Driven By Fate(5)

Unbelievable. She didn’t even stop to answer him. He didn’t want to examine the panic drilling into his skull when her figure disappeared from the doorway, which was immediately filled by someone else—the tall, curvy redhead he’d actually been expecting. She stepped inside and went down on her knees, bowing her head. “Sorry, I’m late, Sir.”

No. Wrong. This was wrong. He wanted the girl back here. Now.

“Excuse me,” he said curtly, leaving the room. Without his tools. He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t packed them just right, made sure they were in a secure place. Right then, he didn’t give two shits about anything but catching up with her. There. Sliding into the elevator like a phantom, slipping right through his fingers. He had no idea what he’d do when he caught up with her, because frankly, he didn’t understand the way she made him feel. He didn’t do well with the unknown. The idea of never seeing her again was worse, though. Much f*cking worse.

He caught the elevator door just before it closed.

“Not so fast.”





Chapter Three


Frankie hadn’t lost a staring contest in her life. Not once. But dammit if this uptight British dude wasn’t about to hand her defeat numero uno.

She’d been stunned into silence when he’d followed her into the elevator, because Hello nurse, she’d seen the redhead about to take her place. Her scrawny ass didn’t even rate. Yet here they were, still not speaking, sitting on a chaise lounge beside one another on the first floor of Serve while the crowd expanded around them. He’d ordered her a Coke from the waitress, which should have pissed her off. It would have, too, if she had any energy left in her body. He’d drained her of every last ounce. It was often theorized that people who were born blind didn’t know any better, so living without sight didn’t bother them as much as someone who’d lost their vision at say, age fifteen. An hour ago, she would have argued blindness was equally difficult in either case. Now? She had to admit there was some merit to the other theory. Because she couldn’t go back into the darkness. Not now, when she knew what it felt like to see.

It appeared as if the brit was waiting for her to crack, justifying her initial impression of him. Her neighborhood was chock full of cops and she’d gotten this same look growing up, when one of them wanted to know who’d hit the baseball through their window. This guy had some sort of law enforcement background, but she wouldn’t put her money on a police officer. Something more…ruthless.

“How long are we going to keep this up?” She drummed her fingers on her knee. “Not that I don’t find your company intoxicating, but I have to be back at work soon.”

“Where is work for you?”

“Ah, no. I conceded the staring contest, which wasn’t easy, by the way. The least you can do is answer first.” Damn. She’d never felt self-conscious about her job before. Something about the way he radiated disapproval and smelled like luxury made her hesitate. “British men are supposed to be polite, right? Don’t let me down.”

He showed no reaction. “I’m an antiques dealer.”

“And I’m Kevin Bacon.” She kept her gaze level as he reached into his pants pocket and drew out a business card, presenting her with it. Porter Evans. Fine antiquities. “What did you do before you sold antiques, Porter?”

His upper lip tugged. “Security. Of a kind.”

“Of a kind,” she muttered, tucking the card away in her jeans pocket. Not that she would be needing it again, but it seemed rude to return it. Before he could ask about her job again, she put out her hand. “Frankie De Luca.”

He eyed her outstretched hand. “You really think shaking hands is where we’re at here?”

“I have no idea where we’re at. I thought I was leaving.” Refusing to be embarrassed, she tried to snatch her hand back from where he’d left her hanging, but he caught it. Oddly, he looked as surprised as she felt that he’d made the effort. “Shouldn’t you be upstairs with Jessica Rabbit?”

“Yes, I should be. Is Frankie short for something?”

“Francesca.” He pressed his thumb to the center of her palm and sensation went rushing through her, centered between her legs. No way. She’d never been as satisfied as she’d been walking out of the room upstairs. It couldn’t be happening again already. “No one calls me that.”

“Perfect.”

She started to question that odd response, but the waitress set down a frosty pint glass of Coke in front of her and a tumbler of golden liquid before Porter. When she reached for the wad of bills she kept in her sock, he made a dismissive sound. “I’ve got a tab.”

Frankie wanted to protest, but the waitress was watching her closely. The price of a soda wasn’t worth the argument, but it still weighed on her. As soon as the waitress left, she picked up his glass instead of her own and took only a small sip. She had more driving to do tonight, but felt a point needed to be made. When she set the tumbler back down, Porter was watching her as if she’d danced a hula on the table. “You might have a tab, but I don’t like owing money to people. It’s why I came here tonight.”

His mouth formed a grim line. “You’re not working here.”

“I didn’t say I was. But it wouldn’t be up to you.” She leaned against the back of the chaise and crossed her legs. “You know, this is the weirdest conversation I’ve had in a while and I have a lot of those.”