Wendy Etherington - Sizzle in the City

Not that Max was following this ancient rule.

Still, there were significant blessings in Trevor’s life. Starting and ending without the burden of an earldom. He had his future well in hand, and it didn’t include addressing Parliament, clamoring around a moldy country castle or lording over a London flat, no matter how tony the address.

He had a business to run.

With that bracing reminder reverberating in his mind, he turned back to his desk and the pile of contracts awaiting his signature.

Before he’d read more than a few paragraphs, the intercom on his desk beeped. “Shelby Dixon is here, sir,” Florence said. “She doesn’t have an appointment but assures me you’ll see her.”

Not only would he see her, he craved her presence.

He took a second to lift his eyes heavenward and repent any resentful thoughts of the last week. Since they were certainly numerous, Florence buzzed through again before he’d managed to respond.

“I’ll see Ms. Dixon,” he said into the intercom with what he hoped was a calm, professional tone.

In the intervening moments, his heart kicked against his ribs; his body hummed. He remained standing out of pride. She’d somehow found him, and he wasn’t sure if he was impressed or concerned.

Attitude first, Shelby stalked into the room. She performed a mock curtsy in front of his desk. “Your Lordship.”

“Ah … no.” Suppressing a wince, he paused to drink in the amazing, furious sight of her before extending his hand toward the chair in front of his desk. He waited until she sat before he lowered himself into his own seat. “I don’t have a title, though the doorman at my apartment building does persist in calling me Mr. Banfield. I prefer Trevor.”

“Your father is the Earl of Westmore,” she accused, her eyes more vividly green than the night before.

Perhaps rage brought out the distinctive color?

“He is,” Trevor said calmly. “I’m the second son, however, so I’m only significant if my older brother dies.” As his blunt words registered, shock flittered across her face. “No worries, he’s in excellent health.”

“Your older brother is Maxwell Banfield.”

Since the connection had been made, he saw no reason to deny it. Though, like many times in the past, he wanted to. “He is.”

“And you were at the party last night because …?”

“I was toasting my brother’s success.”

“You didn’t tell me he was your brother.”

He smiled. “Didn’t I?”

“No.”

“It hardly matters.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I think it does.”

Trevor shrugged. He loved her suspicious nature. He liked that she wasn’t buying his story completely, and she certainly didn’t appear impressed by his lineage. She should be sucking up to him, hoping for an introduction to his influential family or at least pushing for a booking.

Instead, she seemed genuinely, personally annoyed.

Wasn’t that great?

“Did Max pay his catering bill?” he asked, wondering who exactly she was mad at and why.

“Yes.”

“Did he come on to you?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry. He’s always had questionable taste in women.”

“I didn’t want him—” She narrowed her eyes. “You’re pretending not to understand why I’m here and pissed off.”

He reached deep for an innocent expression. “Why would I do that?”

“I have no idea.”

As much as he was attracted to her, and had planned to call her with both a dinner invitation and a quote on catering a business event, he didn’t know her well enough to throw open the family-closet door and let her see inside. He didn’t want her to suspect how big an embarrassment Max was to the family, or how Trevor was convinced this latest venture would be yet another failure.

Of course if Max’s check didn’t clear, or Shelby was a big fan of gossip mags, then his efforts at subterfuge would fail no matter what Trevor did or didn’t do. “Well, I’m pleased you’re here, but I’m truly in the dark about why you’re aggravated.”

“You kissed me.”

He didn’t have to pretend to be surprised by that accusation. “I’ve been complimented heavily in the past on my technique. Can you be specific about why you’re disappointed?”

Leaning across his desk, she propped her chin on her fist. “Can you explain why even absurd questions sound intelligent when spoken with an English accent?”

Her sass and directness were enthralling—as well as her proximity.

He tilted toward her. Their faces were bare inches apart. “That’s a fascinating debate. Why don’t we discuss it over dinner tonight?”

She simply shook her head. “Not so fast, Your Lordship. You kissed me while deliberately keeping your identity a secret. In fact, the only reason I found you was because Calla never throws anything away, and she uncovered a magazine article about you landing a high-dollar contract last year.” She raised her eyebrows. “At least I know you transport legitimate goods now.”

“What did you think I transported?”

“Could’ve been anything.”

“Like knockoff designers bags, I suppose.”

“Yeah, maybe, but I don’t like those. It’s real or nothing for me. I buy vanilla from Madagascar, for heaven’s sake. I was thinking more pharmaceutical for your possibly illegal transportation business.”

Terrific. The woman he had a massive crush on thought he was a drug dealer. “All the more reason for dinner. There’s a lovely Italian restaurant down the street.”

She angled her head, considering him. The anger had been doused, replaced by interest. “Why didn’t you want me to know who you were?”

“I don’t like to advertise my family background. It tends to make people act … unusually.”

“Suck-ups.”

With a satisfied grin, he nodded. “Precisely.”

“Why doesn’t your brother talk like you?”

“Max puts on an American accent. He likes to blend.”

By the way she cocked her head, Trevor assumed she found that as odd as he did, but he didn’t really want to discuss Max’s idiosyncrasies.

“I like your accent better.” Her eyes smoldered into golden. “Is this Italian place down the street Giovanni’s?”

Fascinated by the way her eyes changed in rhythm with her mood, he slid his finger down her arm. “It is.”

A smile teased her lips. “I could eat.”

“Excellent. Perhaps we could also work on my kissing technique. I’d hate to be a disappointment the second time around.”

“Were you planning this practice during dinner?”

“I could wait till after. Or be persuaded to before.”

Her gaze dropped to his mouth. “Let’s see if the pesto sauce is as good as I remember.”

Pleasure and anticipation raced down his spine. Their chemistry had been pretty electric the night before—maybe even more so because of the suspicion between them. “I’ll speak to the chef personally.”

“His name is Mario.”

He walked around the desk and assisted her to her feet. “He’s not your knife-wielding cousin or boyfriend, is he?”

“My cousin lives in Fort Lauderdale and runs a car wash, and I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“I always thought the men of New York had good taste. Clearly, I’ve been misinformed.” He opened his office door and allowed Shelby to proceed him. “I’m leaving, Florence.”

“For the day?” His secretary’s pink painted mouth rounded in shock. “It’s barely after five.”

“It’s Friday. Go home. Enjoy yourself.”

“Yes, I remember how. Do you? ”

Trevor narrowed his eyes briefly as he passed Florence’s desk. “Of course I do.” The last thing he needed was Florence blabbing about his obsessive tendencies. Success didn’t come without sacrifice, after all.