Losing Control. Robyn GradyЧитать онлайн книгу.
swung around and glared into Cole Hunter’s flashing green eyes. She hated that her voice was shaky.
“Kindly leave me alone.”
“You came with me—”
“And I’ll leave without you.” She directed her next words to the fidgety doorman. “Can you organize a cab, please?”
Waving a hand, Cole sent the poor doorman back to his corner. “I’ll drive you to the station, or home, if you like.”
“I’d prefer you didn’t.”
“I’d prefer that I did.”
“So you can goad me into doing something else I might regret?”
He stepped closer until his shadow consumed her and his lidded gaze dropped to her lips. “And just what is it you’re afraid you’ll do?”
When his eyes met hers again, she felt the stakes between them change and swell. Was it her imagination or had he just propositioned her?
She ought to be outraged. She should want to slap his face. But the heat racing over her skin, snatching her breath and warming her insides, suddenly felt less like anger and a whole lot more like anticipation.
She croaked out, “I never asked to come here tonight.”
“No. You were only jumping around like a Christmas puppy, wanting me to see your idea right away.”
“You said you wanted to see it.”
“When it was good and cooked.”
She hitched her carryall strap higher on her shoulder. “Admit it. You never had any intention of giving me a chance.”
“Whoa. Don’t put this back on me.”
“No. I should be overjoyed with needing to jump through your hoops after I’ve already landed the job.”
He blinked at that then absently readjusted the platinum watchband on his wrist. “I’m yet to speak to my father about signing you without consulting me first.”
“Perhaps you should have done that before putting me through that charade.”
“Sorry for doing you a favor.”
“Forgive me if I don’t shower you with thanks.”
A cab rolled up the lantern-lit drive while a valet brought Cole’s car around at the same time. Shaking with rage—with hurt and frustration—she made a beeline for the cab with Cole hot on her tail.
That doorman came forward to open the passenger door. With one sharp look, Cole sent him packing again. Then, refocusing, he crossed his arms over that stained damp shirt.
“I’m sorry you can’t handle the truth about the premise of your show.”
“Your version of the truth,” she pointed out.
“Like it or not, mine’s the only version that counts.”
She crossed her arms, too. “Has anyone ever suggested that your ego might be a trifle oversize?”
“My temper, too—particularly, but not excluding, when I’m soaked through and smelling like a barroom floor.”
Her conscience pricked. She looked him up and down. Then, although it pained, she offered up what her aunt might consider polite and fair.
“I’ll pay for dry cleaning.”
“Shirt, trousers and tie.” He pretended to wring the strip of royal-blue silk. “You didn’t miss much.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my pitching arm. I was captain of my school softball team five years running.”
“Remind me to stay out of your way if you try to swing a bat.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure none of my home runs land in your sandbox.”
Cole looked at her harder, his gaze penetrating—judgmental—and yet she got the impression that a different, less hostile emotion churned just below his surface. Maybe a miniscule touch of grudging respect? She crossed her arms tighter. Too little, too late.
Finally he shrugged back both shoulders and tucked in his chin. “Maybe I was a little over-the-top with the sandbox line.”
She pretended to tug her ear. “Was that Cole Hunter apologizing?”
“Merely an observation.”
His brows lifted as if he were waiting for her to return the sentiment. No way would she give another inch.
Except …
She didn’t need for Cole to walk away from this confrontation thinking he was the better man. She might be right, but she wasn’t stupid.
With the cabbie and doorman hanging back, waiting, she eased out that pent-up breath and let her arms unravel.
“Well, maybe,” she ground out, “I didn’t need to toss that second drink over your lap.”
The intensity of his gaze gradually lifted and, after another deliberative moment, he tilted his head at his car. “So you up for a lift back to the station?”
“Only if I choose the topic of conversation.”
He clutched at his chest. “You’ll even talk to me?”
“Not about anything personal. And I’d prefer not to discuss my project with you any more at this time.”
“I’m sure that’s wise.” He started off then stopped, waiting for her to join him, which—after making him stand there wondering for another five full beats—she did.
“Maybe we could discuss vegetarian cuisine,” she said as they reached his car.
He grunted. “What about sports?”
“I’m in charge, remember?”
After she’d slid in, but before he shut the door, she heard him mutter, “Enjoy it while it lasts.”
Cole drove back to the station listening to Taryn share her secrets on the abundance of ways one could combine pumpkin with pine nuts. Fascinating.
But now, as he made his third stop for the evening—at his father’s Pott’s Point mansion—he could admit he’d almost enjoyed the final stint of his evening with this persistent producer. Even as the wine dried on his clothes, he surrendered a smile remembering the poised timbre of her voice and glorious lines of her legs as she’d chatted on.
One moment spitting fire, the next a consummate ice queen. He didn’t know which intrigued him more. From the moment he’d laid eyes on her, sitting demurely in his father’s reception lounge, he’d been struck by those lips, her hair, that barely subdued sexuality. After her spectacular meltdown at the restaurant tonight, perverse though it might sound, his attraction for her had only grown.
By the time he pulled up beneath his father’s extravagant granite forecourt, Cole was trying to shake the image of Taryn twining her arms around his neck and searching out his kiss—not because he felt guilty necessarily, but because he didn’t need any added aggravation when he visited this place. Guthrie he could handle. His father’s wife, Cole didn’t want to touch.
He’d fortified himself and was about to slip out of the car when his cell sounded. Two callers—Dex and Wynn combined. Cole connected and Wynn spoke first.
“How’s Dad holding up?”
Then Dex. “Do the authorities have any clue who’s behind it all?”
“We’ll get the guy,” Cole told them. “Don’t worry.”
Cole hadn’t been able to get a hold of either brother this morning, or Teagan, for that matter. They had their differences but, beyond and above all