Bella's Impossible Boss. Michelle Douglas
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He stopped his shuffling. ‘You’re not going to ask me to do anything for that blasted cat are you?’ He pulled the cushion back out and tossed it to the floor.
‘No.’
Her eyes darted to his thighs again. He bit back a groan and wished he’d kept hold of that sandbag of a cushion. He wanted to make Bella pay for all the heartache she’d caused Marco, but not in that way. Then he recalled the look on her face when she’d whirled around to him and pointed out that he’d been a recipient of Marco’s generosity, too. The lift of her chin when she had claimed the hotel’s success was important to her.
He didn’t know what to make of it.
‘What about you? Any pet hates?’
Her eyes lifted from his thighs and he found he could breathe again, after a fashion. ‘I hate cheerful chat in the mornings. In fact, I’d really rather you didn’t speak to me at all before I’ve had at least one cup of coffee, preferably two.’
‘What constitutes cheerful?’
‘Anything more than a grunt.’
All his tightness dissolved. A laugh built inside him.
‘Seriously, Dominic, I’m not joking.’
The laugh burst free and something shifted inside him, deeper than his desire but not as intense.
A warning bell suddenly went off in his head. Bella had the same soft, melt-a-man-where-he-stood eyes that his father had always fallen for—eyes that turned grown men into pathetic, grovelling saps.
Nobody was turning him into a sap!
‘Mornings aren’t my strong suit.’
He’d bet she’d look deliciously rumpled in the mornings.
‘So what do you hate in a flatmate?’ she persisted.
He snapped to. ‘I don’t know. I’ve never had one.’
Her jaw dropped. She leant forward. ‘What? Never? What about when you were at university?’
‘I lived off campus.’
He’d lived in a caravan park with his father because by then someone had had to look after him, and everyone else had deserted him—including all those doe-eyed women who’d manipulated him time after time until Dominic hadn’t been able to watch any more.
He’d sworn never to let a woman reduce him to that kind of dependence, that kind of pathetic wretchedness and despair. He’d looked after his father throughout his alcoholism and associated dementia. After that he’d decided roommates were a bad idea.
Bella frowned as if she’d read that thought in his face. ‘But you must’ve been on other business trips like this?’
‘Never for this long. If a team of us shot off somewhere, it was only ever for a few days. We’d stay in hotels and have our own rooms.’
She stared at him for a long moment and then shook herself. ‘So how do you want to do things?’
‘What things?’
‘Food, for a start. We have to eat.’
‘We can have groceries delivered.’
‘Uh-huh. And who’s going to cook them?’
He stared at her for a moment and then it hit him. She thought he was an unreconstructed, sexist Neanderthal who was going to lump her with all the housework!
Big bad wolf and sexist Neanderthal?
He forced down an angry denial and leaned back, the epitome of casual unconcern. ‘Well, now, Bella, since you’re the chef …’
Her chin shot up. ‘You are not lumping me with all the cooking. I’ll be doing enough of that throughout the day.’
‘But the restaurant doesn’t open for another two months.’
‘So? I’ll be training staff, checking out our suppliers, putting the chefs through their paces.’
He rubbed a hand across his jaw. ‘Couldn’t you get one of the minions to whip us up something we could reheat when we got home?’
‘I’ll do that just as soon as you ask the hotel’s housemaids to come around and take care of our ironing!’
Devilry sparked through him. ‘Now there’s an idea.’
Her jaw dropped. He laughed outright. Her eyes narrowed. He waited for her to realise her mistake—that he wasn’t the unreconstructed male that she made him out to be. Instead she folded her arms and said, ‘I will not be taken advantage of.’
He shook his head. Unbelievable. ‘How about we take it in turns to cook, then?’ She couldn’t find fault with that plan, could she?
‘Can you cook?’
She’d pay for that. ‘Guess you’ll find out.’
She scrutinised him with the intensity of a magnifying glass frying a bug in the sun. The big bad wolf and Red Riding Hood analogy sprang into his mind again and it took all his effort not to yell at her to stop looking at him like that.
‘I bet you’re used to women fussing around you, wanting to service your every need.’
She’d pay double for that crack.
She pointed a finger at him. ‘This is a work environment!’
Precisely.
‘What I mean is … It’s just …’ She blew a strand of hair out of her face. ‘Look, we share the household chores and the only other thing …’
She glanced away. He leaned forward, intrigued. ‘The only other thing?’
Her chin lifted but she didn’t meet his eye. ‘I don’t think you should bring your dates back here, that’s all,’ she finished in a rush.
Her opinion of him wasn’t just bad, it was appalling! For a moment he couldn’t even speak.
‘If you were sharing this apartment with my father, would you bring women back?’
No, he damn well wouldn’t. Just as he had no intention of doing so now. He couldn’t credit her with deliberately trying to offend him, but he had every intention of making her pay for her unjust assessment of him. Every intention. Someone should teach Bella the dangers of jumping to conclusions.
‘I think you’ll find, Bella—’ he all but purred her name and had the satisfaction of seeing her swallow ‘—that I will be the model flatmate. To prove my point, why don’t I take care of dinner tonight?’
She moistened her lips, staring up at him with big eyes, like those of a deer caught in the headlights. ‘That’s not necessary.’
‘Oh, I think it is.’
She clutched her cushion closer. ‘Okay, then. Lovely.’
The look on her face told him she suspected it wasn’t nourishment but seduction that he had planned. He sent her a cat-that-got-the-cream grin that was designed to keep her thinking exactly that. ‘Dinner will be served at seven-thirty.’
‘Lovely,’ she repeated.
But the expression on her face said the opposite and it was all he could do not to laugh.
‘Let the games begin.’
Dominic lit the single-tapered candle, stepped back to survey the arrangement and grinned. A white damask cloth draped the table and fell in soft folds to the floor. Crystal and silver gleamed in the candlelight sending an intimate glow throughout the apartment.
He’d spent an age consulting with Jean-Claude about the meal tonight. He’d wanted a menu that would knock Bella’s socks off.
And