How to Woo a Wallflower (Romancing the Rules #3)(42)

Mention of her father sounded a warning bell in Gabe’s head. That was not a path he wished to tread, nor one he wanted her to explore.

“A man who works for an etiquette-book publisher should believe in his product, should he not?”

“You can’t truly like the Ruthven Rules books. They’re dry as stale toast, outmoded in the extreme. No one behaves like that anymore”—she lifted a hand and swiped through the air to indicate the row of hardbound Ruthven Rules books on a shelf behind his desk—“and if they did, everyone would consider them a frightful bore.” She smirked, and the tilt of her voluptuous mouth felt a bit like a dare.

“Perhaps you’re correct, Miss Ruthven.” He didn’t mind ceding her this skirmish. The battle to resist her would be a long one.

“Of course I am.” Her pale brows knitted together, and her mouth slackened. A bit of fire banked in her amethyst eyes.

“What would you suggest?” Gabe laid his folder on the desk and settled his fountain pen in its place, putting his tray and brass pen stand back where they belonged. “You clearly have opinions on this and every other topic. How should people behave? If not according to long-accepted rules of etiquette, then how?”

“I . . . ” Her lips continued to move, shaping words that never emerged.

“Impulsively?” Gabe would frighten her if he gave in to his impulses. If he ever let her see just what she did to him. He lifted a fresh piece of foolscap from his desk to take notes for the upcoming meeting, but the thin paper skittered across the surface, almost escaping over the edge. She reached out at the same moment he did, and their hands met, hers landing atop his.

He should have pulled away. She should have retracted her hand. Neither of them moved. The office heated, and the air became charged.

“You’re playing with fire,” he warned her, though the admonition was truly for himself.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she whispered.

“You should be.” This near, her scent surrounded him. If he closed his eyes, he could convince himself he’d wandered into an English country garden, far away from the city’s smoke and soot. But he wasn’t a man given to fancies, and he’d learned long ago the mistake of closing one’s eyes, even for a moment, when an opponent might strike.

Clary was the loveliest opponent he’d ever faced in his life.

At the sound of movement in the outer office, they pulled away from each other. He missed her warmth, her soft skin, immediately.

“The ink vendor is first,” he said, clearing his throat and trying desperately to care about the price of supplies.

“Right.” She opened a notebook on her lap and removed a pencil she’d tucked between the buttons of her shirtwaist. Oh, to be that damned pencil.

Yet it wasn’t the ink vendor who crossed the threshold but Daughtry, rolling in a wheeled cart like a bloody footman.

“You got the cart,” Clary enthused, springing up from her chair. “It’s perfect.”

Atop said cart was a steaming teapot, several cups, a plate of digestive biscuits, and a tiny clear glass vase containing a bit of water and a few of her spring blooms. All sat centered on a dainty doily. Gabe squinted around his office to ensure that, in the fog of yearning she provoked, he hadn’t wandered into a London townhouse for tea.

He pointed toward the tray. “I’m sure there’s an explanation.” He wasn’t sure he’d like it, but he suspected she had one.

“I think meetings should be as pleasant as possible. Flowers”—she grinned at him—“because they are required everywhere. Tea because it makes everything better, and biscuits in case anyone’s peckish.”

“We’re conducting business meetings, Miss Ruthven, not a ladies’ afternoon social.”

“Being hospitable to others and enjoying the simple pleasures of life shouldn’t be women’s exclusive domain.”

“They shouldn’t be part of a business gathering either.” He was beginning to overheat. He longed to wrench the tie from his neck and fling the strip of fabric at the teapot. “Where the hell did you even get a teapot?”

She scrunched her brow. “From the tea shop two doors down.”

“Take it out, Daughtry.” He waved the damned frilly feminine lot of nonsense away. A part of him, the rational man of business, wanted her to go too. Yet the rest of him, the man who had suddenly become addicted to the scent of spring flowers, longed for her to stay.

“No!” She braced a hand on the tray. “Please, Mr. Adamson.”

Gabe narrowed his gaze at her. That name was like a twist of the knife now. He hated to hear her call him by his surname when he knew the devilish pleasure of hearing his given name on her lips.

He was defeated. Like those rare moments when an opponent bested him in the ring. He relented. “Leave the damned thing, Daughtry. Pour yourself a cup, if you like.”

The old man chuckled. “We’ll see if the vendor wants some first, shall we? I’ll send him in as soon as he arrives.” He ducked out after offering Clary a conspiratorial wink.

“Thank you,” she said softly to Gabe. She beamed at him, a dazzling smile that turned to spirals of pleasure in his chest.

No, this didn’t feel like a defeat at all. When she smiled at him that way, he felt like a victor. As if he’d vanquished the dragon and every other foe. It was the headiest satisfaction he’d ever felt in his life.