A Bird Without Wings Page 5

  They were too close to her again, and she needed to get away before they got the wrong idea—and before the alcohol hit her and she got the wrong idea. She was not looking for sex, just some not-too-distracting fun.

  A hand settled on her bare waist; she was losing control of the situation. She started to push the hand away.

  Suddenly, the hand was gone and she had more breathing space as the men were shuffled aside.

  “There you are, Callie,” said a very familiar voice, and breathing space was removed far more thoroughly as Lucius Ransome crowded all of his huge, gorgeous glory in beside her, his hand splayed on her back beneath her riotous curls.

  Where had he come from?

  “Didn’t think I’d catch you out drinking, did you?” he queried silkily, sapphire eyes scanning her stunned face. “The moment my back is turned—!” He tsked, shaking his head, one corner of his mouth lifting. With a cool smile and now-glittering eyes, he turned to the men who still hovered, though from a safer distance. “Women, eh?”

  They grudgingly agreed with this encompassing statement and faded into the crowd.

  Callie stared at Lucius in mortified horror until his attention came back to her. She dropped her lashes instantly, her brain swirling. Where—? Why—?

  “Honey, I have those drinks for you,” the bartender announced. “Hey, Lucius! Long time.”

  The men shook hands over the wood and exchanged a few hail-fellow-well-met words. “Those drinks are for Rachel,” Lucius said, handing over a credit card. “Put them on my tab.”

  “I’ll get them delivered. One of them’s for this little sweetie,” the bartender chuckled.

  “How much has she had?”

  Indignation swamped her embarrassment as a report on her consumption was given.

  “Hm. All right, she can have the drink. That will be it, though.”

  “Hey!” Callie protested, albeit quietly.

  “Your taste is improving, Lucius,” the bartender laughed as he set down the cocktail and walked away, calling back, “Sweet and sassy beats the hell outta cool and sophisticated.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” he murmured, flicking an interested look over her face.

  She shot him a venomous look that made him laugh. “Mr. Ransome, I’m on my own time.”

  “Fine. We’ll talk about work and you can book the overtime.” But work wasn’t the subject when he asked, “Aren’t you going to thank me for rescuing you from those letches?”

  “They weren’t letches,” she argued. “Just nice men who wanted to talk to me.”

  “Right,” he drawled. “That’s what nice men do: go out to bars to have innocent conversation with women. No ulterior motives whatsoever.” His gaze raked her. “So. This is what’s been hiding right in front of the staff at FalTech. A secret party-girl, working her innocent aura for free drinks?”

  Blood stained her cheeks, but she had to take issue with that. “First of all,” she said with quiet dignity, “it is none of your business how I spend my time. And isn’t it a bit inappropriate for you to talk to me that way? Boss?”

  Oh. Maybe the alcohol was affecting her, settling her nerves into near normalcy around him.

  “Well, I’m really only your temporary boss. But you’re right,” he assured quickly as she glared. “My apologies. You caught me a little off guard.”

  “I’m actually not attached to keeping things professional.”

  His eyebrows shot up.

  What had she said? Oops. So hastily, “What did you mean, about my innocent aura?”

  Wryly, he released a tight breath. “Oh, is that an example?”

  What was he talking about? She was no innocent; that was certain. One did not live the life she had and retain many illusions, her daydreams of him aside. It was fine for him, rich and spoiled and successful . . . of course, he was no innocent either, judging by that sexy gleam.

  The question was: Why was he looking at her like that?

  “Since we’re not being professional . . . Is this what you do, doll?” he chuckled. “Take your hair down and glasses off, and go out to torment men?”

  She only stared at him blankly, her head moving in a slow facsimile of a negative.

  “You get the free drinks; let them paw you a little.” Fingertips trailed down her bare arm, gooseflesh blooming in their wake. “All pink and soft.”

  “. . . wasn’t pawed . . .” The rise and fall of the barely audible voice wiped out the beginning and end of the statement. Downing the end of her drink, she set the glass on the wood and reached both hands for the reddish martini cocktail.

  Closing in, turning to graze his chest against her back, he placed a hand on the wood on either side of her. He whispered in her hair. “I thought you’d be too nervous to play such a game. If you were like this at the office, doll, not a man in the place would get anything done.”

  She struggled to think her way through this puzzle, and she was not good with puzzles. Not at all a lateral thinker. How was this happening? After assessing the collateral damage of her infatuation and determining to get a grip . . . now he pays attention to her? Very close attention.

  The heavy beat of the music thudded, matching her heart, setting off every pulse point to full sensitivity. The emanating heat of his body at her back, the masculine power and sexual energy he exuded, and the weighted whisper of his breath in her hair—she was utterly aware of him, as she had never been of another human being.

  What had inspired his sudden attention?

  With cool clarity, she understood: he knew of her infatuation for him. Maybe Rachel had told him or, far more likely, she had given herself away with that nervous display in his office.

  In any case, he was teasing her, laughing at her, as if she were something to be ridiculed—and, in a comparative study of Ransome World and Dahl World and the gulf between them, it was completely reasonable that a Ransome hold her in disdain. He must find it utterly hilarious that such a lowly creature entertained such fantasy. It—she—was ridiculous. Though that hadn’t mattered too much when it was for her private entertainment.

  She pushed back, gaining some room as he did not resist the pressure, and twisted to face him.

  “Really, Mr. Ransome.” Her tone was a great shade of bored. She was far too proud to let him see the hurt his teasing inflicted—and she shouldn’t be hurt at any rate. “Flirting with hapless Callie Dahl is a little beneath you, isn’t it?”

  Hooded eyes glinted with a hint of temper. “And here I thought you were terrified of me.”

  Her attempted laugh came out not too badly. “You’re simply not the ogre your press suggests.”

  He cocked an eyebrow, the opposite corner of his mouth going up to match it. “I understood that all of the dropping things, and breaking things, and stuttering things were indicators of fear.”

  He was too damned sexy with that look, too damned close, and too damned off limits. “Perhaps it was all a guise to feed your impression of yourself.”

  “After the show I’ve seen tonight, I’m tempted to buy that little fib, crafted by one who hides so well.” Mocking eyes slid over her, lingering on her breasts. “Mmmm, you are a surprise, doll.”

  Sipping the cocktail—something with pomegranate—she sought something to say to knock him off kilter. “You have an interesting family. The Fixer Ransome they call you, don’t they?”

  Humour retreated rapidly. No, he did not like that nickname.

  “They always call you in to run repairs,” she added blithely.

  “What do you know of it?” He signalled for another drink for himself.

  “Me, too!” she demanded, smiling hopefully.

  But he only shook his head, vaguely indicating her half-full drink, seeming distracted as he watched her mouth. “You were saying, doll?”

  Exasperated, she glared at him. “What’s with calling me by my last name?”

  “I didn’t—” he started protesting, though comprehension dawned even as she cut him off. />
  “You did. Not ‘Callie,’ or ‘Cal,’ or ‘Miss Dahl.’ Just ‘Dahl.’ What’s up with that?”

  She had the greatest impression that he was laughing at her as his gaze sliced away. “Sorry, Callie. Very rude of me, I suppose.”

  She slurped the cocktail through the straw, gazing at him with owlish eyes over the rim, cheeks hollowing a little as she reached bottom. “Oops. I should have another.”

  “I think you’ve had enough.”

  “Oh but, Dad!” she pouted. “Do I sound like I’ve had enough?”

  “Yeah,” he grinned.

  “Am I slurring my words? Staggering? Spilling things? Causing a commotion? No.”

  He rubbed knuckles over his jaw. “That’s what gave you away.”

  “I don’t know why you think I’m so hopeless.” Though she knew very well—she was hopeless.

  He shook his head in quick denial. “You were very nervous around me, and I don’t think it was put on. Am I so scary?” he purred, tilting his head toward her, blue eyes gleaming again with . . . What was that look?

  “I’m not scared of you,” she denied. “Look, Mr. Ransome—”

  “I think you should call me Lucius,” he invited huskily, a tone that sent prickling heat over her skin and nerve endings, and strangely, matched that undefined look.

  There was a reason she shouldn’t say his first name, but she couldn’t remember why.

  “Is Callie short for something?” he was asking.

  “Calandra,” she replied automatically, and could have bitten out her tongue. Damned alcohol! She never told anyone her full name! “Please don’t tell anyone.”

  “Why not? It’s very unusual. Very pretty.”

  “It’s an overblown name for a girl from a trashy family of layabout gypsies.”

  Damn, she shouldn’t have said that, either. What was wrong with her tonight?

  “I want another drink,” she demanded, forgetting that it was making her tongue rather loose.

  That received a rather curious and penetrating look as he studied her for long moments. “Only if you tell me more about your family.” But another drink was ordered before compliance was met.

  “They are not interesting in the least. Not like yours.”

  “Interesting on my part is something I can do without,” he retorted; frustration limned him. “Perhaps you should better appreciate yours.”

  Placing a tentative hand on his forearm, she said softly, “You’re tired of bailing them out, putting your own goals on hold.” Though he did not verbally respond, his eyes said it all as he met her sympathetic gaze. “I know how you feel.”

  “You couldn’t have the least clue,” he dismissed firmly, handing her a fresh drink. “Now, this is the last one for you.”

  “I am a grownup,” she said primly, but her grownup head was swimming. Unaccustomed to drinking, she had consumed more this evening than in the last year combined. Two drinks . . . what a lightweight! Oh, the tequila, too. She eyed the fourth drink warily.

  “Regardless, you mustn’t have a hangover tomorrow. Didn’t you get my message?”

  “What message did you want me to get?” she asked silkily, the alcohol helping her flirt with the object of her desire.

  He passed a hand over his face, amusement warring with something else; some sort of tension she couldn’t define. A little shake of his head—clearing his thoughts perhaps—and his features settled into distancing coolness.

  “I left you a voicemail earlier today,” he told her in coolly clipped tones. “You wanted to talk to the family. Are you going to be up to that tomorrow?”

  “Hic,” she nodded.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” Grimacing slightly, he took her drink away, and a significant glance at the bartender had his cheque being processed.

  “Hic!” she protested.

  ***

  Finding out that his quarry was really the indefinable creature he had so brutally dismissed definitely upset his equilibrium, and Lucius was still reeling from seeing made-over Callie from a distance. Seeing her up close had sent him into chaos.

  Shallow, Rachel had called him. The accuracy of the assessment did nothing to allay his temper. He should have seen past the cheap clothes and the lack of style to see . . . this. Maybe he had, subconsciously, the unacknowledged impression translating into those fleeting thoughts of her.

  He was right about one thing: she was not pretty. She had no need of such a common word, for she was far too unusual. Like a delicate doll; hence the endearment he had tagged her with.

  The mass of dark-and-gold curls reminded him of a little girl, young and sweet, like that Renoir portrait . . . Irene Somebody. Huge eyes, very lightly made up, were orbs filled with smoke-grey clouds, flicking to him with fathomless ancient knowledge one second and away in shy uncertainty the next. The blush that seemed so much a part of her flowed and ebbed on her smooth skin. Her mouth—how had he not seen that mouth, not noticed how soft and kissable it was? All the more now, decorated with the merest hint of lipstick. Wide, with a full sensual lower lip, the tip of a pink tongue darting out to capture a droplet from her drink . . .

  He only narrowly contained a groan. And contained and ignored with the groan were all the things a decent man should be aware of: the boss-employee relationship and the attendant implications of harassment. Despite attempts to remind himself, professionalism was gone; she was just a girl in a bar who had his attention—and had made him feel like an idiot.

  God! He was an absolute fool.

  Making it worse was that for her part, she had lust written all over her, and despite the inexperience, it was very hot. Or maybe because of it. She probably hadn’t had sex in eons.

  Maybe never.

  Don’t think about it.

  Too late. The thought of being her first, bringing her to her first orgasm with a man . . .

  A curse left his lips, but so softly, it could have been a prayer. For or against that errant thought, he did not want to question. There were rules about his sexual partners, and the first one was No Innocents Allowed.

  And no employees. Holy crap. He’d lost his mind.

  “Ah, there’s Rachel.” He glared at his friend as she approached with her cronies. I don’t want to hear it, he silently conveyed.

  Rachel assessed the scene quickly and, he feared, far too thoroughly.

  “The guys are hanging out here for a while longer, but they’ve decided you’ve ditched them for better action,” she told him with an evil grin. And then, “Cal, we’re going to a club, honey. Are you coming with us, or staying with Lucius?”

  Callie sent him a dubious look.

  Damn, but didn’t she have amazing eyes. Slightly hypnotised, he heard himself say, “I’ll take care of her.”

  “No.” She had found a syllable she could pronounce, and promptly surprised him by managing more. “I’m going home. Thanks, Rache. You too, L—Mr. Ransome.”

  “Stay with him, Callie,” Rachel encouraged. “Having the big boss drive you home—! That’s worthy of note.”

  “Dear Diary,” she said dreamily, elbows leaned back on the bar, her head tilting to view the ceiling with narrowed eyes. “Luscious Ransome drove me home last night.”

  Oh, boy. He scrubbed a hand over his face as Rachel guffawed loudly.

  “Would it up my office cred?” Callie wanted to know.

  “I don’t know about that!” Rachel laughed again, and made to follow her friends. “We’re good, right . . . Luscious?” she asked him with barely contained amusement.

  “Wait,” he ordered.

  Confirming that Callie was still involved in her fascination with the ceiling, he jerked his head at Rachel. She sidled up beside him as he dealt with the portable card reader the bartender had dropped off. He hated these things. He missed just signing.

  Great. Now he was mad at technology. He was losing it.

  Ripping off his copy as it printed, he signed the other and tucked it into the billfold. “What are yo
u doing?”

  “Going to a new club. Just around the corner.”

  Crisp bills rustled together as his fingers flexed in annoyance. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” Dropping the cash tip on the credit card slip, he slapped the billfold closed. “I concede I was horrible about her. But what the hell are you doing?”

  She avoided his gaze, glancing over his shoulder in Callie’s direction. “She’s so cute, you know? The guys at the office love her, like they can see behind the occasional frumpiness. I know a couple have even asked her out, just casual-like.”

  Something—he was fairly certain it was possessive anger—tightened his insides. If they wanted to date Frumpy Callie, what would they want on Monday when they saw this version of her?

  The same thing he did.

  “She doesn’t date anyone I know of.” She looked at him pointedly. “Like you. There’s been no one serious since Anita—”

  “Stop.”

  “I won’t. I know you aren’t pining over her or anything ridiculous, and you’re well rid of her. But you have dreadful taste in women, and I thought I’d help you out.”

  Help him . . .? “You mean, you dumb twit, you imagined my taste ran to innocence so sweet I’d be corrupting her just by taking her to a PG-13 movie?”

  She petted his arm. “Don’t let all that outward sweetness confuse you. She’s more than a match for you. She is a match for you. A good one. Trust me on this, and treat her right.”

  “I am not getting involved with her,” he muttered. “Stop matchmaking.”

  “Hm.” She jerked her chin. “Maybe that guy has more sense than you. G’night.”

  He turned towards Callie as Rachel sauntered away. Holy crap, he was in trouble.

  Leaning back on the wood, her attention still on the ceiling and her hand describing little gestures in the air for emphasis, she was talking to a blond Adonis leaning sideways against the bar on the other side of her. The man’s gaze fastened on her face with intrigued lust before sliding down the length of her body as he murmured responses to her commentary.

  The cropped pink tank top was zippered down the front, a ring tab at her delectable cleavage begging for a man to thread his index finger through and drag it down to reveal the swelling curves beneath. Back arched, the generosity of her breasts offered to the room . . . the top rode up to expose the hollow of her navel nestled in the soft, pale flesh of her belly.