home, wouldn't I?'

‘So you
do
admit that it's a hole.'

‘But I never said I didn't like living in holes. Some people do, you know.'

‘Ah, I see. Or do I?' He grinned and waited for her to continue.

‘Then the opera. Well, really. I would have to save three months' pay to afford a seat at an opera.'

‘Not quite three months.'

‘Besides, I hate opera.'

‘Have you ever been?'

‘No. So that's the opera taken care of. Then the restaurants. I worked in one so actually going to one always felt like a busman's holiday.' She ticked off that particular option. ‘Then the art galleries and museums. Very interesting, I'm sure. Very cultured and refined, but—'

‘Don't say it—you're a wild young thing with no time for culture and refinement…'

‘I'm glad you noticed! Perhaps,' she added wickedly, ‘when I'm older and more mature…'

‘Like me…'

‘If the cap fits…' She smiled smugly at him and then proceeded to inspect her menu. A pointless exercise as she allowed him to order the food rather than wade her way through everything on the menu. ‘I mean…' she leaned towards him with her elbows resting on the table ‘…in between your operas, theatres, museums and art galleries, don't you sometimes just long for the hectic buzz of a club?'

He appeared to give that some thought, stroking his chin with one finger, looking at her with a pensive expression that didn't quite conceal the humour lurking just beneath the surface. ‘Is there a hectic buzz in a club? I thought it was all loud music and drunken youths.'

‘See!' Shannon exclaimed triumphantly.

‘What am I supposed to have seen? Oh, I know. That I'm an old fuddy-duddy? A stick-in-the-mud? I
do
manage to get out now and again to the old club, actually. Sorry to disappoint you.' He sat back to allow the waiter to pour them both a glass of wine while Shannon digested the image of Kane Lindley flinging himself around on a dance floor in hip-gripping snakeskin trousers and garish top. It was almost easier to imagine him in a black frock and dog collar preaching from a pulpit.

‘You go to clubs?' she asked, guzzling her wine like water and giving him a patronising, incredulous smirk.

‘Admittedly not the kind of clubs you probably have in mind.'

‘Oh, you mean dreary gentlemen's clubs where you all sit around little table sipping glasses of sherry and discussing politics…'

‘Not quite.'

‘Then what kind of clubs are you talking about?' The cold white wine tasted glorious, although with nothing in her stomach Shannon could feel the alcohol racing through her bloodstream and shooting straight to her brain.

‘Jazz clubs, for the most part.'

‘Oh, jazz.'

‘Another piece of culture you find you have no time for, by any chance?' He refilled her now empty glass and sat back to look at her. How was it possible for anyone still dressed in their working garb to look so cool
and unflappable at this time of evening? Not to mention bright-eyed and bushy-tailed?

‘Not really exciting, are they? All slow music and sensible conversation…'

‘Depends who you go with.' He raised his glass to his lips and looked at her with amusement over the rim while she went a delicate shade of pink.

‘I doubt that very much,' Shannon declared robustly, uncomfortably aware that the image of Kane dancing very slowly, cheek to cheek, with a woman at a jazz club made her feel more bothered than she would have admitted in a million years. There had been no evidence of any women in his life, at least not since she'd been around, working for him, and he'd been increasingly at the house whenever she'd been there in the evenings during the week. But what did that say? His weekends could be spent anywhere. He could have a woman for every weekend for all she knew.

‘Do you? Why? Don't you think that listening to good music and dancing to it can be a very erotic experience?'

‘I prefer dancing to quicker numbers myself,' Shannon told him quickly, relieved that their food had now arrived, conveniently marking an end to this particular line of conversation, even though she knew that she had generated it in the first place. She watched him surreptitiously as she helped herself to food, ravenously hungry all of a sudden.

‘Have you ever been to a jazz club?' he asked, once they had begun eating.

‘Not really.' She manoeuvred her chopsticks around a mouthful of cashew chicken and noodles and hoped that the food would soak up some of the wine which had made her feel pleasantly but unreliably light-headed.

‘What does “not really” mean?'

‘It means no, actually.'

‘Oh, dear. No jazz clubs, no opera, nothing that smacks of culture.'

‘As a matter of fact, I would
love
to go to jazz clubs and theatres and I might even be persuaded to try the opera…' Unlikely, that last one, she thought, but who could tell? ‘But these things cost money which I haven't got at my ready disposal. Unfortunately.' She could feel herself warming to her theme of misplaced cultured person, just in case he imagined that she was a bimbo whose only interest was to go somewhere where the maximum amount of sweat could be worked up in the minimum amount of time. In fact, the few nightclubs she had frequented in her lifetime had left a lot to be desired. That, however, was a little titbit she would not be sharing with him.

‘I can't think of anything more exciting,' she ventured, realising with some surprise that she had drunk three glasses of wine and eaten enough food to keep her going for a month, ‘than going to…the Tate Gallery, followed by an evening at a quiet, refined club. Just grabbing an exquisite meal somewhere along the way, of course! It would be wonderful to…' Her mind was beginning to feel decidedly fuzzy.

‘To…?' Kane prompted silkily.

Where was she? Oh, yes. She was in the middle of conjuring up an alternative lifestyle as befitted someone whose proclivities were more in tune with culture, and not culture of the youth variety. ‘To really wear something fancy to go out…a little black number…or maybe something elegant…and backless…in dark green…'

‘You have little black numbers and elegant, backless dark green frocks?'

‘
Frocks?
No one uses that word nowadays.'

‘You fall for it every time, don't you,' Kane murmured, watching her from under his lashes. ‘Have you?'

‘Have I what?'
Fall for what every time?

‘Got fancy dresses with no place to wear them?'

Having embarked on this road, Shannon suspected that ignominiously admitting a complete lack of any such thing would make all her protests of wanting to absorb culture like the proverbial sponge appear hollow if not a downright lie. And for some perverse reason she wanted to impress him. She wanted to prove that she wasn't just his secretary who was adept at handling his work and good with children, whose only source of amusement were pubs and the odd foray into clubbing. Neither of which had lived up to her expectations anyway.

‘Yes,' she lied.

‘Mmm. A little black number…'

‘That's right! Very little and very black as a matter of fact.'

‘The mind boggles. Sure that isn't the wine talking?' he asked with a straight face.

‘Quite sure.' Shannon scowled.

‘In which case…' He signalled for the bill and looked at her pensively. Too pensively for her liking. She began to feel a little rattled by the lingering silence.

‘In which case…
what
?' she demanded impatiently.

‘In which case,' he murmured, ‘it seems a shame not to have the opportunity to use your glamorous outfits, doesn't it?'

‘Just what I've been saying.' Shannon shrugged ruefully, rather pleased with the image she had succeeded in creating for herself. She'd always been the cute, chatty one in the family. The easygoing member upon whom her mother could always rely. Willing to help out
in the house, happy to look after the younger ones when her sisters had been too busy rushing about, getting into mad flaps over boys and dates and party dresses. She'd been privileged to have lots of friends of the opposite sex, simply because she'd always been one of the lads. Now, with a few choice phrases and white lies, she had become, she thought gleefully to herself, a woman of mystery and intrigue. She didn't currently feel too mysterious or intriguing in her get-up of jeans and sweater, but in a small, black number she was certain she could be.

‘Are we ready to go?' she asked, surprised because she had been having such a good time. When she stood up, she felt slightly giddy and he took her arm.

‘Feeling steady enough to walk back?'

‘Of course I am. But,' she added slyly, ‘if I wasn't, would you do the gentlemanly thing and carry me?'

‘That wine has definitely gone to your head,' he muttered under his breath, guiding her along the pavement which was now deserted so that the sound of their footsteps echoed on the concrete.

‘You're avoiding the question! Would you carry me?'

‘Of course I would,' he said drily, and Shannon laughed.

‘And risk three slipped discs in the process?'

‘You look as though you'd be as light as a feather,' he told her huskily, and she felt her body flooded with sudden, furious heat at the tone of his voice. ‘Would you like me to prove it to you?' He moved round so that he was facing her, and in the darkness she could see mocking challenge in his eyes. He couldn't be serious, could he? It was difficult to tell, especially when the streetlights were throwing his face into sharp angles, making it impossible to decipher any expression.

‘Believe me, I weigh more than you think.' Shannon felt her breath catch in her throat. ‘It's cold, isn't it? If we don't run back I think I might get frostbite.'

‘Backing away, Shannon?' he whispered softly, but he moved aside and fell into step with her so that she wondered whether she had imagined all those various disconcerting tones in his voice. More than likely, considering the way her imagination had taken flight after the wine. On impulse, Kane scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the front door while she protested wildly against his chest and tried to flail her arms and legs, to no avail.

‘Put me down!' she wailed eventually, when they were at her front door.

‘All in good time. Now, why don't you get your key out of your bag and open up the front door for us?'

‘I can't like this!' She was clutching her bag to her chest, using it as a flimsy barrier between herself and his broad chest.

‘Give it a try.'

She frantically unzipped her bag and pulled out her bunch of keys, which he promptly took from her with one hand so that he could open the door without putting her down. Moving against him made her skin burn with a strange, restless heat, and where his arms curled behind her back, reaching to grasp around her behind the bent crook of her knees and her chest, it made her want to writhe in a useless attempt to escape. His fingers were splayed only inches from the curve of her breast and her head was consumed with graphic images of them touching her soft flesh. Even if only accidentally.

‘That's quite enough,' she protested giddily, as he mounted the stairs. ‘And don't blame me if you suffer irreparable back damage!'

‘Oh, I might blame you for lots of things, reds, but I won't blame you for that.' He laughed and they arrived at her door without him appearing to have broken sweat. Then he finally stood her up and looked down at her.

‘OK,' she bristled furiously, ‘so you proved that you're a big strong man! Was that the object of the exercise?'

‘No,' he answered, leaning against the doorframe as she opened the door. ‘Want me to tell you what was?'

They stared at each other and Shannon felt her mouth go suddenly dry because there was no teasing glint in his eye to rescue her from her wild alarm. In fact, his stillness just sent her nervous system into further overdrive.

‘No,' she whispered, and he laughed harshly.

‘Why? What are you afraid I might say?'

‘I really must get to bed now…' she answered desperately.

‘And being the perfect gentleman I am,' he said in his deep, caressing voice, ‘I wouldn't dream of intruding on your beauty sleep. And being the perfect gentleman that I am, I also wouldn't dream of allowing you to return to Ireland for Christmas with no tales to tell your family of this wonderful city of ours and all it has to offer. So I've decided to take you to my personal favourite jazz club for dinner and an evening of less frenetic fun than you seem to think is necessary for a good time…'

‘
You've
decided?' Her body was taking time to recover from its proximity to his. As was her breathing.

‘That's right.
I've
decided. Next Saturday. How does that sound?'

‘It sounds—'

‘Good. I'll pick you up at seven forty-five and don't worry, you'll have a good time.' He leant so that his mouth was almost touching her ear. Her highly sensitised ear. ‘Trust me.'