Manhattan Boss, Diamond Proposal. Trish WylieЧитать онлайн книгу.
you home?’ The slightly breathless edge to her voice made her groan inwardly.
‘Yup, I’ll bring down a bottle of something.’
‘Erm…I’m not exactly dressed for company… You need to give me a minute.’
There was a pause.
Then, ‘And now you know I need to know, right?’
The way his voice had lowered an octave did something weird to her stomach. And her lack of a reply gave him reason enough to ask the obvious: ‘You are dressed right?’
‘Stop that.’
‘Well, at least I didn’t use the tell me what you’re wearing line.’
‘You may as well have.’ Feeling confident he wouldn’t appear while he was upstairs on the phone, she curled her legs underneath her and settled back, wriggling deeper into the massive cushions as she smiled at the all-too-familiar banter. ‘Friends don’t do that kind of phone call.’
After a heartbeat of a pause he came back with another rumbling reply, adding an intimacy to the conversation that unsettled her all over again. ‘I’d consider it, with that lilting accent of yours. We could do one as part of the date training I’m apparently in need of.’
She shook her head against the edge of the sofa and sighed. ‘I give up.’
‘’Bout time too. So tell me what you’re wearing that’s such a big problem.’
When a burst of throaty laughter made its way out of her mouth she clamped a hand over it to make sure nothing else escaped.
‘C’mon…it can’t be that bad. It’s sweats two sizes too big, isn’t it?’
She frowned, blinking at a random point on the wall over her mantel. Because, actually, she didn’t think she wanted one of the most eligible bachelors in New York thinking she couldn’t wear something sexy if she felt like it. Not that she was looking for a blue box of her own at any stage.
Widening her fingers enough to speak, she felt an inner mischievous imp take over. ‘How do you know I’m not wearing something sexy I don’t want you to see?’
When there was silence on the other end of the line she contemplated jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge out of embarrassment. And then, above the sound of her heart thundering in her ears, she heard an answer so low it was practically in the territory of pillow talk. ‘Are you flirting with me? Cos if you are…’
If she was—what? She swallowed hard and summoned up the control to keep her voice calm as she risked removing her hand from her mouth. ‘You’re the one who said he wanted it to be a training call.’
Another long pause. ‘A training call before a training date is a bit of a leap, don’t you think?’
‘I didn’t start this.’
Terrific. Now she was an eight-year-old.
‘I’d argue that, but let’s just give this another try. What exactly is it you’re wearing that means I can’t come down there right this second?’
‘You don’t think I even own anything sexy, do you? When you think of me down here you automatically assume I’m dressed like a slob.’
‘Can’t say I’ve ever wondered what you were wearing down there before this phone call.’
The Brooklyn Bridge was getting more tempting by the second.
Then he made her stomach do the weird thing again by adding ‘Always gonna wonder after this though. And any inappropriate thoughts I have will be entirely your fault. You’re the girl next door—I’m never s’posed to think of you as anything but cute.’
‘I’m the girl downstairs. And for your information I’m wearing something entirely too sexy to be considered cute.’ She almost added a so there.
‘Liar.’ She could hear him smiling down the line. ‘And don’t pout. With those braids in it makes you look about sixteen.’
Clare shot upright and looked out of the French windows leading to their small garden. To find Quinn sitting on the stone steps, long legs spread wide and a bottle of wine tucked under one arm while two glasses dangled from his fingers as he grinned at her. She didn’t even need to be closer to see the sparks of devilment dancing in the blue of his eyes. The rat.
He jerked his head. ‘C’mon out. It’s cooler now.’
‘I don’t drink wine with peeping Toms.’ She smirked.
‘I’m in my own backyard looking into an apartment I own and if you’d been naked I like to think you’d have had the sense to pull the drapes.’
She dropped her chin and looked down again.
There was another rumbling chuckle of laughter. ‘I promise not to make a pass at you. We haven’t even been on a training date yet.’
‘That’s not how it works.’
‘No?’
Clare scowled at him. ‘No. It’s a discussion about dating—not a dress rehearsal.’
‘If you plan on winning this bet you might have to treat me as a special case.’ He even had the gall to waggle his dark brows at her before jerking his head again. ‘Come on.’
‘I’m staying where I am—it’s your dime.’
Quinn shrugged. ‘Okay, then.’
Clare sighed heavily while he lodged the receiver between his ear and his shoulder. Tugging the loosened cork free from the bottle, he set the glasses down before lifting them one by one to pour the deep red liquid. Then he set the bottle at the bottom of the steps before leaning forwards to place a glass by the door.
Lifting the other glass, he pointed a long finger. ‘That one’s yours.’
‘Can’t reach it from here…’
‘You’ll have to come get it, then, won’t you?’
‘I’m good, thanks.’
‘I’m not actually so desperate—’
‘Thanks for that.’ And, ridiculously, it hurt that he’d said it. ‘A little tip for you, Romeo: don’t use that line on any of the dates I send you on.’
‘I was going to say, not so desperate I have to force myself on a woman. You really think I’m slime, don’t you? When did that happen?’
Heat rising on her cheeks, she mumbled back, ‘I don’t think you’re slime.’
‘Good. Cos I was starting to wonder…’
Unable to hold his gaze for long, even from a distance, Clare frowned at the music she had playing in the background. It had been fine listening to the sultry tones when she’d been on her own, reading his questionnaire, but she really didn’t need a romantic ambience now he was there in person—especially when she was feeling so irrational with him close by. So she lifted the control, aiming it at the CD player.
‘No—leave it. I gave you that album for Christmas. Hardly likely to give you something I wouldn’t like listening to, was I?’
Clare had discovered a lot of the music she loved thanks to Quinn’s massive collection upstairs. When she’d first moved in she would hear it drifting downwards on the night air, and for weeks every morning conversation had started with ‘What were you playing last night?’
Sometimes she’d even wondered if, after a while, he’d chosen something different every night just to keep her listening. It had become a bit of a Cassidy-O’Connor game.
‘So, how’d I score on my questionnaire?’
The