Emilie Rose - Pregnant on the Upper East Side? / The Billionaire in Penthouse B - Pregnant on the Upper East Side?

She took a sip. The zesty fruit-and-berry flavor of the cool liquid slid smoothly down her throat. She would have to be careful because she liked this wine too much, and that could get her in trouble.

Alex looked at her over the rim of his glass. “I’ll need you to act as my hostess.”

Her heart skipped a beat. She snapped her gaze from the food in front of her to Alex’s. “You can’t find someone else at this late date?”

“I want you, Amanda.”

I want you.

Alex’s firmly stated phrase, delivered in close proximity and with direct eye contact, made Amanda’s insides quiver.

He means for the party.

No, he means more than that. But you’re ignoring the “more” part. Remember?

“I—I can hostess.” Usually she facilitated events from behind the scenes, but it would be much easier to make those much-needed connections by Alex’s side.

“I will, of course, cover the cost of appropriate attire.”

God, he smelled good. “Alex, you don’t need to do that.”

“This evening will be as important for me as it will be for you. Buy yourself something.”

Definitely bossy and not what she needed. “If I don’t have anything suitable I’ll consider it.”

The hard look he shot her should have sent her scurrying to comply. Instantly. But she ignored it thanks to practice. She’d learned to deal with a similar look from her father. She reached for her fork. “This looks yummy.”

“Aglaia’s is one of my favorite places. Eat. Then we’ll talk.”

The salad was delicious, perfect in flavor and texture, as were the other dishes. They consumed the meal in silence. Unfortunately, the lack of conversation made it far too easy to get hung up on each shift of his body and each bump of his elbow, and it drove her to her wineglass more often than her water bottle.

Had she ever noticed he had great hands? Long fingers, blunt nails, sparse dark hairs on the backs. She couldn’t remember experiencing this all-consuming awareness with anyone else.

Get a grip.

Finally, Alex forked the last bite of moussaka between his lips, chewed and swallowed. “Last night you said we had to choose a theme for the party. What did you have in mind?”

So he had listened before changing the subject.

He angled in his chair, his right thigh nudging her left. His heat penetrated the thin layers of their clothing and her thoughts snarled. She struggled to untangle them. Under the guise of shifting her empty plate out of the way she put an inch or two between them.

“That depends on whether you want a formal, traditional sit-down meal or something more relaxed and fun.”

“Which do you recommend?”

“Your office is formal and conservative. If you want this to be a reward then I’d go for a ‘festive drinks and hors d’oeuvres’ event. You said your employees worked hard. Let them mingle and loosen up a little.”

He reached for his wine, pursed his lips and sipped. She found her gaze locked on his mouth again and pried it away.

You really must stop doing that.

She fumbled for her water bottle, hoping the chilled liquid would satisfy her sudden oral fixation. The last thing she needed was more wine. Her head was already spinning, and she wasn’t sure alcohol was the cause.

“Would you consider a masked ball? You could still have a formal affair, but donning masks allows everyone to let down their guard a little.”

His left eyebrow hiked.

“Not full costume,” she rushed on before he could object. “More of a Mardi Gras in November. We could even have New Orleans cuisine and music, if you like.”

“Sounds like a good plan. Can you get a jazz band?”

“I’ve used a couple of good ones before. This afternoon I’ll call and see if either is available. Since we’ve decided on a theme, I have invitation and decoration suggestions.”

She reached for her laptop, booted up and then picked up the paper file. Inside she’d tucked samples for several different party themes in different pocketed folders. As soon as he made choices she could enter the info online and e-mail it to her supplier.

Alex rose and carried the plates to the wet bar in the corner. When he returned he sat down closer than before, his long legs bracketing her chair and his arm resting along the back of her seat. His position hemmed her against the table. If she leaned back she’d be in his arms—one of the places she’d been avoiding for the past threeplus months and intended to continue avoiding.

She fought to block out his nearness and focused on pulling up the images on-screen. “Here are sample schemes.”

She clicked her mouse, scrolling through each page. He leaned closer. His breath teased her cheek and stirred the hair at her temple. Her mouth moistened and her pulse quickened.

“Stop. Back up.” He spoke quietly, directly into her ear.

It took a few seconds for her brain to relay his words to her fingers. She cleared her throat. “This page?”

“Yes.”

It was no surprise he’d chosen the most conservative of the bunch. She extracted a sample from the folder. “This?”

“Yes.”

She picked up a pen with a hand that wasn’t as steady as she would have liked and made a note, then did the same on the computer. “With that I’d recommend these.”

She flipped to the next item on her list. Thank goodness the program she’d installed prompted her or else she would be floundering. What was wrong with her? She loved planning events. And yet today she could barely connect the dots.

Concentrate. “I’ll make sure to order an assortment of spare masks for the guests who don’t bring their own. Would you like for me to get one for you?”

“Amanda.”

She turned her head at his low-voiced but commanding tone. Their faces and lips were scarce inches apart—the closest they’d been to date. The temptation to close the distance between their mouths streaked across her mind. She forced her gaze to his eyes and dragged a slow breath into her lungs.

Lambent desire flickered in his dark chocolate eyes. “You know what I want.”

Did she ever. Her pulse rate rocketed. She swallowed and nodded. “I have a pretty good idea.”

“I trust you to make the decisions to make it happen.” Firm. Decisive. Not at all seductive.

What? Confused, she blinked and sat back.

“We’ve covered the basics,” he continued. “I’ll leave the rest in your capable hands.”

Work. He was talking about work?

Of course he is. That’s why you’re here. Remember? Get your head out of the ozone, Amanda Crawford.

“I’ll get right on it.” She hastily closed her laptop, then grabbed the file folder and stacked it on top.

Alex shifted again, leaning forward so that his chest and arm pressed her back and shoulder, enfolding her in his warmth and scent. “Before you go, I have something I know you can’t resist.”

Her heart thumped like a bass drum, the beat reverberating off her eardrums and her gaze drifted back to his mouth.

He reached across the table and extracted two small boxes from the take-out bag. “Baklava. Two kinds. Walnut and chocolate. I couldn’t neglect your sweet tooth.”

She wasn’t disappointed. She wasn’t.

Yes, she was.

What is wrong with you? Do you actually miss him trying to get into your pants? How perverted is that?

But she was touched he’d noticed she had a weakness for sweets. Had Curtis? Had any of the men who’d blemished her relationship record in the past decade? Regrettably, no.

And what did that say about her taste in men and her ability to choose them wisely? Nothing good. Which was why her sudden yen for Alex Harper was bad news.