No Strings Attached

Chapter Eight

“He was trying to get into your pants, you know,” he grumbled, marching over while she was packing away the rest of her paperwork.

She rolled her eyes, a smirk coming up on her lips as she looked up at him, her hazel eyes darting between him and the door, “I doubt it, Nate.”

“He was,” he frowned, his eyes wandering over her lithe silhouette, “He nearly earned himself a beating at least five times during that interview!”

She chuckled, shaking her head softly, the longer dark strands of hair at the front swaying around her chin as she reached for the short cream military jacket that she was wearing earlier, “So what’s the plan now then? After you invited yourself along to my meeting?”

He took the heavy trendy leather satchel from her and draped it on his broad shoulder – the bronze and gold print looking ridiculously feminine against his overt sensuality and that broad masculinity that seemed to fall from every pore in his skin.

“You need some food,” he noted dryly, “Since you’re running on caffeine – something you apparently have no tolerance for – and then we’ll pick up your stuff. I’ve got a few things to take care of on our way back, but it won’t take long.”

She followed after him into the busy streets.

“I thought Brett was driving me home?” she asked quietly – the proximity sounded threatening, two hours alone in a car with him, he was bound to be ... pushy. Especially after what had happened the night before.

He stopped at the traffic lights, turning to look at her with one of his thick, dark eyebrows raised, “Brett? He’s Brett to you now?”

“He’s not an Alsatian, Nate,” she drawled, looking away to check the oncoming traffic, “If he’s following me around all day bored out of his skull, I feel like I should at least entertain the man!”

“I pay him to be on guard. How on guard can he be if he’s playing the getting to know you game? He’s married you know?”

“I know he’s married, Nate,” she remarked wryly, “We’ve been having conversation, not a clandestine affair.”

“Just wanted you to have all the information ...”

“Wow,” she drawled, starting across the street, “Just wow ... the irony.”

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“We’ll take a bottle of the Italian Pinot Grigio – the Aristocratica, number 23 - and a small jug of soda water. Can you make sure it’s an actual ice bucket as well please, not one of those insulated capsule thingies – she likes to put the ice in her glass.”

The waiter didn’t take note of the order, he just nodded unobtrusively and marched over to the bar.

Nate sat rigid in his seat, his dark grey eyes scanning the leather bound menu. Her fingers toyed nervously with the chequered tablecloth as she watched him – his heavy brow furrowed in concentration as his slate grey eyes scanned the menu.