And if she didn’t tell him, then how could she possibly refuse an invitation which sounded like an attempt at reconciliation?
‘What kind of dinner?’ she questioned suspiciously.
‘You can lose the look of horror—I’m not suggesting a cosy meal for two in some candlelit restaurant. I have a duty dinner on the other side of the city. You can be my partner for the evening, if you like.’
What could she say? That she was scared of accompanying him anywhere because he made her feel so … so vulnerable? She shrugged. ‘Okay,’ she said cautiously.
‘Okay?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Is that it? I’ve had more enthusiastic responses from a water-cooler.’
‘You’re in the habit of inviting water-coolers out to dinner?’
He gave the glimmer of a smile. ‘Very funny.’
‘I do my best.’ She tried to tell her stupid heart to stop slamming so wildly against her ribcage, but it didn’t work because Emma recognised that a brief moment of humour was as intoxicating as strong liquor. ‘Will it be dressy?’
‘It will. Black tie and long dresses. I’ll order a car—so meet me in the lobby at eight.’
‘Eight it is.’
Emma’s heart was still racing as she searched her wardrobe for something suitable to wear, finding fault in every single item she pulled out. Within half an hour she was outside on the busy sidewalk, knowing that she wanted to buy something new and not daring to question why she didn’t just make do with something she already had.
But it was a long time since Emma had shopped for clothes and she felt an unfamiliar excitement as she scoured the fancy shops on Madison Avenue. The stores were packed with gorgeous garments, but something made her steer away from the rails of safe and staple black. Instead, she was drawn to a white silk dress which was draped and pleated in all the right places and fell in soft folds to the ground. She didn’t need any pressure from the cooing saleswoman to buy it, though when she put it on in her hotel room a couple of hours later she started to have second thoughts about her purchase.
Was she showing too much flesh? Was it sending out the wrong kind of message?
The expression in Zak’s eyes when she walked into the crowded lobby only intensified her feeling of nervousness.
‘It isn’t suitable?’ she questioned, a note of vulnerability creeping into her voice as she saw the sudden narrowing of his eyes.
Suitable? Zak’s mouth dried as his gaze drifted over her. Her arms were bare and the dress was cut low, the soft white silk moulding her breasts and skimming the curve of her hips as it fell to the floor. The long tumble of her pale hair flowed down over her shoulders like liquid moonlight. She looked, he thought suddenly, like a Greek goddess. A perfect statue who had come to life for one night only. He must have been out of his mind to propose taking her to dinner.
‘Oh, it’s suitable all right,’ he said, in an odd kind of voice as he led the way to the waiting car. ‘But I’m probably going to spend the entire evening playing bodyguard.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Though maybe from your boasts of earlier and all the things I’ve heard about your legendary success with women—perhaps it’s me who’ll have to play bodyguard to you?’
‘You really think you could fight them off, do you, Emma?’
She met the challenge in his eyes. ‘I could try.’
He shifted his weight, distracted by the way she had crossed her leg, so that the white silk was now clinging to one shapely thigh like rich cream. ‘Then I’d better put out a general alert that all women should tonight keep their distance.’
The lazy note in his voice made Emma’s breasts tighten and she wanted to tell him to stop being so nice to her. Or, more to the point, to stop flirting with her. This was crazy. How was she going to endure the rest of the evening when he had the power to make her feel like this?
‘So whose party is it?’ she asked, in an attempt to change the subject.
&n
bsp; With difficulty, he averted his gaze from the pinpointing of her nipples against the white silk. ‘An old friend of my father’s. His granddaughter, Sofia, is twenty-one—and he’s giving her a coming-of-age party.’
Emma nodded, remembering something Nat had said. ‘Nat told me that your father had died last year. I’m … well, I’m sorry, Zak.’
For a moment he said nothing, realising that his brother must have told her about all kinds of things—resenting the fact that he couldn’t control the flow of information. That this woman probably knew more about him than most people. More than he wanted her to know. How much had he told her?
‘Thanks,’ he said tersely.
‘I understand he was ill for a long time.’
Which answered his question. She knew plenty. ‘Thanks again,’ he said, just as tersely.