On the Monday following the charity ball, Clary beat her usual arrival time at Ruthven’s by an hour.
She’d slept fitfully, risen before the sun came up to dress in the dark, and left the house with a bag filled with a drawing pad, pencils, brushes, and a portable watercolor set. She’d walked the short distance to the British Museum to sketch, attempting to catch the pinks and golds and peaches of dawn in quick washes of watercolor as morning glow lit up the Portland stone facade.
The hour was still early when she finished. She’d walked the park for an hour, ambling along the row of costermongers’ carts before finally making her way to the office.
After unlocking the front door, she settled her bag on the desk she’d been given, directly across from Daughtry’s, and carefully pulled out the cluster of blooms she’d purchased from a flower seller. This, she realized, was the danger of having one’s own money. Coins in one’s pocket were too easily spent.
A rustle of movement set her senses tingling, and she turned to find Gabriel in the doorway of his office, shoulder against the frame, arms crossed, as if he’d been settled there awhile. Watching her.
“Good morning,” she offered cheerily, attempting to be as professional and unaffected by him as she’d promised herself she’d be. At least during working hours. She was prepared to allow herself to think whatever thoughts she wished about him after leaving the office.
“Flowers aren’t allowed at Ruthven’s,” he barked from across the room.
“That’s outrageous.” Clary whirled on him, nearly dropping the cluster of tulips and daffodils. “Flowers should be allowed everywhere. If I ruled the world, they’d be required.” She stomped over, holding the bouquet out under his nose. “How can you ban such beauty from any space?”
He glared down at the perfect pink tulip heads and frilled daffodil trumpets and sniffed. “Very nice,” he said in a smoky voice. His lips eased into a mischievous grin.
Clary’s mouth fell open. “You’re teasing me. You are actually attempting to be jovial.”
“And doing a terrible job, apparently.” He returned his mouth to the stony expression he usually wore. “I shan’t try again.”
Clary started to insist he must, and he grinned once more, sending her belly into a flip-flopping tumble. She leaned closer, and he bowed his head. When he reached up, her heartbeat skipped several beats. But instead of touching her, he swept a finger along the edge of a daffodil petal.
“They’re prettier than most flowers,” he acknowledged.
“Tulips and daffodils.” Clary pointed from the pink blooms to the yellow. “They’re harbingers of spring and always welcome after the winter doldrums. Don’t you like flowers?”
“If I admit that I don’t, are you going to tell me again how you’ll require them everywhere once you’re queen?”
“Perhaps.” Clary breathed deep, relishing the combination of the flower’s green scent mixed with his. “But first tell me why you don’t like them.”
He stared at her intensely before turning away, moving into his office. “Flowers remind me of death. A friend of my mother’s was a flower seller. She’d gift us the old ones, mostly roses whose petals had begun to wilt. They smelled sour and sickly.”
“But these don’t.” Clary smelled them again and wished she’d purchased pungent lilies or hyacinths, scents sure to win over the staunchest flower doubter.
“No,” he said, turning to face her as he leaned against the front edge of his desk. “They smell fresh and sweet. Like you.”
For a long breathless moment, they stared at each other. His gaze dropped to her mouth, and heat flared there and in her cheeks and then her chest. He didn’t have to touch her to affect her because she remembered, with searing detail, every time he had.
Then the bubble burst, and he stood up sharply from his desk, buttoning his suit coat and casting his gaze over her shoulder. “Good morning, Daughtry. Thank you for coming in early.”
Clary had been so focused on Gabriel she hadn’t heard the older man shuffle up quietly behind her.
“The missus says spring blooms always bring cheer,” Daughtry said approvingly as he joined them in the office. “Well done, Miss Ruthven.” Passing a folder to Gabriel, he said, “Here is the information you requested, sir. Everything is in order for the vendor appointments this morning. The first arrives at nine.”
After flipping through several of the sheets in the folder, Gabriel glanced at Clary. “Would you like to sit in on one or two of the meetings, Miss Ruthven?”
“I’d like to sit in on all of them, if you don’t mind.”
He lifted a hand and gripped the back of his neck, staring at the floor with a concentrated frown as if doing complex mathematical calculations in his head. Finally, he shot her one his cool all-business looks. “Very well. I’ll see you in my office in a couple of hours.”
The man was like a faulty tap that couldn’t decide whether to run hot or cold. Clary told herself to take the dismissal in stride, nodded once in agreement, and offered Daughtry a friendly smile before returning to her desk. As she went, she heard the old man rise to her defense.
“Can’t but admire the girl’s eagerness, sir.”
Mr. Adamson offered no reply.
The problem for Gabe was that he admired a great deal more than Clarissa Ruthven’s eagerness.
The lady got under his every defense. This morning he’d arrived early, vowing to take a new tack, to remember when he caught sight of her that this was a place of business. Her brother had entrusted her mentoring to his care.
But she’d come in humming merrily and drawing that damned cluster of pretty flowers from her bag. The minute their gazes clashed across the office, every vow he’d made shattered, and he’d only wished to see her smile.
In the ring, he’d quickly learned that taking every opening to throw a punch took too much energy. He’d learned the power of feint, flight, defense. How to keep light on his feet, to anticipate his opponents’ moves, ducking and weaving to tire them out.
But there was no ducking away from what Clary stirred in him. Nor was there any escape from the disaster that would result if he gave up his defenses and let her in. He would hurt her, and she would end up loathing the very sight of him.
“Thank you for these, Daughtry,” he said, dismissing his assistant. After lowering himself into his chair, he planted his elbows on his desk and steepled his fingers in front of him. How had a plan with such promise—minding his employer’s youngest sister for an increase in pay—come to this?
She and her cheery blooms had gone, but he was still drowning in her scent, ruminating on her smile, wishing she was buzzing around his office again.
Work. That had been his salvation years ago. He’d been awful at managing Ruthven’s at the start. Only by applying discipline had he been able to succeed. Surely he could do the same now.
Turning his attention to Daughtry’s reports, he found details missing, especially particulars about inventory. He took the folder and a fountain pen and headed for the storage room, managing to avoid a glance Clary’s way. Time passed quickly as he recounted ink supplies and began comparing the various brands they’d purchased against Daughtry’s reports. He’d left out one entirely, and Gabe began doubting the accuracy of the rest of his numbers. He examined the rolls of paper and other stock. By the time he’d finished, his first appointment with an ink vendor was just minutes away.
The workroom was quiet, clerks bent over their work, as he made his way back to his office. Precisely the kind of diligence and productivity he liked to see.
A few feet from his door, he caught Clary’s scent in the air. Before he could stop himself, he pulled in a deep breath. Then, on the threshold, irritation began bubbling in his veins like boiling water.
Despite three empty chairs in the office, she’d perched her perfect round bottom on the edge of his desk, pushing his blotter aside and moving the brass stand that usually held his fountain pen. One booted foot swung near the side of the desk, buffeting the battered wood.
She had her back to him and scanned a newspaper stretched between her hands. His newspaper. To keep abreast of publishing news and nationwide events that might affect the business, he read the Times every day. One copy, which he purchased, neatly folded, and placed at the upper corner of his desk each morning.
A corner now adorned with a petite blonde hellion.
He wasn’t sure which was more maddening—her complete lack of respect for his space or the sensual lines of her curves. The lady was made for embracing, for shaping one’s hands above the camber of her hips. Too bad he’d never have the chance again, since he’d vowed not to touch her or think of her as anything other than his mentee and Ruthven’s co-owner.
“Would you mind taking a chair, Miss Ruthven?”
Her spine stiffened, and he could have sworn her neck lengthened an inch. Which only drew his eye to the knot of flaxen hair above the downy skin of her nape.
Finally, she sprang into action. After dropping his newspaper, she swiveled on his desk and hopped down. Then she made an enormous production of lowering herself into a chair, fussing with her skirt, settling the fabric just so. Finally, she perched her clasped hands in her lap, the picture of feminine propriety. Except for the tattoo of her boot heel against the floor and a glint of rebellion in her eyes.
“Happy now?” she asked archly.
Not in the least. He hated himself for it; he liked her better on top of his desk. “Only pleased that you’re using furniture as it was intended.”
She grinned, revealing dimples in each cheek and a tantalizing divot at the edge of her chin that he’d somehow failed to notice. “Tell me,” she said. “Were you always so ridiculously rule bound, or did my father convert you?”
Mention of her father sounded a warning bell in Gabe’s head. That was not a path he wished to tread, nor one he wanted her to explore.
“A man who works for an etiquette-book publisher should believe in his product, should he not?”
“You can’t truly like the Ruthven Rules books. They’re dry as stale toast, outmoded in the extreme. No one behaves like that anymore”—she lifted a hand and swiped through the air to indicate the row of hardbound Ruthven Rules books on a shelf behind his desk—“and if they did, everyone would consider them a frightful bore.” She smirked, and the tilt of her voluptuous mouth felt a bit like a dare.
“Perhaps you’re correct, Miss Ruthven.” He didn’t mind ceding her this skirmish. The battle to resist her would be a long one.
“Of course I am.” Her pale brows knitted together, and her mouth slackened. A bit of fire banked in her amethyst eyes.
“What would you suggest?” Gabe laid his folder on the desk and settled his fountain pen in its place, putting his tray and brass pen stand back where they belonged. “You clearly have opinions on this and every other topic. How should people behave? If not according to long-accepted rules of etiquette, then how?”
“I . . . ” Her lips continued to move, shaping words that never emerged.
“Impulsively?” Gabe would frighten her if he gave in to his impulses. If he ever let her see just what she did to him. He lifted a fresh piece of foolscap from his desk to take notes for the upcoming meeting, but the thin paper skittered across the surface, almost escaping over the edge. She reached out at the same moment he did, and their hands met, hers landing atop his.
He should have pulled away. She should have retracted her hand. Neither of them moved. The office heated, and the air became charged.
“You’re playing with fire,” he warned her, though the admonition was truly for himself.
“I’m not afraid of you,” she whispered.
“You should be.” This near, her scent surrounded him. If he closed his eyes, he could convince himself he’d wandered into an English country garden, far away from the city’s smoke and soot. But he wasn’t a man given to fancies, and he’d learned long ago the mistake of closing one’s eyes, even for a moment, when an opponent might strike.
Clary was the loveliest opponent he’d ever faced in his life.
At the sound of movement in the outer office, they pulled away from each other. He missed her warmth, her soft skin, immediately.
“The ink vendor is first,” he said, clearing his throat and trying desperately to care about the price of supplies.
“Right.” She opened a notebook on her lap and removed a pencil she’d tucked between the buttons of her shirtwaist. Oh, to be that damned pencil.
Yet it wasn’t the ink vendor who crossed the threshold but Daughtry, rolling in a wheeled cart like a bloody footman.
“You got the cart,” Clary enthused, springing up from her chair. “It’s perfect.”
Atop said cart was a steaming teapot, several cups, a plate of digestive biscuits, and a tiny clear glass vase containing a bit of water and a few of her spring blooms. All sat centered on a dainty doily. Gabe squinted around his office to ensure that, in the fog of yearning she provoked, he hadn’t wandered into a London townhouse for tea.
He pointed toward the tray. “I’m sure there’s an explanation.” He wasn’t sure he’d like it, but he suspected she had one.
“I think meetings should be as pleasant as possible. Flowers”—she grinned at him—“because they are required everywhere. Tea because it makes everything better, and biscuits in case anyone’s peckish.”
“We’re conducting business meetings, Miss Ruthven, not a ladies’ afternoon social.”
“Being hospitable to others and enjoying the simple pleasures of life shouldn’t be women’s exclusive domain.”
“They shouldn’t be part of a business gathering either.” He was beginning to overheat. He longed to wrench the tie from his neck and fling the strip of fabric at the teapot. “Where the hell did you even get a teapot?”
She scrunched her brow. “From the tea shop two doors down.”
“Take it out, Daughtry.” He waved the damned frilly feminine lot of nonsense away. A part of him, the rational man of business, wanted her to go too. Yet the rest of him, the man who had suddenly become addicted to the scent of spring flowers, longed for her to stay.
“No!” She braced a hand on the tray. “Please, Mr. Adamson.”
Gabe narrowed his gaze at her. That name was like a twist of the knife now. He hated to hear her call him by his surname when he knew the devilish pleasure of hearing his given name on her lips.
He was defeated. Like those rare moments when an opponent bested him in the ring. He relented. “Leave the damned thing, Daughtry. Pour yourself a cup, if you like.”
The old man chuckled. “We’ll see if the vendor wants some first, shall we? I’ll send him in as soon as he arrives.” He ducked out after offering Clary a conspiratorial wink.
“Thank you,” she said softly to Gabe. She beamed at him, a dazzling smile that turned to spirals of pleasure in his chest.
No, this didn’t feel like a defeat at all. When she smiled at him that way, he felt like a victor. As if he’d vanquished the dragon and every other foe. It was the headiest satisfaction he’d ever felt in his life.
But another emotion came too. Terror. Every bit as powerful as the pleasure. She possessed power over him, as easily wielded as a smile, and he had no earthly idea how to resist her.