Talking Dirty With the Boss: A Talking Dirty Novel (Entangled Indulgence) (10 page)

The shock of the pregnancy and her idiocy at the auction, reality sinking in about having a baby with a man she didn’t know, who happened to also be her boss, coupled with the fact that after angsting about how to tell him, he’d guessed anyway, had overwhelmed her completely. Pregnancy hormones had only added to the disaster of tears and running mascara and snot.

Ugh. While he’d stood there, wooden as a stick, patting her on the shoulder and saying “there, there.”

Oddly enough, though, she’d found his calm detachment helpful in pulling herself together. Perhaps if he’d gotten angry or panicked, it might have been a different story. He’d been cool and calm and logical. For some reason that had been more comforting than hugs or any amount of soothing.

“About the ice cream,” he said as they walked down the corridor toward the foyer together. “I don’t have any.”

“Then we need to stop and get some.” If she couldn’t have a glass of wine, she was damn well having a sundae. With chocolate sauce.

“How does having ice cream help?”

“It’s a girl thing. You wouldn’t understand.”

A frown flickered over his handsome features. “It’ll delay us.”

“No ice cream, no discussion.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “Unless you want me to snot-cry over another one of your handkerchiefs again?”

An expression of distaste crossed his face. “I’m sure we have time to stop, in that case.”

As they got to the entrance, Luke went to speak to one of the theater staffers while Marisa flicked off a quick text to Christie.

Sorting out the finance stuff with Luke. Then going home. Catch you later, St. John.

She’d tell her friend the real deal at some point. Soon. When things had been sorted between Luke and herself. If that were possible.

The theater had arranged valet parking for the event, so she and Luke waited outside while Luke’s car was brought around the front. Expecting something staid and safe like a Volvo, Marisa was rather surprised to see a low-slung, glossy black Aston Martin pulling up in front of them. It was beautiful, all long, lean curves, built for speed, not city driving.

“Wow,” Marisa murmured. “Nice ride. I picked you for something a lot more…uh…sedate.”

“I like sports cars and this one is safe. Wait here a moment. There was a problem with the clutch earlier and I need to check it,” Luke said, taking the keys and tipping the guy. Then, he strode over to the car and opened the passenger’s door, leaning in and fiddling around with things inside the car. After a minute or two, he straightened, then went around to the other side of the car and repeated the routine.

Marisa admired the car while Luke did whatever he was doing with the clutch. She did like a nice sports car, especially long, lean, and sexy sports cars.

Five minutes later, clearly satisfied by whatever he’d done, he said, “I think it’s okay. You can get in now.”

She did so, glancing at him as she put her seat belt on. “What was all that about?”

“Oh, the clutch was a little stiff earlier. Probably have to take it to a mechanic at some point.” He adjusted his mirror, touched the gearshift, then the hand brake. Then put his hands on the wheel. “Ready?”

“Yeah.”

Luke pulled the car out into the traffic, his hands lean and strong on the wheel.

“So, why an Aston Martin?” Marisa asked, curious. “You look more like a Volvo kind of guy to me.”

“I don’t like Volvos.”

“Why not? What have you got against Volvos?”

“I prefer fast when it comes to my cars.”

An uptight guy who liked fast cars. That was way more intriguing than it had any right to be. “Hmmm, which implies you have more than one.”

“I do have more than one. I collect sports cars.”

Marisa blinked. “Wow, really? That’s an expensive habit.”

“It’s the one indulgence I allow myself.”

Marisa glanced at him. The lights of the city passed over his features, highlighting the amazing architecture of his face. Strong jawline, high cheekbones, blade-straight nose. And a surprisingly sensual mouth. Surprising in that he wasn’t a man who gave the impression of sensuality in the slightest. Or that he would indulge himself with anything. He was always so contained. Detached.

Except when he touched you.

Oh yeah. Soooo not detached then.

An unwelcome shiver of awareness went through her, which was insane. Apparently her body had no sense of timing.

“So you collect sports cars and don’t like Volvos,” she said. “Excellent. Both vital facts.”

He flicked her a glance. “You use a lot of sarcasm, don’t you? Especially with me. Any particular reason?”

The question was unexpected, disconcerting her that he’d noticed. She tried to think of some kind of witty response and failed. “I guess it’s because you irritate me.”

“You irritate me, too.”

“Oh. Right. Fair enough, then.” She twisted her purse again, not liking the flat statement and unable to pinpoint why. Because what kind of toss did she give about his opinion? Zero toss. “I think we’ve already established that anyway, right?”

“This is true.” He slowed for a traffic light. “But we can’t let our personal feelings about each other affect any decisions we make about the baby.”

Marisa folded her hands over her stomach, sick at the words “decisions” and “baby.”

God. I am so not ready for this.

“I think the first decision we really have to discuss is whether to keep it or not,” Luke’s incisive voice cut through the sudden flood of emotion.

The knot in the pit of her stomach tightened further.

“Because there are options these days,” he went on relentlessly. “You can give the child up for adoption or you can—”

“Please, you don’t need to say it.”

“So which is it to be?” Demand echoed in his tone.

Why did he insist on a decision now? When she’d barely gotten her head around it? She needed time, she needed space, she needed…

You know what you’re going to do.

Her palm flattened against her belly as an old and primal instinct sparked to life inside her. Yeah, she knew. Oh, she had enough self-doubt about her abilities to sink the
Titanic
, not to mention the fact that a kid would threaten all the plans she’d made. The plans for leaving work and taking an art course, perhaps going to university and getting a fine arts degree. For setting up a glass studio and doing what she wanted for a change, not what other people thought she should be doing.

That didn’t mean she wanted to get rid of this baby. Her baby. She’d made a lot of mistakes in her life, a lot of bad decisions. But this child wouldn’t be one of them.

“I’m keeping it,” she said, and the words sounded true and right in her mouth.

“Yes,” Luke agreed. “You most certainly are.” And when she turned her head to look at him, she found him staring back, nothing but complete and utter agreement in his eyes.

It surprised her, especially after his initial “there will be no children” response. “You want this baby, too?”

“Of course I want it.” A flash of something ferocious crossed his face. “It’s mine.”

Unexpectedly, the tight knot of sickness and fear in her stomach loosened. Okay, so she may not like Luke McNamara, but he wasn’t a guy who would leave anyone in the lurch.

Uh, unless you happen to be his girlfriend, in which case two weeks is all you get.

Well, yes, there was that. A great reminder of why getting involved in anything more than parenthood with Luke McNamara was a really bad idea. As if she needed another reason.

“So where did you want to go?” Luke asked after a moment.

Screw buying a tub from the supermarket, this kind of decision needed a waffle cone, chocolate sauce, and at least three different flavors of ice cream. Maybe four.

“Gianni’s
.
It’s on the waterfront.”

Luke was frowning. “What’s Gianni’s? That doesn’t sound like a supermarket.”

“It’s not. It’s an ice cream parlor.”

His frown deepened. “Ice cream parlor?”

“Best in Auckland. Accept no substitutes.” Her hands clenched on her poor, wrung out purse. “Besides, I need emergency chocolate sauce ASAP.”

He didn’t argue with her, making no comment as she directed him down to the waterfront where Gianni’s was located. The late-night crowd often used it as a dessert stop while out clubbing or after an evening at the pub. She’d been there a lot herself, mostly late at night after more than her fair share of martinis. It was loud and tacky, not to mention slightly run-down, but the ice cream and gelato more than made up for it.

Luke’s expression was a picture of disdain as he surveyed the loud and tasteless faux-Italian decor, the jukebox playing thrash metal, the drunks in one corner loudly laughing and throwing nuts at each other, and the slightly grimy texture of the walls.

“We’re getting these to go,” he said flatly, his lip curling. “We’ll eat them back at my place.”

Oh yeah, and she could imagine his place. A temple to order. A monument to minimalism. White walls, dark floors. Perfectly placed artwork. He probably had bonsai trees that he clipped with tiny scissors. And a Zen garden with a little rake. And modern, atonal classical music playing.

But perhaps it wasn’t so much his decor she should be worried about as him. Because they’d be alone. Together.

Yeah, remember what happened last time you were alone with him?

“No,” she said, leaving no room for argument. “I want to discuss the baby here.”

“Here?” He looked aghast at the prospect.

“Yes, here.”

“I don’t think so.” He’d begun to get that stern, forbidding expression on his face. “It’s noisy and dirty, and there’s no privacy.”

Marisa raised an eyebrow. “You remember the last time we were alone together, right?

He eyed her. “Of course. I never forget anything.”

“So you’ll remember the time before that? And the time before that?”

Luke frowned, his jaw tight. “I see your point.”

“Good. Now, if you don’t mind, I want my sundae.” She turned away from him and walked toward the counter. Across the room, one of the drunks wolf-whistled loudly while the rest of them “hey baby-ed” her. She tossed them a grin over her shoulder, unconcerned. It was easier and safer to humor the idiots than act all offended.

All of a sudden a hand rested in the small of her back. A proprietary, possessive hand burning through the silk of her dress. She glanced up to find Luke standing beside her, eyes narrowed at the drunks in the corner.

“You go and sit down,” he said, continuing to glare suspiciously at the men. “I’ll get yours for you.”

Marisa stared at him in surprise. “I’m perfectly capable of getting my own ice cream, thank you very much.”

“You wanted to talk here so that’s what we’ll do. But I’m getting your order.”

“I don’t believe it. Are you protecting me by any chance, McNamara?”

“They’re being disrespectful.” He was back to glaring at the guys in the corner. “I don’t like it.”

The knot inside her loosened further. Uptight Luke McNamara. Whom she didn’t like and who didn’t like her
was
protecting her.

“I don’t get it,” she muttered. “Why should you care? You don’t like me.”

“You’re pregnant, Marisa. With my child.” As if that explained everything. “Now go sit down and I’ll order for you.”

…

There was nothing about Gianni’s that Luke liked. Not the decor, not the clientele, and most especially not the slightly sticky red vinyl of the booths on either side of the tables.

Putting Marisa’s laden bowl of ice cream down on the table, he sat down gingerly. He didn’t have a major problem with dirt, unless it offended his sense of order. Thing was, this whole place was an offense to order. Too cluttered, too noisy, far too chaotic, and being here put him in a foul mood.

Across from him, Marisa laid the napkin daintily across her lap and picked up her spoon, digging into the sticky brown mass in her bowl. She seemed impervious to the noise, as though she’d taken that rude wolf-whistling in her stride.

Luke frowned as she leaned forward to take a taste. In her red silk dress with her golden hair piled on top of her head, she was like a princess escaped from the palace, slumming it with the plebeians. And that offended his sense of order, too. She should be in a castle hung with silks and velvets and furs, not in a grimy ice cream parlor being hassled by drunken idiots.

The intense possessiveness that had gripped him earlier twisted a little tighter. No, she should be at his place, in his quiet, clean living room, where he could take care of her, not having a discussion about their baby in this…hellhole.

Luke frowned harder as Marisa gave a sigh. “Oh God, that’s heaven.” She took another spoonful and held it out to him. “Here, have a taste.”

He stared at the spoon. Chocolate sauce was dripping off it. Was she serious? He was willing to sit here and talk about the baby, but eat the ice cream, too? That was a step too far.

“No, thank you,” he said curtly.

“Not even a little taste?”

“I’m here to talk to you about the pregnancy and what we’re doing about it, not to eat ice cream.”

She shrugged. “Oh well, your loss.” Putting the spoon in her mouth, she closed her red lips around it. Her eyes fluttered shut as she savored the taste.

There was something feline and sensual about the way she did it that caused an unwelcome tightening in his groin. Okay, so maybe it
was
better to be here and not alone at his place. She’d made a good call with that. God knew they didn’t need sex making this situation more complicated than it already was.

“Marisa,” he began, wanting to get the conversation back on track. “We should be discussing the baby now.”

“I know, I know.” Her eyes remained closed. “Give me a minute for the sugar to hit.”

Luke shifted irritably on the seat. There were too many things about this place that rubbed him the wrong way, and he couldn’t shut them out. It was going to be difficult to concentrate, especially if she was going to start eating that ice cream, with the same look on her face and making the same sounds as she had the moment he’d kissed her throat in the stationery supply room.