Pretty Hot (The Pretty Trilogy Book 1) (17 page)

I snort now myself. ‘Master Kai in the conservatory, rogering the governess?’ Sarcasm may be the lowest form of wit, but it’s absolutely my favourite.

‘I’m up for role play,’ he answers instantly.

I close my ears to his tone, now rearranging the glassware on the table. ‘Are you my boss or not? I’m not sure I know.’ Capricious Kai, it doesn’t take much to flick his switch. He makes an art out of distraction, of lowering the tone. But I can’t help but like it. Like him.

‘Not.’ He chuckles, reaching out and stilling my hands with his. ‘I don’t have any responsibility for the day to day running of the school. But I could pretend, if that’s your thing.’

I fix my gaze on the back of his hand, studying the protrusion of knuckles and veins. Should it make a difference that we’re from such different worlds?

‘Seriously, I just want to get to know you,’ he says, fingers tightening. ‘Is that so bad?’

‘Isn’t that what we’re doing, talking?’ My voice sounds small again as I try, and fail, to hold his gaze.

‘Seems more like verbal foreplay, and much of it your doing, I might add.’

‘You must be rubbing off on me,’ I mumble as he releases a bark of a laugh. ‘What?’

‘I’d like to. Rub off on you.’

I roll my eyes, wondering as I do so if his behaviour is instinctual or if he’s just trying to put me at ease. Then, as his amber gaze stares back at me, I wonder if he wasn’t kidding.

‘Would it help if I said please?’

The waiter approaches the table, saving me from deciding between a witty comeback—currently not available—and the ridiculously compelling notion of crawling onto his knee.

‘I hope you don’t mind that I ordered.’ Changing the subject, he tries to control his growing smile.

It’s a bit late now, I think, if I did as the table is filled with enough food for triple our number. Warm flatbread, a vermillion coloured dip he calls
muhammara
, dainty morsels of chicken and bowls of delicate salads. Taking a plate, Kai begins to fill it.

‘I wasn’t sure what you’d like,’ he says neutrally, spooning on an assortment.

I don’t answer and can only watch, confused by a sudden riotous need in the face of his outward calm. I know my feelings aren’t one-sided, he almost said so himself. Maybe his control is greater than mine, and if my poker face is rubbish, maybe his has been perfected to a fine art.
He’s obviously had lots of practise
. I push away the thought as I take the proffered plate.

‘Eat.’

‘Inappropriate
and
kinda bossy,’ I snark, sliding the fork into my mouth, a little unnerved by his sudden flash of teeth.

‘Down to a tee.’

The undercurrent in his quietly spoken words washes over me. I blink and swallow slowly, the fork forgotten in my hand.

‘Eat,’ he repeats quietly.

So I do. Savouring each fragrant mouthful, my eyes continually drawn back to Kai. I study him with the fascination of an anthropologist, each small movement observed. His jaw working as he chews, the powerful movements of his throat. I want to place my tongue there, feel the muscles. Lick a trail to his mouth. My pulse hammers as I devour the line of tendons in his forearm and the smooth hollow peeking from his shirt. Long fingers touch a button at his chest fleetingly, my eyes drawn to the action as I follow the row of tiny hindrances coming between me and his skin. I recall the trail of hair from his navel to, well
 . . .

‘Enjoying yourself?’

My body jumps. ‘Sorry, w
—
what?’

‘Eye fucking isn’t talking,’ he prompts, amused. ‘Not that I’m complaining, just say the word and I’m there.’

Flustered, I stammer my answer,
my blush no doubt confirming the conviction lacking in my words. ‘What makes you think I was checking you out?’

‘Denial?’ he breathes, wide-eyed.

‘Maybe,’ I reply. ‘You can’t tell what was going on in my head.’ I push away the plate, no longer hungry. Not for food, at any rate.

‘True,’ he shrugs, ‘but I can read your body well enough.’

‘No way.’ I was just sitting there barely moving, he couldn’t possibly know.

He doesn’t answer, just continues to look at me, his eyes now dark and full of knowing. Or guessing. Who can tell?

‘Go on then,’ I dare, ‘do your best.’

‘Your skin has heated,’ he says huskily, ‘colouring your cheeks, chest and,’—his eyes flick down my body—‘lower.’

‘You can’t see that,’ I murmur, hoping to qualify my statement and move the conversation away from my heated crotch.

‘And,’ his voice drops to a mocking whisper, ‘you leaned forward ever so slightly in your chair.
For pressure
. Next, you licked your lips a little, very inviting, too, then your gaze followed my hand to a button, then went the rest of the way . . . all
 . . .
by
 . . .
itself.’

‘That’s not fair, you played me!’ Given that he’s right, my indignation sounds slightly hollow.

‘I’d like to play—’

‘What happened to talking?’ I interject.

Leaning back in his chair, he smiles benignly. ‘Rubbing off again?’

‘Just keep your hands where I can see them.’

He does so, laughing, as he asks, ‘What brought you to Dubai?’

‘Why did I move here?’ I repeat, my mind prevaricating between truth and a much more comfortable fiction.
I close my eyes and try to arrange the thoughts I have no intention of sharing. ‘Why not?’ I eventually answer. ‘It was time for a change. I have a friend here and
 . . .
Why not?’

‘There must be a reason,’ he admonishes.

‘I came here for a holiday and ended up staying.’ With a casual shrug, I reach for my glass. Water. He didn’t order drinks with our meal. ‘Do you know, my name—’

His eyes gleam devilishly as he waves away my words. ‘I know that; get to the bits I don’t already know.’

‘I was
going
to say my name is actually Katherine. With a K. Though I prefer Kate, and that only Niamh calls me Kat or Kitty or other  . . . variances and that no one has ever called me
Kitten
before.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment. You can’t have purred for anyone else.’ I blink slowly, resisting the urge to comment; when you’re right, you’re right but I’m so not going to tell
him
that. ‘Go on. I need more.’

Oh, god. More. About me.

My neck works as I swallow over the lump in my throat, but I quickly get a hold of myself; I don’t have to share more than I’m comfortable with. The bare bones of the life of Kate.

‘Well, I, er, I’m from Palm Beach in Queensland. On the Gold Coast? But usually I tell people I’m from Brisbane, to avoid confusion and that’s where I lived . . . last.’ I clear my throat. ‘Most people don’t know where . . . anyway, it’s not as glamorous as the other Palm Beach, or, you know, its namesake, in America?’ I try very hard not to squeak the last word, my voice rendering the words a question. ‘Not that I’ve ever been there, or anything.’
Inhale.
‘I’m not much of a beach bunny.’
Engage brain cells.
‘And I’ve never drank as much as I have since moving here. I like cake and I’m probably going to need to detox soon.’

With each rambling word, his smile grows exponentially. ‘That’s it?’ he asks as I finish. ‘That’s all you’re willing to share?’

I shrug but don’t open my mouth.

‘Where are the tales of yearning for adventure, escaping mad boyfriends, unrequited affections and torrid love affairs?’

‘You’ve obviously never been to Palm Beach. The most exciting thing that happens there is when the surf club changes the menu.’

‘Lots of words without information, Kitten.’ The corner of his mouth quirks as he pauses. ‘What about . . .’ He straightens in his chair. ‘Okay, if you were a car what kind would you be?’

‘What, are we twelve all of a sudden?’

‘It’s just a bit of fun, trying to crack that shell.’ He’s all wide smiles and gorgeous hair and I wouldn’t be surprised to find he beguiles everyone in his path.

Gesturing to the waiter with an almost invisible motion, Kai issues instructions in rapid-fire Arabic.

‘For instance,
I
would be a Bentley Continental,’ he says, still amused. ‘Because I’m a new take on the traditional model, have plenty of staying power, my stylish exterior masking just a couple of unexpected kinks.’ Expansive hands and golden eyes ask, ‘And you would be?’

I stare back, suddenly stumped. What kind of kinks is he talking about here? Euphemistic ones, I hope. And me? A banger? No, that doesn’t sound right. A station wagon because of the junk in my trunk?

‘It’s not a test,’ he adds laughing and startling me into speech.

‘I think I’d probably be like . . . a bike. A push bike. A bicycle,’ I qualify, digging a larger hole. ‘What I mean is, I’m not very fast or sleek. Slow and steady’s more my style. With just one previous owner.’

Sometimes I even astound myself, I’m just that dumb. D.U.M. dumb, not even bright enough to qualify for the final B. I burn with embarrassment as Kai’s shoulders begin to shake.
I guess bike has the same connotations in Dubai.

‘Gently used?’ he splutters.

‘Not particularly.’

Maybe I should just be struck dumb for my own defence.

His laughter slows, smile fading and replaced by confusion. But the waiter, my unwitting saviour again, prevents my death from shame by placing a silver tray on the table. On it stands two ornate tumblers, each containing a little ice, a blue glass bottle with an ornate Arabic label, a small silver jug with a long, ladle-like handle. Oh, and a bottle of water, sourced from Italy, of course, the kind that costs ten bucks a pop.

Dismissing him, Kai pours liquid from the blue bottle into the odd looking jug. Next, he adds water before pouring the clear liquid mixture into the glasses of ice. Strangely, as the liquid touches the ice, it becomes milk.

‘Arak,’ he says, handing me a glass, raising his. ‘It’s an aperitif from Lebanon. If you can handle afternoon martinis’. . .’

Sniffing tentatively, I inhale the pleasant, liquorice aroma before taking a sip. I come up spluttering, the alcohol burning the back of my throat. It travels my oesophagus, a warming bloom travelling in its wake.

‘Whoa, that’s got some kick.’ I wheeze, placing the glass down. ‘Let me catch my breath. Your turn. What does a lawyer-slash-member-of-the-board do?’

‘Legal work mainly. In the family business.’ He shrugs, examining his glass. ‘Or rather, family businesses. A despot in training, to be master of all I survey.’ His mouth twists ironically.

‘Are you an only child?’

‘Not exactly. I’m my mother’s only child and I have the dubious privilege of being my father’s only son, as he reminds me often enough. You’re looking at his pride and joy, failure and fuck up, depending on which way the wind blows. And I can’t believe I just told you that.’ His gaze slides away, both embarrassed and amused.

His light words may scream subtext but beyond guessing divorce or affairs, I haven’t a clue. To cover his discomfort, I add, ‘It’s because I’m so warm.’

‘Warm,’ he repeats, bringing the glass to his mouth again. ‘I’d say hot.’ His eyes smoulder over the rim. ‘And I believe it’s your turn again.’

Hooley-dooley!
I don’t respond for a moment, just stare at him before remembering I need to speak.

‘I told you, I’m pretty boring. No siblings and I’ve lived in Australia my whole life. Other than a trip to Bali, this is the only other time I’ve been overseas. I went to an all girls’ school, uni in Brisbane then straight back to the same school to teach. See.’ I shrug. ‘Pretty lame.’

‘An all girls’ school? Religious?’ he asks, attention caught. ‘Our Lady of Perpetual Guilt?’ Placing the glass down, he folds his arms across his chest with a satisfied grin.

‘Should I even ask?’

‘Your anxiety,’ he answers with a massive smile, ‘waking in my bed. Guilt, sin; the usual dogmatic repression. Haven’t you heard, chaste is waste?’

‘I bet you’ve got that on a t-shirt.’

‘It’s like the saying goes, a dirty mind is a joy forever. Still, it’ll make it all the more fun when you eventually let go.’

His words ripple across my skin like some kind of cautionary touch. I wonder if he means it’ll be more fun for me, or him. Because if he means him, that implies I’ll be around a while, while on the other hand . . . I think I’ll stop overthinking now.

‘I—I’ll bear that in mind.’ Wildly scanning topics of conversation on a more neutral ground, I find myself asking, ‘So, what do you do for fun?’

God, how Grade 8. Like, I literally can’t even . . . right now.

‘When I’m not rescuing women from ladders?’

‘Yeah, when you’ve left your chivalry in your other pants and the valiant steed tied in the yard.’

‘I work, I travel. And as for a valiant steed, I suppose I do like fast cars. And whiskey.’ He frowns curiously as he reaches for his glass. ‘I also like you.’

I swallow the remainder of my drink forgetting its potency and bite. Spluttering and coughing, I try to ingest his words through the arak.

‘Careful, it’s pretty powerful stuff.’

‘It’s not the drink,’ I mumble, standing abruptly and coughing still. ‘Excuse me.’ I tug at the hem of my dress before moving, instincts intervening and telling me I need a little distance. A moment to gather my wits. Yes, I’m off to the bathroom to have a stiff word with myself. To avoid the kind of stiff Kai has my libido crying out for right now.