He hadn’t had enough of her, not by a long shot, but thinking about her now wasn’t going to help him.
He lifted his head, scouring the airline club lounge once more as he emptied a stick of sugar into his cup but there was no sign of a sandy-coloured ponytail, no thick tortoiseshell glasses in evidence anywhere.
Damn, where the hell could she be?
A blonde in a pale green trouser suit approached the coffee station and he moved away to make room for her.
‘I was wondering when you were going to get here.’
He swung back, coffee sloshing over the side of his cup. He steadied it with his other hand. His brain wasn’t so easy to get a handle on. Ms Summers?
Sure enough it was her hazel eyes staring up at him, but they looked different. She looked different. He blinked.
‘I booked one of the offices so we could go over the paperwork—just this way.’
He followed her into the small office, wondering just what had happened to his little brown mouse. She still smelled the same, the now familiar apricot scent wafting freshly in her wake. It was her looks that had changed. The long-line jacket sat over a fitted white shell top and seemingly floated behind her as she walked in matching trousers that weren’t tight yet still hinted at womanly curves below.
Her hair, uncharacteristically worn down, was shoulder-length and feathered at the ends and it didn’t look the colour of sand any more. It looked more like honey, honey sprinkled with crystals of sugar, the ends swishing and flicking with her motion. And what had she done with her glasses?
He was seated at the desk before he could talk. ‘You look—different,’ he said at last.
She smiled, almost as if self-conscious, as her gaze flicked over the outfit. ‘I hope it’s appropriate. I know business is a little more relaxed up in Queensland.’
He nodded his approval as his eyes slowly moved up her body. She fingered the ends of her hair and caught him looking. ‘Oh, that. I was due for a cut so I let them talk me into something extra this time. But I didn’t use your money. I paid for the hair myself.’
‘What happened to your glasses?’
‘Contact lenses. I lost one and had to get a new prescription made up. Still, I don’t wear them as much as I should…’ She hesitated. ‘What’s wrong?’
He realised he was staring. He coughed as he pulled his eyes away, lifting his laptop case to the table. ‘Nothing,’ he said with a shake of his head. ‘We’ll be boarding soon. We’d better get on with it.’
It was time well spent on the ground and in the air. By the time they’d arrived at Coolangatta Airport they’d thoroughly reviewed their potential client’s specifications and finessed their plan of attack. Damien was feeling more and more confident even though he knew there was still a mountain of work ahead and a myriad of meetings with Palmcorp, their lawyers and financiers. But they could do it. He’d made the right choice in bringing her. They made a good team.
This was Damien at his best. In the large meeting room at Palmcorp’s offices on the Gold Coast, Philly listened to his spiel, watched him charm, tease and manoeuvre the two directors and get them thinking his way. It was like watching a master at work.
No wonder he’d built his business to be the success it was. When he spoke he made you believe, the passion for his work and his products coming to the fore.
He held them in the palm of his hand.
It was a new side to Damien, one she hadn’t witnessed before. Now his obsession with perfection, with driving his staff hard, made some sort of sense. He couldn’t be that passionate about his business if the people who worked for him gave him less than their best.
His strong, deep voice flowed over the assembled group, his expressive hands adding gestures for emphasis where required, addressing them at their level, not preaching, not patronising, but taking every one of them with him. No one stopped him for questions or interrupted the flow. He was in his element. He was supreme.
It was impossible not to be impressed. And it wasn’t just the way he spoke. The way he held himself and the way he looked had as much to do with it. He’d discarded his jacket and the fine white shirt only emphasised his olive skin and dark features.
He looked great in white. Even though his business shirt contrasted in a major way with the Roman armour he’d worn to the ball, both styles suited the man that he was.
She swallowed. He’d looked great in that outfit.
Then again, he’d looked great out of it. The way he’d discarded the armour, then the tunic, pulling it over his head and flinging it on the floor, the way his chest had expanded as her eyes had drunk him in, the way he’d stood next to her, waiting, anticipating…