How to Woo a Wallflower (Romancing the Rules #3)(41)

After flipping through several of the sheets in the folder, Gabriel glanced at Clary. “Would you like to sit in on one or two of the meetings, Miss Ruthven?”

“I’d like to sit in on all of them, if you don’t mind.”

He lifted a hand and gripped the back of his neck, staring at the floor with a concentrated frown as if doing complex mathematical calculations in his head. Finally, he shot her one his cool all-business looks. “Very well. I’ll see you in my office in a couple of hours.”

The man was like a faulty tap that couldn’t decide whether to run hot or cold. Clary told herself to take the dismissal in stride, nodded once in agreement, and offered Daughtry a friendly smile before returning to her desk. As she went, she heard the old man rise to her defense.

“Can’t but admire the girl’s eagerness, sir.”

Mr. Adamson offered no reply.

The problem for Gabe was that he admired a great deal more than Clarissa Ruthven’s eagerness.

The lady got under his every defense. This morning he’d arrived early, vowing to take a new tack, to remember when he caught sight of her that this was a place of business. Her brother had entrusted her mentoring to his care.

But she’d come in humming merrily and drawing that damned cluster of pretty flowers from her bag. The minute their gazes clashed across the office, every vow he’d made shattered, and he’d only wished to see her smile.

In the ring, he’d quickly learned that taking every opening to throw a punch took too much energy. He’d learned the power of feint, flight, defense. How to keep light on his feet, to anticipate his opponents’ moves, ducking and weaving to tire them out.

But there was no ducking away from what Clary stirred in him. Nor was there any escape from the disaster that would result if he gave up his defenses and let her in. He would hurt her, and she would end up loathing the very sight of him.

“Thank you for these, Daughtry,” he said, dismissing his assistant. After lowering himself into his chair, he planted his elbows on his desk and steepled his fingers in front of him. How had a plan with such promise—minding his employer’s youngest sister for an increase in pay—come to this?

She and her cheery blooms had gone, but he was still drowning in her scent, ruminating on her smile, wishing she was buzzing around his office again.

Work. That had been his salvation years ago. He’d been awful at managing Ruthven’s at the start. Only by applying discipline had he been able to succeed. Surely he could do the same now.

Turning his attention to Daughtry’s reports, he found details missing, especially particulars about inventory. He took the folder and a fountain pen and headed for the storage room, managing to avoid a glance Clary’s way. Time passed quickly as he recounted ink supplies and began comparing the various brands they’d purchased against Daughtry’s reports. He’d left out one entirely, and Gabe began doubting the accuracy of the rest of his numbers. He examined the rolls of paper and other stock. By the time he’d finished, his first appointment with an ink vendor was just minutes away.

The workroom was quiet, clerks bent over their work, as he made his way back to his office. Precisely the kind of diligence and productivity he liked to see.

A few feet from his door, he caught Clary’s scent in the air. Before he could stop himself, he pulled in a deep breath. Then, on the threshold, irritation began bubbling in his veins like boiling water.

Despite three empty chairs in the office, she’d perched her perfect round bottom on the edge of his desk, pushing his blotter aside and moving the brass stand that usually held his fountain pen. One booted foot swung near the side of the desk, buffeting the battered wood.

She had her back to him and scanned a newspaper stretched between her hands. His newspaper. To keep abreast of publishing news and nationwide events that might affect the business, he read the Times every day. One copy, which he purchased, neatly folded, and placed at the upper corner of his desk each morning.

A corner now adorned with a petite blonde hellion.

He wasn’t sure which was more maddening—her complete lack of respect for his space or the sensual lines of her curves. The lady was made for embracing, for shaping one’s hands above the camber of her hips. Too bad he’d never have the chance again, since he’d vowed not to touch her or think of her as anything other than his mentee and Ruthven’s co-owner.

“Would you mind taking a chair, Miss Ruthven?”

Her spine stiffened, and he could have sworn her neck lengthened an inch. Which only drew his eye to the knot of flaxen hair above the downy skin of her nape.

Finally, she sprang into action. After dropping his newspaper, she swiveled on his desk and hopped down. Then she made an enormous production of lowering herself into a chair, fussing with her skirt, settling the fabric just so. Finally, she perched her clasped hands in her lap, the picture of feminine propriety. Except for the tattoo of her boot heel against the floor and a glint of rebellion in her eyes.

“Happy now?” she asked archly.

Not in the least. He hated himself for it; he liked her better on top of his desk. “Only pleased that you’re using furniture as it was intended.”

She grinned, revealing dimples in each cheek and a tantalizing divot at the edge of her chin that he’d somehow failed to notice. “Tell me,” she said. “Were you always so ridiculously rule bound, or did my father convert you?”