Fearless (3 page)

“No,” I say, relenting. “But I could have been. That was pretty presumptuous, ordering for me without even knowing if I drink wine.”

Beckett stares at me for a long minute and I have to force myself not to squirm under his intent gaze. His eyes bore through me for so long that I'm starting to think I've made him angry. And then he laughs—a wonderful, deep, throaty sound that is so intoxicating I want to spend my whole life just trying to make him laugh.

“Well, well. Little Emmaline has some fire in her,” he says. “You're right. I'm sorry for my presumptuousness in ordering for you. What would you like?”

“Merlot is fine,” I say. “It's actually my favorite. I'm just used to making my own decisions.”

Beckett reaches across the table, taking my hand in his. This time he laces his fingers with mine, and I feel a small thrill at the intimate familiarity, even as a decidedly unfamiliar surge of erotic awareness travels from our laced fingers straight to some long sleeping part deep within me.

“Sometimes it's nice to let someone else make the decisions,” he says, all seriousness again.

“I suppose,” I say. “Although I've been making decisions for so long I have a hard time letting go. I'm sorry. That probably wasn't a very nice thing to do.”

Although I do feel a little bit bad about it, I'm having a hard time keeping the smile off my face. The look of horror on his face had been priceless.

“No, it wasn't very nice,” he agrees. “And you don't seem very sorry.”

I burst out laughing. “I am sorry, really!” I say, wiping my eyes. “It's just, your face….,” I start before another fit of giggles sets in.

I finally stop laughing. “I really am sorry,” I say more seriously. “It was kind of mean of me, although I really didn't intend to be mean. It just caught me off guard when you ordered for me. I swear, I don't usually just blurt out what I'm thinking without considering other people's feelings.”

“An independent streak and a sharp wit,” he says. “You know how to keep a man on his toes.”

“I hope I didn't hurt your feelings.”

“Not at all,” he assures me. “Although there may come a day when you have to pay for your audacity.”

I'm not exactly sure what he means by that, but the way he's looking at me with a dark and carnal sensuality in his eyes makes me lower my eyes and change the subject.

“So, you haven't asked for a resume or recommendations or seen any of my work. How do you know I'm not a terrible writer?”

“I did my research,” he assures me. “You have published articles with
Good Housekeeping
,
Vogue
,
Redbook
,
Parents
, and the
New Yorker
just to name a few, and you're a regular contributor to the
Huffington Post
and the
Houston Chronicle
. You received the National Magazine Award for a piece in the New Yorker, which was brilliantly written, and have worked for numerous well-known businesses. I'm pretty sure you're not a terrible writer.”

I look at him, stunned. “And you found out all of this when? After I left your office but before you walked into the cafeteria? You couldn't have even known I was going to be there.”

“I looked you up after you came into the office a few months ago,” he says with a level gaze. “You intrigued me. In fact, you completely captivated me. You were beautiful and aloof and intelligent, with a fascinating combination of strength and vulnerability I found interesting. I wanted to know more about you.”

“Oh,” I say quietly. “So is your dad really looking for someone to write his memoir or did you just make that up?”

“My dad really is looking for someone to write his memoir. If it makes you feel better, I had already told him about you before you came in on Monday, although if things had gone differently I probably would have just had my secretary contact you about the job.”

“But then we ran into each other at the deli,” I say slowly.

“Yes,” he agrees. “And here we are.”

Before I can respond, the waiter arrives to take our order.

“What would you like, Emmaline?” he says, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “I'm not going to make the same mistake twice.”

I laugh and look at the waiter. “I'll have the salmon.”

“Excellent choice,” the waiter says smiling back at me, and Beckett almost imperceptibly tenses next to me.

After we place our order he turns the conversation toward business, telling me about his father and the work he has spent his lifetime pursuing. The waiter has cleared our plates and we're on our second glass of wine by the time he finishes.

“He sounds like an amazing man,” I say. “I can't wait to meet him.”

“First, you will have to sign a confidentiality agreement,” Beckett says, reaching into his jacket and placing the papers on the table. “This basically says that anything that happens between us, or between you and my father, is confidential and cannot be disclosed without his, or my, consent. Furthermore, you may not publish anything pertaining to his work or personal life without his consent. Upon publication, the author will be listed as Dr. Patrick Black with Emmaline Hart.”

“That all sounds pretty standard,” I say. “If you have a pen I'll sign it right now.”

“Emma, this agreement also applies to our relationship.”

I glance up at him. Why would a relationship with him require a confidentiality agreement? Because of his dad? Do we even have a relationship?

“If we have one,” he clarifies, as though he just read my thoughts. He gives me a level gaze and adds huskily, “And I fully intend to have one.”

I spend the next day trying to work on the bridal article but ultimately alternating between replaying the events of last night in my head and checking my phone to see if Beckett has called. I'm pathetic, I know. I feel like I'm in high school again. Last night after I signed the papers he drove me home and walked me to the door. As formal as he always acts, I'd half expected him to take my key from me and unlock the door like the men do in the classic movies my mom loves to watch on Netflix, but he just stood there, watching me fumble with the lock. I'd asked him if he wanted to come in but he'd said he had surgery in the morning, and as soon as I closed the door he'd vanished down my front path, making me wonder if I'd only imagined the interest I saw in his eyes at dinner.

Finally, at seven o'clock he calls. I go into the kitchen and close the door before I answer so I don't disturb Nikki, who's doing her homework in the den.

“Would you be free tomorrow evening or Saturday to meet with my dad?” he asks, all business.

I inwardly groan. “My daughter has a volleyball tournament tomorrow night and Saturday until mid-afternoon,” I say. “I could meet with him after that on Saturday, but it will probably be four before I'm free.”

“Excellent,” he replies. “I'll pick you up at four on Saturday and take you to my dad's house.”

I roll my eyes. “In case you don't know, I have both a driver's license and a car. If you give me his address, I can just come straight to your dad's house.”

“Yes, I do realize you probably have a car and a license, Emmaline,” he says mildly. “But I will come and pick you up on Saturday.”

“But it's really no problem for me….”

“Emmaline,” he cuts me off with a warning tone to his voice.

“Fine,” I huff. “If you insist. I'll see you at four.”

I hang up the phone and shake my head. Beckett Black is certainly gorgeous, but he has control issues.

After the volleyball tournament ends on Saturday afternoon, Nikki leaves with her best friend Madison to spend the night, which means I have the entire evening free. As I stand in my closet trying to decide what to wear, I wonder if my meeting with the senior Dr. Black will include dinner, or if Beckett will bring me home after the meeting. He hasn't given any hint as to what the plan for the evening is, so I decide to expect the least but plan for the most. I spend a little extra time in the shower shaving, exfoliating, and conditioning before putting on a sleeveless bright floral dress with a flirty skirt that stops just above the knee and silver strappy sandals that would look right for a casual interview or a date. This time, I decide to leave my hair down. At the last minute, I impulsively trade my usual sensible cotton bikini panties for a white lace thong.

Beckett arrives promptly at four, and once again his sheer animal magnetism hits me like a brick wall. Every nerve in my body seems to come alive when I'm near him. He, however, seems completely unaffected as he opens the car door for me and climbs into the driver's seat.

“Sorry I argued with you about picking me up,” I begin as he pulls out of my neighborhood. “Once I figured out what was going on it all made sense.”

Beckett turns to look at me briefly, one dark eyebrow arched.

“Really. And what exactly is going on?”

He's so solemn and businesslike, it's just fun to mess with him. “Well, obviously your dad has some pretty top secret information given the confidentiality agreement you had me sign. So I'm sure where he lives must be pretty classified. Clearly you can't just give out his address! Are you going to blindfold me until we get there so I don't know where we're going?” I ask innocently.

Stopped at a traffic light, one arm casually draped over the steering wheel, he turns to look at me, his eyes smoldering with a look I can't quite decipher. “Well that's certainly an intriguing thought,” he says. “Don't tempt me.”

That shuts me up and I don't say anything more until we pull into the circular drive of what I assume is his dad's house in River Oaks, which is impressive by anyone's standard. It's gorgeous, and almost pornographic in its opulence.

“This is your parents' house?” I ask incredulously, taking in the sprawling white limestone mansion that looks like a French chateau with ivy covering portions of its vast walls.

“My dad's house,” he corrects me. “My mom died when I was young.”

“I'm sorry,” I say as he comes around to open my door.

“Don't be,” he says brusquely. “I barely remember her.”

As he helps me out of the car I ask, “Did you grow up here?”

“Yes,” he says. “Me and my two brothers. We've tried to convince Dad to sell the place and move somewhere smaller but he's stubborn.”

“Like father, like son,” I mutter, earning a reprimanding look from Beckett that makes me hide a smile.

At the front door, Beckett uses a key on his key ring to unlock the ornately carved front door, pushing it open before stepping aside to let me enter. I do so tentatively, preoccupied by looking around the luxurious marble entryway which is large enough to accommodate a huge stone table and several upholstered chairs. My eyes follow the curving staircase, made elegant with an ornate black iron balustrade, to the second floor.

“Dad, we're here,” Beckett calls.

A plump woman in her sixties comes bustling into the entry way.

“Why, Master Beckett. I didn't know you were coming,” she says with a delightful British accent. I instantly love her. “And who's the young lady? I've been telling your dad it's high time you start dating and find yourself a good woman.”

I look down awkwardly, but Beckett just says, “Agnes, this is Emmaline Hart. She's going to be ghost writing my dad's memoir.”

“Oh, well then,” Agnes says unperturbed, offering her hand to me. “It's a pleasure to meet you. I guess we'll be seeing a lot of each other.”

“It's nice to meet you,” I say with smile, shaking her hand.

“Emma, this is Agnes—housekeeper, personal assistant to my father, and certified saint.” Although he doesn't smile, I can hear the affection in his voice.

I follow him, trying not to gawk, to a sunroom in the back of the house with a wall of windows that gives a panoramic view of the most beautiful backyard I've ever seen. I'm so entranced with the view of the terraced deck, ornate fountain, and lushly landscaped lawn anchored by an infinity pool that it takes me several minutes to realize that someone else is in the room. A studious-looking man in his early seventies, dressed in a dapper blue seersucker suit, is sitting behind a desk almost completely obscured by stacks of paper. He's stooped over a book, but whether he's sleeping or reading isn't immediately clear.

“Dad,” Beckett says. “This is Emmaline. She's the one who's going to be helping you with your book.”

A pair of blue eyes, bright behind a pair of old-fashioned spectacles, peer at me. I can't help but notice that Beckett, with his tall, muscularly lean build, tanned skin, expressive brown eyes, and slightly curly dark hair, doesn't look much like his father.

“You didn't say she was a looker, son,” the old man says.

“Didn't I?” Beckett replies dryly.

“Well, come in then. Have a seat.” The senior Dr. Black gets up from behind the desk and comes around to move several piles of paper and stacks of books from an old-fashioned upholstered loveseat to make a place for me to sit. It looks far too small for the two of us to both fit on, but as soon as I sit down on one end of the small seat Beckett sinks down next to me, filling the space with his masculinity, his arm so close to mine that I can feel the heat from his body. I wonder a bit desperately how I'm going to focus with him sitting so close to me. He, of course, seems completely unbothered by our close proximity, stretching his long legs out in front of him and leaning back as if he's completely at ease, which he probably is. Damn the man!

Mind over matter, I remind myself firmly.
Focus, Emma
. I pull a notebook and pen out of my bag.

“I'm looking forward to working with you, sir,” I say. “Beckett, I mean Dr. Black, told me a little bit about your cancer research and mentioned you spent some time in the Amazon.”