Talking Dirty With the Boss: A Talking Dirty Novel (Entangled Indulgence) (11 page)

Dammit, don’t go thinking about that again, you fool.

He gritted his teeth, forced the memory away. “Marisa,” he repeated, trying for calm. “I think you and the baby should move in with me.”

Her eyes popped open in shock. “Move in with you? Are you crazy?”

“Not at all. It’s the most logical solution.” He’d gone over it in his head while he’d been doing his discreet checking routine in the car and whichever way he looked at it, having Marisa and the baby move in with him was the best answer. There was simply no other way he’d be able to cope with the kind of compulsions a child would generate.

Besides, he liked having the things that were his close to him. Within his control.

Across the table, Marisa was staring at him as though he’d just dropped in from Mars. She put her spoon down with a clatter and held up a hand in a stop gesture. “Whoa and back up there a damn minute, boy. I’ve only known about this kid for all of four hours. Three of those hours were spent in denial, the last in hysteria. You’ve known half an hour and you’re already ‘let’s move in together, baby’? Have I missed something vital here?”

Luke put his hands on the table. The Formica was sticky underneath his fingertips so he instantly lifted them again. Dammit, this place was hideous. And the salt and pepper shakers down at one end of the table were out of alignment. He gave them a small tweak to give himself a moment to go over the reasoning he’d hoped she’d buy, then he said, “You have money issues. Major ones, correct?”

She eyed him dubiously. “Yes.”

“And I would imagine rent takes up a large part of your income.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” she acknowledged with obvious reluctance.

“So how much would you save if you lived with me?” He tried to keep the need to demand she live with him immediately out of his voice because, obviously, that wouldn’t help.

But even so, if he thought about it too much, his uneasiness with the whole situation intensified. The safety of the child and Marisa would be of paramount concern to him, and if they were living somewhere else that concern would be impossible to manage. He would have to check out the child’s room, make sure everything was safe. And he knew that he’d have to do it each time he went in there. Even if he didn’t, the urge to check would sit in his mind like a splinter, an ache that wouldn’t go away.

Of course having Marisa living with him would make hiding his OCD behaviors extremely difficult, but what other choice did he have? He couldn’t tell her. He hated explaining the OCD to people because invariably they didn’t understand the compulsions he managed. No one ever had, not even his parents. They’d thought he was crazy and, despite the fact that he was a successful CEO of a successful financial institution, they still did.

The only person who’d ever understood him was Joseph, who had the same kinds of issues with his ADHD.

She continued to frown at him, blue eyes narrowed, nibbling on a fingernail, processing his question.

He really didn’t like that expression in her eyes, though. It reminded him of the look people used to give him when he’d been a kid. His teachers. His parents. Looking at him as if he was crazy. It had made him ashamed of his condition. Made him want to hide the behaviors so no one would know.

“Okay, so I’d probably save a lot. But you’re going to have to give me some thinking space here,” Marisa said after a moment. “I mean, we don’t know if I’ll stay pregnant. Miscarriages can happen.”

A strange pain caught in his chest, an odd panic. “That is not going to happen,” he said, as if saying it would make it so. “But I think you should move in with me as soon as possible just in case.”

Her frown deepened. “Are you serious? I’m not moving in with you right now, Luke. I barely know you. You’re going to have to give me some time to think about things first.”

He’d known this would be difficult for her. Hell, it was difficult for him. But he had a responsibility to his child and a condition to hide. And this was the best solution.

“You can give me your decision tomorrow,” he said, having to force out the words because, God, how was he going to handle his need to check on her when she was living in a different house? Having him turn up on her doorstep every day would make her pretty damn suspicious pretty damn quickly.

“Tomorrow?” She rolled her eyes. “You mean I get a whole eight hours to figure out the course of my entire life? That’s so incredibly generous of you.”

“It’s not the course of your entire life. You get to do all the things you want to do except you’ll be living with me.”

Marisa snorted. “What about work? There’s that little matter of you being my boss and the ‘no workplace relationships’ rule, which, FYI, is going to need serious revisiting if I move in with you.”

He shifted uncomfortably on the seat, aware that this was another problem he’d have to find a solution for. “Perhaps we could find a potential workaround.”

“You’re going to have to.” She gave him a pointed look. “And before you say it, I’m not quitting, nor am I going to marry you, so you can forget about either of those as potential ‘workarounds.’”

He hadn’t been thinking about it but now that she mentioned it…

Marriage. A family…

Normality of a kind he’d always thought he didn’t want, because none of that kind of normality worked with the OCD. And yet…

“Perhaps we should,” he said, trying to think it through logically because he didn’t understand the strange mix of emotions that went along with it. “It would give the child a secure home. And marriage would certainly be a solution to the work problem.”

“It was a joke, Luke. I wasn’t serious.”

“But it makes a certain amount of logical sense.” Not to mention appealing to his sense of order. Of course, again, he’d have to be totally on top of the OCD in order to keep that a secret, but he hadn’t had a bad episode for a while now. He could make it work, he was sure of it.

Her mouth dropped open. “Logical sense? To marry someone you don’t like?”

“It’s not about whether we like each other or not. This would provide both you and our child with some security, legally and financially.”

“But, but—”

“What if something happened to me? Where would that leave you? If you were my wife you’d be entitled to certain benefits you wouldn’t get otherwise.”

Marisa stared at him. “You’re so freaking logical sometimes it does my head in.”

“You see my point, though?”

She didn’t say anything, digging hard into her ice cream and scooping up a big lump of it. She stared at the spoon for a moment, then put it down again and stared at him. “Do my feelings not matter to you at all?

“We have to put our personal feelings aside in this instance and—”

“So what I want doesn’t matter? Only what you want?”

Luke found his hand at his tie, mindlessly twiddling the knot. He forced it down. “What do you want, then?” he asked stiffly. “You said something about a glass studio earlier.”

For a long minute she said nothing, staring at him. “Yeah, I did. I want to be a glass artist like my dad. Have my own glass studio. I want to be able to create art like he did.” She said the words with a kind of defiance, like a gauntlet thrown down.

“There’s no reason you can’t do that, is there? I can build you something down the back—”

“I don’t want you to build me something,” she interrupted. “This is my dream, not yours. I won’t be an adjunct to you, Luke. Not again.”

He frowned. “What do you mean not again?”

But she was already pushing away the bowl and throwing aside her napkin. “Never mind. Thanks for the ice cream, but I think this conversation is over, don’t you? I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”

What? Where the hell was she going? “Marisa,” he began, but she’d already slid out of the booth and was walking toward the entrance of the parlor.

Crazy woman. She’d forgotten they’d come in his car. Unless, of course, she was going to try to find a taxi. Which he was not going to let her do, not at this hour and with the whole waterfront area full of drunken louts.

He got to his feet and strode out to find Marisa standing outside with her arms folded, extremely annoyed.

“Don’t say it,” she said warningly.

“You forgot we came in my car.”

“Didn’t I tell you not to say it?”

He thought about pointing out he was only checking to make sure she knew that but there was a spot of bright color on her cheeks and dark circles under eyes. She seemed tired and fragile, and that protective, possessive feeling suddenly roared to life.

He was impatient to sort this out, but she was right. They could talk about this tomorrow. When the shock had worn off and she wasn’t so tired. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll take you home.”

This time she didn’t argue.

Chapter Seven

Marisa woke the next day to the sound of someone knocking insistently on her door. She groaned, rolled over to glance at the clock. It was 9:00 a.m. Who the hell was knocking on her door at nine on a Sunday morning? She lay there for long moments hoping they’d go away. But they didn’t.

Crap. What she could really use was another couple of hours sleep, since she’d spent a good portion of the night before lying awake going over and over Luke’s insane plan that she move in with him. Oh, and not forgetting the further insanity of her marrying him.

She couldn’t get her head around it. She’d only just found out she was pregnant and yet he was all “move in with me, and hey, why don’t we get married?” as if it were a done deal.

She was sick of people doing that. Ignoring what she wanted or dismissing it as unimportant.

Yet, for all that it was a completely mad idea, there was a part of her that didn’t find it so objectionable. Because he was right, it did make sense from both a legal and a financial standpoint when it came to their child. And on a more personal level, it also meant that she wouldn’t again find herself in the position of being “the other woman.” This time, she would be the wife.

You can’t actually be contemplating this, can you? With Mr. Two Weeks only?

The banging on the door increased.

Well, one thing was for sure. She couldn’t think with that racket going on.

Slipping out of bed, Marisa grabbed her blue silk Chinese robe and put it on over her short cotton nightdress, belting it tightly as she went downstairs to the front door.

If it was door-to-door salespeople or Mormons, she was going to have a few choice words to say to them.

She pulled open the door, ready to let rip, only to have the words die in her throat as she met Luke McNamara’s gray eyes.

“Good, you’re up,” he said calmly, before she had a chance to say anything. “And don’t worry about breakfast, I bought some.” Then he put his foot on the step, obviously intending to come inside.

Pulling herself together, Marisa planted her feet in the middle of the doorway and stuck a hand on his chest, stopping him in his tracks. “What are you doing here, McNamara?”

He frowned. “Excuse me?”

“Let me put that another way. It’s nine a.m. On a Sunday freaking morning. You’re lucky I’m not still asleep.”

“I told you I needed a decision this morning. That’s why I’m here.”

Marisa didn’t know what was more annoying—the fact that he’d turned up so early or that he clearly expected her to have made a decision about the baby. After one night. Which she’d spent mostly not sleeping, and was now more tired than she’d ever been in her whole life.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

He raised his eyebrow in surprise. “Of course I’m serious. Why do you keep asking me that?”

Possibly because her experience was of men saying things they didn’t mean. Things like “I’ll pay you back, I promise.” Things like “You’re the only woman in my life.”

Things like “I love you.”.

Not Luke, though. Clearly whatever he said, he meant.

A small knot of tension she hadn’t been aware of until now loosened inside her and she became suddenly conscious of her hand on his chest. And that his chest was very warm. And, good God, was that a T-shirt? Yes, and that was definitely a pair of jeans on his long, muscular legs and around his lean hips. If he’d been amazing in a suit, dressed casually, he was…

“You’re in a T-shirt,” she muttered stupidly.

“It’s Sunday. You don’t think I wear a suit on the weekend, do you?” There was a glint in his eye, almost as if he was teasing her. But no, that couldn’t be right. Luke wouldn’t know a tease if he fell over one.

“Honey, you look like you were born in a suit.”

“Well, I wasn’t. Are you going to let me in?”

For some reason she didn’t want to remove her hand and stand aside. He was so hot beneath her palm, and strong. Immovable. As if he could take anything the world threw at him and stand firm against it. She didn’t know why that should feel so good, but it did.

“Marisa.” His voice had quieted, a rough edge creeping into it.

And when she lifted her gaze from the black cotton on his chest and met his eyes, she saw silver flare in them, the sparks of their chemistry catching fire.

Ahem. Remember you weren’t going to go there again?

Marisa snatched her hand away. No, they weren’t. Sex had already messed with things once and she wasn’t such a glutton for punishment she’d go there again. “I don’t think your coming inside is a good idea.”

“I can control myself,” he replied coolly. “Can you?”

She scowled at him. “Takes two to tango.”

Luke said nothing. He put his hands on her hips, shifted her gently to one side, then stepped into her house and walked down the hallway in the direction of her lounge area, leaving her gaping after him.

Bloody hell. The freaking nerve of the guy.

Slamming the door with a curse, she tightened her robe and hurried down the hallway after him.

He was in the little kitchen, taking things out of a plastic bag he’d had in one hand and putting them down on the counter area that divided the kitchen from the rest of the lounge. Croissants, freshly baked from the smell of them, and ham. And what appeared to be her favorite kind of soft cheese. There was also some kind of boutique honey and a packet of freshly ground coffee from the coffee shop she always got her morning latte from.

“Where are your cups?” He was pulling open her cupboards and making
tsk
ing sounds. “How can you find anything in here?”

“Bottom drawer to your left. What on earth are you doing in my kitchen?”

“Breakfast. I told you. Do you have something I can make coffee in?”

“I don’t need you to make breakfast for me.”

He straightened. “I know you don’t need me to. But I want to. Let me do it.”

Alistair used to make her breakfast some mornings, particularly when he wanted something from her. Money for example. Did Luke have the same modus operandi? Did he do similar things for his two-week lovers? Presumably money wasn’t what he was after, but men always wanted something.

“Why?” she asked. “If you think this is going to make me any more likely to move in with you you’re going to have to think again.”

“I don’t think that. What I want is to look after you. Is that such a bad thing?”

Marisa fiddled with the knot of her robe, uncomfortable. Okay, so apart from his two-week lover limit reputation, Luke was nothing like Alistair. So why was she thinking these things? “You look after people a lot?” she asked, trying to be casual.

He’d gone back to finding plates and boiling jugs, setting out food and getting utensils. “The people who matter, yes.”

Oh. Which meant… She swallowed. “So I matter then?”

Luke put down the jug he’d been using to pour boiling water into a French press and looked at her. “You’re pregnant with my child. Of course you matter.”

She didn’t know why it was so important to her to believe that, when he was still a relative stranger to her. But for some reason, it was.

Of course I love you, Marisa. You’re the only one in my life, don’t you know that?

Alistair’s charming voice swam out of the depths of memory like a shark scenting blood in the water. What a damn lie that had been.

Marisa forced the thought away, pulling her robe tighter around herself. “Okay. Good.” Time to change the subject. “I’ve got another question for you.”

“What?”

“Why do you collect sports cars?”

Unexpectedly, that gleam of what could have been amusement glinted in the depths of his eyes. “Stress relief.”

Curiosity shifted inside her. “Stress relief? How does that work?”

“Because there’s nothing like buying a new car then driving it very fast around a track for letting off steam.” He paused. “The past couple of weeks have been very expensive.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re already responsible for the Ferrari sitting in my garage. Another year and you’ll probably make me go bankrupt.” This time that gleam was very definitely amusement.

Marisa narrowed her gaze at him. “Did you just make a joke?”

“No.” He raised a brow. “Why would you think that?”

Oh yes, he had. And now…God. Was he flirting with her? She swallowed, the thought making her feel a little breathless all of a sudden, which she so did not need right now. Not after the intriguing confession about his cars.

She didn’t quite understand why the thought of Luke McNamara liking speed should be so…interesting. Maybe because he seemed like the type of guy who never let himself get wild and reckless.

But then she knew that wasn’t true, did she? She’d seen him with the reins off. When he held her in his arms, his mouth on hers, he’d been both wild and reckless.

And you loved it, didn’t you? Loved that you could drive him to that point…

She was conscious that her heartbeat had accelerated, her skin sensitized. That he was watching her, the physical awareness between them almost palpable.

“I think I might go and sit down now,” she said, apropos of nothing at all.

“Good idea,” Luke replied, his voice not quite as cool as it had been before. “I think you should also put some clothes on.”

Yes. And a suit of armor over the clothes. Marisa lifted her chin. “I can control myself,” she mimicked. “Can you?”

For a long second Luke studied her. Then his mouth curved. Not by much, but it was enough to hint at the kind of smile that would make grown women cast themselves onto the ground in front of him so he could use them as a rug.

Jeez. If he ever actually smiled, she was going to be so dead.

Marisa quickly turned and got out of the kitchen area before she completely lost her head.

…

Luke frowned at Marisa’s little dining table. Like everything else in her small town house, it was a mess of cheerful chaos, the surface cluttered with bills, magazines and books, newspapers and pamphlets, plus a few empty coffee cups. It desperately needed ordering. Really, the sooner she moved into his place, the better for everyone.

The better for you, you mean.

Well, that was true. It would make it better for him.

He’d woken up that morning with the need to go check on her at the forefront of his brain, and because it involved a special trip and time, he’d had to rearrange his already-tight schedule. He’d canceled his gym session and had gone for a run extra early so he could get in some sort of exercise. The afternoon he liked to keep for himself, especially this afternoon. He had some time booked on the track at Hampton Downs to try out one of the only Bugatti Veyrons in the country, and he couldn’t reschedule it because the car was in Auckland for only a couple of days.

Dealing with the Marisa-baby situation immediately was therefore imperative.

And also because you wanted to see her. Don’t pretend you didn’t.

Luke frowned and pushed the thought to the back of his mind, concentrating instead on tidying up the table. He took the cups away, then sorted through the papers. One of them was a pamphlet about a degree in fine arts at the local university, and there were several asterisks beside the list of courses offered. Luke frowned. She’d mentioned wanting to be an artist the night before. And having a glass studio, of all things.

“I’m not the only one who’s nosy, I see.”

He turned to find Marisa standing at his elbow, her gaze on the pamphlet in his hands. Her hair tumbled down around her shoulders in a glorious chaos of golden curls, and she was wearing a simple dark-blue top as soft and as silky as her hair. She had her skinny jeans on again, ones that seemed to hug and highlight all her luscious curves, and her feet were bare. Except for the glittery turquoise nail polish on her toes.

She looked beautiful and free and wild. Dangerous.

Perhaps she’d been safer in her Chinese silk robe.

“What’s this about?” He gestured at the pamphlet.

“And how, pray, is that any of your business?”

“It’s expensive. A fine arts degree costs—”

“You think I don’t know that?” She whipped the piece of paper out of his hand.

Luke studied her. Was that flush on her cheekbones embarrassment? “There’s no need to get defensive.”

“I’m not getting defensive.”

“Yes, you are. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to do this degree. In fact, if you move in with me, you’ll be able to do it faster with all the money you can save on rent.”

She bit her lip. “Yeah, but I haven’t made any decisions yet.”

“I told you what I wanted last night.”

“Yes. What
you
wanted. I still don’t know if it’s what I want.”

Frustration coiled inside him. This wasn’t off to the best of start, though why that should surprise him he didn’t know. It wasn’t as if anything was easy when it came to Marisa.

“Sit down,” he said, trying to make it sound less like a command and more like a request. “I’ll bring in the breakfast. Then we’ll discuss it.”

He brought out the food and set it on the table, pouring the coffee for himself and the special hand-squeezed orange juice for her.

She glared at the glass sitting on the table. “I want coffee.”

“Excess coffee in pregnancy leads to low birth weight.”

Her nose wrinkled. “Awww, come on. One coffee isn’t going to hurt. Anyway, if you want me sociable, not to mention biddable, you’ll find it much easier if I’ve had at least one hit of caffeine.”

Compromise. That appeared to be the way to go with Marisa Clair. More’s the pity. “One coffee,” he allowed.

Five minutes later, Marisa nursed her coffee and nibbled on a croissant slathered with honey while he again set out his plan for her and the baby. “Living with me is going to give your savings a major boost,” he said. “And don’t forget you’ve got my financial services for six months, remember?”

“Hmmmm.” Marisa broke off the end of her croissant and put it in her mouth. Her fingertips were shiny with butter, little flakes of pastry sticking to them. And he had the sudden urge to lick them clean.