"Thank you, love. I appreciate the compliment."
Once I've signed the credit card slip for the waiter, I hurry over to Avery's chair so I can pull it out for her before she does it herself. I'm a considerate and sweet gentleman, after all. She's not the first woman to say something like that to me, but she is the first one to make me feel oddly invigorated by the compliment.
A few minutes later, we're sliding onto the bench seat in the limousine, side by side. I drape an arm across the seat behind her head, and she rests her cheek on my shoulder. I resist my every impulse to say something naughty, which means I don't suggest we shag in the limo, or in the elevator of her hotel, or inside her suite. No, I do something far more shocking.
I kiss her good night, on the cheek, at the door to her suite, and wait until she shuts the door behind her. Then I walk away.
None of the women I'd known before Avery would've wanted me to leave without shagging them. They would have been insulted if I hadn't even tried to smooth-talk my way into their boudoir. But with this woman, I don't want to rush into full-on sex. I want to take my time and get to know her. Does that mean we're legitimately dating?
I get my answer the next day when Avery shows up at my office—carrying her leather portfolio, of course.
She settles her lovely arse onto the chair across from my desk. "Good morning, Lord Sommerleigh."
"I thought we agreed you should call me Hugh, since we're dating."
"Fake dating. Besides, at work, I should still call you by your title." She crosses her legs and bounces the toe of her dangling shoe as if she's tapping it on the floor. "Have you spoken to that distributor yet?"
"No. Well, I spoke to Phillip Jenkins's executive assistant, Megan, but she claimed he was unavailable."
"Didn't you try laying on the charm?"
"Yes. That girl now has a crush on me, but I still can't speak to Jenkins."
Her foot-bouncing stops. She loosely puckers her lips but says nothing for a moment that seems to drag on forever. Whenever she scrutinizes me that way, I feel like a little boy who's about to get scolded by his nanny—a sexy as hell one, for sure.
"Stop that," she says. "Stop it right now."
"What? I haven't done anything."
"You were thinking about sex." She leans forward. "We're at work, which means there will be none of that. No steamy looks or steamy smirks, and you absolutely will not speak in your Lord Steamy voice."
"I have a different voice for that?" Of course I do, but I love teasing her. "As far as I know, I always sound like me."
"That's true. But you know damn well the tone of your voice changes when you're seducing a woman."
"Am I seducing you? I thought we were having a business-related discussion."
I honestly can't stop myself from smiling in a way she will interpret as seductive. It's just the way I am. All right, maybe I can stop myself—but I don't want to do that. I love watching a woman's demeanor and expression change while she grows more and more aroused. Watching that happen to Avery makes me long to strip her naked and spread that beautiful body across my desk so I can fuck her.
Avery slaps her leather portfolio down on my desk, just like she'd done the other day. "Snap out of it, Hugh."
When did she stand up and walk toward my desk? I'd been so enmeshed in my naughty fantasy that I hadn't noticed. That explains why I flinched when she smacked my desk. "What, darling? Afraid I was away with the fairies for a moment."
"That would have to be porno fairies. I know you were thinking about sex."
"You can read my mind now? I'd better buy some aluminium foil and wrap it around my head."
Her brows squish together. "Why would you do that?"
"To block telepathic frequencies. My mate Reese Dixon married a woman who loves all that paranormal rubbish. I once spent twenty minutes listening to Arden explaining why she believes alien life might exist somewhere in the universe."
Avery still seems disarmingly confused. "What does that have to do with telepathy?"
"Nothing, I suppose."
She stares at me for a bit longer, then her confusion melts into a sly smile. She slants toward me to pat the top of my head. "You go on and duct-tape tinfoil to your head. Won't stop me from figuring you out."
"I thought you were repairing my image, not figuring me out."