How to Woo a Wallflower (Romancing the Rules #3)(43)

But another emotion came too. Terror. Every bit as powerful as the pleasure. She possessed power over him, as easily wielded as a smile, and he had no earthly idea how to resist her.





CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“I’m learning how much can be conveyed, without words, with a single glance.”

—JOURNAL OF CLARY RUTHVEN

After the second vendor meeting, Clary was astounded at how much Gabriel knew about the inner workings of her family’s business. Down to specific numbers of inventory. He was conversant with binderies, printers, distributors, which bookstores favored their stock and which did not. He also seemed apprised of their competitor’s businesses, not to mention the various features and costs of every product each vendor offered. One discussion with an ink distributor had lasted ten minutes on the topic of the translucency and viscosity of their various brands.

By the fifth meeting, she had no idea how he remained seated in one spot for such a long stretch at a time. Between each visitor, she paced around his office or went out onto the pavement for a breath of air. During meetings, she found herself tapping her pencil, her fingers, her heels. And then he’d look at her, not in the chastising way of a man charged as her mentor, but a shadow of the way he had in the library. An intense look, as if she was the only other person in the room. He had a knack for choosing the moments when their visitor had his head down, making notes.

His looks were almost as powerful as his touch, warming her from across the room. She spent a good deal of time sipping tea, which only made her warmer and more eager to move.

The last vendor ate every last biscuit and complimented her on the tea. Daughtry had fetched them a second pot midday, and the flavor was deeper and richer than the first.

“This was very nice,” Mr. Bast said as he stood to depart, handing Clary his empty teacup. “I never get treated with half this much thoughtfulness when calling on your competitors, Miss Ruthven.”

“Then you should remember us, Mr. Bast.” Clary grinned at the slim young man. “And give us a discount.”

He chuckled so heartily that the two wings of his mustache danced above his lips. “Perhaps I shall do just that, Miss Ruthven. You’ll be receiving a proposal from me via post based on our discussion, Mr. Adamson. Thank you both.” He tipped his hat before ramming it onto his pomaded blond hair and striding from the office.

“Is that the last one?” Clary paced, swinging her arms and stretching her back to ease the knots from sitting too long.

“For today,” Gabe said as he watched her. “Though as charmed as they all were by you, I suspect most would be willing to return tomorrow if you like.”

“Were they charmed?” She pivoted to make her way back toward him and deliberately passed behind him. He’d shed his coat midday, and the shiny material of his dark gray waistcoat fit snuggly, emphasizing his narrow waist and broad back.

He twisted his head to watch her pass. “You know they were.”

“You almost sound jealous, Mr. Adamson.” Returning to her chair, she retrieved her notebook and clutched it to her chest.

Ignoring her comment, he pointed. “What did you write in there? You were scribbling madly during every meeting.”

“Just notes.” Clary slid the small notebook behind her. “Nothing important.”

He grinned, and she sucked in a breath. How long had she wished he’d smile at her? Now she knew why he dispensed them so rarely. His grins were potent.

“Well, now I’m desperate to see,” he said as he came out from behind his desk and stalked toward her.

“Honestly, there’s nothing here you don’t know.” Clary gulped as he drew nearer. “In fact, I meant to say that I am very impressed with your . . . ” Her mind filled, and she forced herself to narrow in on today. “Your knowledge of the publishing industry and Ruthven’s.”

“That is my job, you know.” He came close enough for his boots to shift the hem of her skirt.

Clary nodded and stared at the knot of his necktie. “And you’re clearly very good at your job.”

“What’s in your notebook?”

“Words.”

He crossed his arms, and his shirt-sleeves brushed her bodice. “Is there anything I can do to persuade you to show me?”

So many things.

The shuffle of feet indicated the workroom was emptying. He glanced up as if he could see through the frosted glass of his door.

“We should both be headed off.” He backed away.

She hated when he walked away from her. When he turned his back on what was between them. Clary shoved her notebook at him. “Here.”

His eyes lit as if she’d offered a present wrapped in shiny paper and trimmed with bows. He parted the binding gently.

Clary winced and held her breath.

“Good grief.” He flipped pages. “You decorate every inch of every page.”

She did have a tendency to scribble in the margins. Often the drawings around the edge had nothing to do with the main composition. At one time, bunnies had been a favorite embellishment, but she’d grown out of that.

He continued flipping, and when he swallowed hard, she knew he’d found today’s pages. “You . . . watch me very closely.”

“There are words too,” she insisted, pointing to the notes about ink vendors and paper mills in the middle and ignoring the sketches of his face, his eyes, his jaw, the waves of his hair.