CHAPTER SIX

      HANNAH nibbled at her little fingernail until there was nothing more to nibble without taking the top off her finger.

      For a weekend that was meant to be about relaxing and recharging, sorting out her head, she felt as if she’d been walking a tightrope blindfolded.

      What with Elyse being so unexpectedly fabulous. Her mother driving her even crazier than she’d expected. And poor Roger flirting up a storm every chance he had while she thought him about as interesting as a potted plant.

      But they were mere wallpaper compared with the most glaring factor in the story of her lack of a pinky fingernail.

      What had got into Bradley?

      Even thinking her boss’s name had her teeth aiming for a new nail.

      No matter how she played out that first half an hour inside the bar, she kept coming back to the indisputable fact that Bradley had been hitting on her. The dark glances, the whispering in her ear, the unexpected touches …

      She bit down so hard on her fingernail it stung.

      Wincing, she snuck a glance across the table to where the man himself sat, all six feet four inches of him, sprawled out in his chair, long fingers clasped around a glass of beer, smiling contentedly as he watched Elyse and Tim belt out ‘Islands in the Stream’ on the karaoke stage.

      ‘I’m sorry?’

      She blinked, realising he was leaning towards her, one eyebrow cocked, the edge of his mouth lifted in the remnants of a smile. How did the man manage to make even the word sorry sound so sexy?

      ‘Did you say something?’ he asked, almost shouting to be heard over the music.

      ‘Nope. Nothing going on over here. All quiet my end.’

      He looked at her a beat longer. His deep grey eyes burning into her. Heat she’d never sensed from him before was now arcing across the table and turning her knees to butter. When he finally looked away she let out a long, slow breath.

      Something had shifted back there. But how much? How far? She was confused and jumpy and prickling with anticipation all at once.

      Then she asked the question she’d been finding any way to avoid. Was she looking at the early stages of a fling? She gave in to a delicious shiver that tumbled through her from top to toe.

      But no. No way. Anything but that. Not with the boss. She’d worked too hard to prove herself indispensable—irreplaceable, even—to turn into a cliché now.

      She leant her chin on her palm and bobbed her head in time with the music, all the while watching him from the corner of her eye.

      She’d have to see something way beyond fling on the horizon to even consider that kind of risk. Whereas Bradley … She knew first-hand that the women who dated Bradley were lucky if they stayed on his mobile phone longer than a month.

      Her enigmatic, heartlessly delicious, emotionally stunted boss suddenly picked up his chair and plonked it down beside hers.

      She leaned away. ‘If you can’t see from there I’ll happily switch places.’

      ‘Stay.’ He placed a hand over hers, cupping it on the table. ‘I don’t plan on shouting to be heard all evening.’

      She slid her hand away and used it to scratch her non-itchy head.

      ‘Elyse is a pretty fair singer too, you know,’ he drawled. ‘How did you miss that gene?’

      Hannah shook the cotton wool from her head. ‘That’s what you came over here to say? Not Are you’re having a good time, Hannah? Or Can I get you another drink, Hannah? But what’s with the talent deficiency? You are a charmer.’

      He laughed softly—a low rumble that whispered to all the deep, dark feminine places inside her. Serious face on, he was heart-stoppingly gorgeous. Smiling, he was devastating. Laughing, he was … a dream.

      This man had been hitting on her? Her? Sensible, back-chatting, small-town Hannah Gillespie? She felt it, but couldn’t quite believe it.

      Needing to know for sure, to see if her radar was so rusty it was no longer even functional, she turned in her chair, giving him her most flirtatious smile.

      ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘just so we can put this topic to bed once and for all—’

      He raised an eyebrow. Her heart rate quickened. And all the places his large warm hands had glanced that night pulsed.

      Hannah met his raised eyebrow and raised him another. ‘I’m talking, of course, about my lack of singing and dancing skills.’

       ‘Riiight.’

      ‘I don’t want you sitting there feeling all sorry for me because I can’t do a series of triple-spins while belting out “I Dreamed a Dream”.’

      When he opened his mouth, she held up a hand. ‘Before you ask, all I’ll admit is that routine had fake peacock feathers and sequinned masquerade masks.’

      ‘I was going to say that I don’t feel the least bit sorry for you. A woman doesn’t have to be able to sing and dance to have it going on.’

      He lifted his beer and finished it in one slow swallow. All she could do was stare.

      Oh, yeah. Bradley was flirting, all right. Batting her about like a lion with a moth. She wondered what she might do if he decided to stop playing and get serious. The very idea petrified her to the spot.

      Even in the low light of the club she could see the gleam in his eyes. The thrill of the chase.

      Utterly out of her depth, she reached for her drink.

      Bradley got there first, snatching it out of her way. But not before her fingers had brushed across his. Pure and unadulterated sexual attraction wrapped itself around her like a wet rope, slippery and unyielding. And even in the darkness she was sure his pupils had grown so large the colour of his eyes was completely obscured.

      From an accidental touch of fingers. Oh, God …

      Bradley swirled the ice around in her drink. Once. Twice. Each time ice hit glass her nerves twanged sharply—like an out-of-tune guitar.

      She sat on her hands and bit her lip. He’s your boss. You love your job. He’s not looking for for ever. And you are. Just allowing this flirtation to continue is going to change everything.

      He lifted her drink to his mouth and took a sip. The press of his lips where her lips had just been made her tingle in the most aching anticipation.

      Then his face screwed up as if he’d just sucked on a lemon. ‘Holy heck—that’s atrocious! How can you drink this slop?’

      ‘It’s not slop!’

      ‘What on earth’s in it?’

      ‘Whisky, lemon juice, sugar, and a dash of egg white.’

      ‘Are you serious?’

      He picked up his empty beer glass and practically ran his tongue around the rim in search of leftover foam. Hannah’s limbs went limp so quickly she had to look away.

      ‘It was my father’s favourite drink. So clearly it’s meant for a palate far more discerning than yours.’

      To prove it, she put the glass to her mouth and took a giant swig—only instead of tasting the sharp mix of ingredients that had always felt nothing but warm and comforting, she was certain she could taste a whisper of beer as left by Bradley’s lips.

      She