Artistic License (9 page)

“Ryland shanghaied her for a meet-and-greet,” Sean answered for her cheerfully. “He wanted to play the grateful Lord-and-Master with the worthy subject.”

If Sophy had ever smart-assed about her boss like that, it was ten to one that he would have been standing right behind her. She couldn’t resist an anxious peer over her shoulder. Nobody else was in hearing range of Golden Boy’s wise-cracks. Figures. He was definitely another Dale.

“Where is Ryland?” Mick ignored his friend’s disrespectful comments with an air of resignation. Before Sean could reply, the pager on Mick’s belt beeped and he unsnapped it and read the message. “Never mind,” he said grimly. “I have to go. Can you hold the fort here for a few minutes?” Over the splutters of Sean’s indignation, he looked at Sophy, started to speak and then hesitated. “I’ll see you later?” he queried at last.

She nodded wordlessly and watched him walk away.

“And in the meantime,” Sean sounded like a large panther purring in the sun, “how about you and I get to know each other a little better?”

Still holding her arm, he patted her hand, his fingertips lingering on her knuckles, his eyes also on his friend’s retreating back. Mick, just about to disappear through the door, didn’t bother to turn his head as he spoke.

“How about you find some work to do and keep your hands to yourself?”

The dry suggestion seemed to cap Sean’s satisfaction with the turn of events. Before he could commence an interrogation of leading questions and lascivious observations, Sophy did what she always did in awkward social situations.

She excused herself to make a wholly unnecessary visit to the bathroom.

She was a seasoned pro at taking interminable amounts of time to smooth her hair and reapply lipstick. She could probably string it out long enough that it would be almost time to meet Ryland for coffee. On the minus side, Sean would likely think that she had an embarrassing intestinal dilemma. She was weighing the options when she noticed there was a muddy paw print on the hem of her dress – and the paper towel dispenser was empty. Damn. Going into the end cubicle to grab a handful of toilet paper, she didn’t immediately pay attention when the bathroom door open and multiple pairs of feet clattered in. The doors of adjacent cubicles banged shut.

“Is Sean bringing his one-night stands to work now?” asked a voice in spitefully amused, carrying accents.

Sophy froze, still partially hunched over the dispenser.

A second woman replied, sounding torn between chastisement and humour, “I don’t know. I actually got the impression she was here with Mick.”

There was a brief silence, punctuated by the sound of unrolling paper, and then a disbelieving snort.

“You’re kidding. Is he
seeing
someone?”

“Hey, you said yourself that he was decent in bed.”

Sophy’s fist closed tight, crumpling the paper in her grip.

The first woman laughed. Her voice was an extremely pleasant contralto, which made the impact of her words all the more cruel.

“Well, you can’t fault the body or the moves. Shame about the face,” she said, and added crudely, “I’d probably give him another go. If he stayed in the back or the lights were off.”

“Jen, you’re such a bitch.” Her friend was stifling snickers. 

Amidst the sounds of flushing and running tap water, they joked back and forth, comparing their nights out in the weekend. Their attention was thankfully diverted from her, but Sophy caught a glimpse of them in the vanity mirror as they left and was unsurprised to recognise Mick’s female colleagues.

She stood where she was for some time, feeling sick.

When she made her way back out into the foyer, Sean immediately corralled her.

“There you are! Listen, Ryland is all done with his con… Sophy?” Sean bent and peered at her, looking concerned. “Are you all right?” He hesitated and cast a meaningful glance at the ladies’ room. “If you’re not feeling well…”

Sophy looked unseeingly at him. She touched her hair, turned slightly. Her movements were absent; she wasn’t quite sure what to do.

“Um,” she said. “I don’t – I think…”

“Here; come and sit down,” Sean said at once, urging her toward a pair of priceless Regency armchairs that probably weren’t intended as actual seating.

“Sean.” She faltered. “Your workmates… Jen?”

Sean came to a dead halt, his face changing rapidly. He suddenly looked at least five years older and considerably more competent, the playboy persona temporarily shelved.

“Jennifer Nolan?” he asked sharply. “Sophy, did Jennifer say something to you?”

“No.” Oh God. She didn’t know whether to turn and bolt or turn and grab the witch by the hair. “No. She just… She…”

“Whatever Jennifer told you…”

“
Jennifer?
”

Sophy’s heart dropped somewhere around her toes.

She swung around and walked into a storm of turbulent grey. It was the first time she had witnessed the deconstruction of all Mick’s careful control and reserve. He looked absolutely furious.

His mouth was almost white as he glared at Sean, biting out, “Jesus, did you –”

“No –” Sophy began hastily, and Sean spoke over her.

“Of course I didn’t tell her,” he snapped. “I think Jennifer ambushed her.”

“No –”

“
What?
” Mick turned on her incredulously. “Did she –”

“She didn’t say anything,” Sophy burst out, her fingers knotting and unknotting nervously. “Not
to
me. I…I overheard…”

“
Fuck
.”

Mick’s fists were balled. She wasn’t sure which emotion was dominating his expression: the anger, the defensiveness, or the bone-deep mortification.

He was so hurt. She wanted to cry.

“Mick, did she… Did they… I don’t…”

The last vestiges of his control snapped.

“Jesus Christ.” The words stabbed out like shards of broken glass. “I know that we’re
friends
, Sophy,” he said, and the sarcasm was awful, “but we hardly know each other. This is
none of your fucking business
.”

For the second time in that hotel, she couldn’t breathe.

“
Mick
.” Sean was sharp, urgent. He reached out a hand toward her. “Sophy…”

She could hear him swearing as she turned and fled.

She didn’t look back at Mick.

When she got home and let herself into the house, her fingers were still shaking around the key.

How pathetic was that?

The mystery box was still sitting in the hallway, but the shawl was gone. She gave the package a cathartic kick as she passed. Walking into the living room, she dropped her handbag on the kitchen counter, turned around and jumped out of her skin as Dale looked up from the couch and lowered his magazine.

“Oh my God.” Sophy pressed the heel of her hand to her leaping heart. “
Dale
. Announce yourself.” She gave him an exasperated look. “Are you living here now or something?”

“I just like coming over for these warm welcomes.” Dale tossed the magazine aside. She saw that the shawl was draped over the arm of the neighbouring chair.

“Is Melissa home?” she asked, listening for signs of life down the hallway. The more she talked and the less she said, the more normal she felt. “I thought you guys had some big presentation today.”

“It’s this afternoon. We came back here to prep for it because some dickhead decided to start an indoor golf tournament in the office. Mel got called back in to sign a contract, but she should be back soon.”

“Well, I’m glad to see you’re using your time productively in the meantime,” said Sophy, raising an eyebrow. “And what
are
the ten hot new trends for autumn?”

Dale was frowning at her.

“Soph,” he said. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

And she was.

She was interfering. Nosy. Over-sensitive. A complete failure at communication and confrontation.

But objectively, fine.

“You don’t look fine.” Dale had unfortunately chosen that particular morning to develop his own sensitive side. She would have preferred that he continue the running streak of oblivious self-absorption.

Her mouth twisted.

“Hey.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her down to sit next to him. His eyes were concerned. “Whoever it is and whatever they’ve done, Sophy, they aren’t worth it.”

But he was.

Damn it.

***

Mick drove out to Lake Hayes with Sean’s admonishments still ringing in his ears. The resident Don Juan could do a bloody convincing turn as a shrieking fishwife. He had declared open allegiance to Sophy, whom he’d annoyingly referred to as his “rabbit”.

“Sweet, pretty and twitchy,” was his irritating description.

There had been no need for the lecture. Mick had been sorry the moment he’d overreacted.

He still wasn’t sure what or how much she had overheard. Sean hadn’t been clear on the details and he sure as hell wasn’t going to approach Jennifer about it. He didn’t want her particular brand of poison anywhere near Sophy. It had been jarring enough just to hear Sophy speak her name.

He wasn’t proud of any aspect of that situation.

He wouldn’t be patting himself on the back over his behaviour at Silver Leigh on Friday, either.

Kissing Sophy had successfully rattled both his wits and his reserve, tossing every preconceived idea he had of the immediate future into a state of upheaval. There were kisses that were never going to lead anywhere but sex. And there were the more dangerous kisses, the ones that existed solely in and of themselves, that were about the pure pleasure of being close to another person, touching, being touched in return.

One bloody kiss.

The woman should come equipped with warning lights and an electric force field.

Mick turned left when he caught sight of a signpost, rolling the car to a stop over crunching gravel. For a few minutes, he continued to sit, fingers tapping absently on the steering wheel, trying to be honest with himself.

He had feelings for Sophy.

No great surprise there. He’d jumped her at her parents’ house, in front of her damn dog, for God’s sake.

And he’d spooked her. That was the fundamental point. He was never –
ever
– going to force his company where it wasn’t wanted, and she clearly wasn’t interested in taking things beyond the platonic between them. He couldn’t doubt that she genuinely found him attractive. The ability to evaluate other people’s states of mind, to interpret the cues of their body language and breathing patterns, to attempt to predict their next move, had been bludgeoned into him through sheer repetitive, gruelling, potentially lethal training.

And Sophy, bless her, was not the smoothest operator. She couldn’t dissemble her way out of a paper bag.

She was physically attracted to him. She seemed to enjoy spending time together. She did not want a sexual or emotional relationship with him.