Megan's pulse thundered in her ears as she stared wide-eyed into the fierce face only a breath away from hers. The resolution that carved it into a virile mask left no doubt in her mind that he meant every word. “Furthermore, if I was doing what I wanted to at this moment, it wouldn't be engaging in this seemingly polite conversation, but thoroughly kissing that succulent mouth of yours.”
“Mr. Bennett.”
“What?” he virtually barked to the interrupting maître d’ as he whipped his head around.
The man took a startled step backward. “Ex—excuse me, Mr. Bennett. Your table is ready,” he said deferentially.
To Megan's relief, she realized that Jo and Terry had been laughing together and hadn't noticed their host's flare of temper or the residual tension that crackled between him and Megan as they proceeded to their table.
During the two-hour meal, Megan was oblivious to the sumptuous food and impeccable service. She was captivated by Josh's forceful personality. He discussed very little business and kept up a lively conversation that covered myriad topics. He was delightful to her and Jo and companionable to Terry. She saw how everyone, her late husband included, could have been blindly attracted to this man, who exuded charm and defined charisma.
At the end of one exceptionally entertaining anecdote, she found herself laughing with the others. Truly enjoying herself, she was caught completely off guard when Josh turned to face her. In a moment of rare intimacy, a powerful look passed between them. Megan felt just as she had when James first introduced them. All her senses seemed heightened now, as then. Josh ruled them all; he was their captor. It troubled her not a little that she was almost his willing prisoner.
Then, like a locomotive coming out of a dark tunnel, all the reasons she should hate him came barreling toward her and slammed into her with enormous force. She schooled her features into a stoic mask and took a sip of her cold coffee. Out of the corner of her eye she noted the irritation that fleetingly crossed his face.
“I'm so glad you'll be consulting with us on this advertising campaign,” Terry Bishop said later, shaking her hand respectfully at the door of the restaurant.
“I'll be pleased to lend any expertise I can, though I think Jo and Mr. Bennett have handled your account flawlessly.”
“Oh, so do I,” he hurried to assure her, “but another opinion never hurts.”
He said good night when the valet brought his car under the awning. Jo's bright yellow compact arrived next. She thanked Josh and waved a gay farewell to Megan. When the limousine hummed to a stop. Josh took Megan's elbow and propelled her toward it.
“I can get home on my own,” she said, resisting him.
“Yes, you could, but there's no reason why you should.”
He practically pushed her into the backseat. When she turned to issue him a polite good night, she was startled to find him entering the car behind her.
“I … I thought you had another car here.”
“No. I took a cab from the office.”
“Oh.”
He settled himself against the velour cushions, stretched his long legs out in front of him, loosened his tie, and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. It was almost as if they were familiar, a couple, as if they rode together in the backseat of the limousine every day. She sat stiffly beside him, staring straight ahead.
“Are you cold?” he asked when she wrapped her shawl closer around her. Little did he know that it was a d
efensive gesture. She was far too aware of the length and hardness of his male frame, the width of his chest and shoulders, the tapering slimness of his hips.
“No.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
He slid his arm around her shoulders and drew her closer. His thigh pressed against hers. “Sure?” he repeated, murmuring the word in her ear. His hot breath tickled it.
“Don't,” she said, trying to move away.
“Why?” His nose brushed across her cheek in a nuzzling gesture.
“Don't,” she said more strenuously, casting a worried glance at the back of the driver's head. A sheet of soundproof glass separated them. She'd find no rescue there, not that he'd thwart his employer anyway. She wrested an exploring hand from her shoulder. “Stop it, Josh. You've been touching me all night. I don't like it.”
He laughed deep in his throat. “Yes, you do. That's been your problem all along. You like my touch far too well.”
“I did … do … not!” she cried. “The reason I'm here now is purely professional. If you're looking for a woman to manhandle, find another one. I'm sure there are many who would enjoy it.”