Kinga poured red wine into two glasses, her shoulders lifting in a small shrug. “The hotel next door occasionally rents the apartment from us if they have a family group they can’t accommodate. It’s fully furnished, so it works for both of us.”
Griff took the glass she held out and when her fingers brushed against his, he felt the unmistakable current of attraction run up his arm. Judging by the way her eyes widened, she was feeling it, too.
Good to know. And bad to explore because they were about to commence their working relationship.
Griff knew engaging in a physical relationship would be a lot more fun. And satisfactory.
Kinga placed her glass on the coffee table and shifted from foot to foot, her eyes going to the stairway. “Can you give me five minutes? I’d like to change into something a little less informal.”
“Don’t bother on my account,” Griff told her, sitting down at the end of her comfortable sofa. He placed his ankle on his knee and took a sip of the wine, sighing at its complexity. Like her taste in buildings and interior decor, Kinga’s taste in wine was exquisite.
“Nice. What am I drinking?”
Kinga hesitated before perching on the sofa opposite his and lifting her wineglass to her lips. She sniffed, took a sip and sighed. “Ah, this is a bottle of 2005 Vieux Château Certan.”
“It reminds me of Château Pétrus from the same year.”
Kinga smiled. “It’s supposed to. My dad is a wine buff and he has a case of the Pétrus. He won’t waste the truly excellent stuff on Tinsley and me—apparently our palates aren’t sophisticated enough—so he finds reasonable alternatives for us.” Kinga crossed her legs and placed her elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand. “Are you a wine connoisseur?”
He had, so he’d been told, one of the best wine cellars in the country and, like whiskey, he enjoyed a glass of the good stuff. But never more than one or two. Drinking too much and too often was like flirting with a very slippery slope and he preferred to avoid the fall. Griff shrugged. “I like wine.”
Kinga’s direct gaze didn’t drop from his face. She sipped again before nailing him with a hard look. “Why are you here, O’Hare?”
He couldn’t tell her that she’d been on his mind constantly, that every time he saw an email from her, or a text message, or heard an increasingly irate voice message, he fought the urge to drop everything and fly out to her. That no other woman had ever taken up so much of his mental energy and that when he saw her standing in her doorway, dressed in her cute pj’s, he’d felt like he’d taken his first proper breath since leaving New York City.
That waiting until morning to see her had been impossible...
Griff pushed his hand through his damp hair and took a huge gulp of wine. He didn’t know what was happening here, but he had to get his thoughts under control. He wasn’t looking for a partner, or a significant other or even, right now, a part-time lover. Sex would be great, but not if it came with complications, and Kinga embodied the word.
“You told me you wanted to see me,” Griff eventually responded, keeping his face bland.
“Our conversation could’ve waited until the morning.”
Griff couldn’t pull his gaze off her lovely brown eyes and his heart rate picked up. What was it about this woman? Why did she make his extremities tingle, his mouth dry, and, yeah, his cock harden? She wasn’t the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on. She was definitely the bossiest. But he still found himself constantly thinking about her, wanting to know what made her smile, what made her sigh.
He sipped his wine, slid down farther in the seat and rested the back of his head against the back of her couch. Her apartment was warm, she was pretty to look at and he had a glass of red in his hand. His home life was in order. His nephew, Sam, was his happy self. His sister, Sian, was stable, and Eloise, his former au pair and now his right hand, had everything under control.
He could relax. Just a little.
“Tell me about the ball,” Griff suggested and smiled when she scooted back in her seat and tucked her feet under her butt. She held her wineglass to her chest, but her eyes lit up at the question. It was obvious the project was important to her.
“The ball is to be held in six weeks, on February fourteenth, as you know.”
“If you’re planning on a red-and-white theme with a million hearts, I might throw up,” Griff told her. He couldn’t think of anything more obvious.
Kinga released a little snort. “Please, I have better taste than that. The nod to Valentine’s Day will be very subtle—Belgian chocolate hearts on the table, a swag bag filled with champagne and caviar, expensive bath products and lingerie. A heart-shaped pendant from Tiffany, a gold-plated pen for writing love notes.” Kinga informed him.
Love notes? Did anyone send those anymore?
“Vouchers for romantic getaways, handwoven cashmere rugs, designer scarves and bags.”
Wow, pricey. “Kind of like the swag bags they give away to the Oscar nominees?”
Kinga nodded. “The same firm who does those are doing ours, but because there are so many more people at our gala, they are just a smidgeon—” Kinga left a small space between her thumb and index finger “—cheaper. And I’m not exaggerating, our swag bag sponsors want our guests to use and purchase their products and are willing to donate accordingly. One Instagram post, one tweet and they’ve recouped their initial investment. You know how it works.”
He did. He’d been paid big money to endorse products and the companies were always happy with the bump in sales.
“I read somewhere that the profits from the ball are donated to charity?” Griff said, enjoying their suddenly noncontentious conversation. Despite her saying that she didn’t have any musical talent, her voice was melodic, a little edgy, like an expertly played saxophone piercing the late-night silence.