Manhattan Boss, Diamond Proposal. Trish Wylie
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starting a pool—who’s in?’ There were several mumbled answers to Morgan’s question.
None of which Clare caught because she was too busy silently squaring off with Quinn, neither of them breaking the locked gazes that signalled a familiar battle of wills. Well, she was no push-over these days, so if he thought she was backing down now they’d gone this far in front of an audience he was sorely mistaken.
‘If you lose…’
She held her breath.
‘It’s a blind forfeit.’
Meaning he could chose anything he wanted when it was done? Anything? He had to be kidding! She could end up cleaning his house for months, or wearing clown shoes to work, or—well, the list was endless, wasn’t it?
He continued looking at her with hooded eyes, thick lashes blinking lazily and silent confidence oozing from every pore of his rangy body. And then he smiled.
Damping her dry lips, she looked round at the familiar faces, searching each one for a hint of any sign they’d see what was happening as a joke and let it slide so she could get out of trouble.
No such luck.
‘You could just admit I’m right about this business idea of yours and let it go. Keep it as a hobby if you must. That’d give you more time for dating, right?’
With a deep breath she stepped over the edge of what felt distinctly like a precipice. ‘No limit on the number of dates. And once you hit the six weeks without a Tiffany’s box I automatically win.’
‘Fine, but if I say it’s not working with one we move on. I’ll give you…’ his gaze rose to a point on the ceiling, locking with hers again when he had an answer ‘…three months to find Little Miss Perfect.’
‘Six.’
‘Four.’
‘Five.’
‘Four from the first date…’
It was the best she was going to get and she knew it. ‘Done.’
There was a flurry of activity as their friends sought out a pen, and Morgan used the back of a napkin to place their bets. And in the meantime Quinn had Clare’s undivided attention while he slowly made his way round to her, hunkering down and examining her eyes before extending one large hand, his husky-edged voice low and disturbingly intimate.
‘Shake on it, then.’
Clare turned in her seat and looked at his outstretched hand, her pulse fluttering. She damped her lips again, and took another deep breath, before lifting her palm and setting it into his. Her voice was equally low when she looked up into his eyes.
‘Cheat this time and you’re a dead man.’
A larger smile slid skilfully into place a split second before his incredible eyes darkened a shade, and long fingers curled until her smaller hand was engulfed in the heat of his. But instead of shaking it up and down to seal the deal he simply held on, rubbing his thumb almost unconsciously across the ridges of her knuckles. Then his voice dropped enough to merit her leaning closer to hear him, and the combined scent of clean laundry and pure Quinn overwhelmed her,
‘Don’t have to. Cos either way I win—don’t I?’
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