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The waiter had returned and was silently, ceremoniously presenting, then opening a bottle of wine. The cork presented and approved, the first taste mulled over, the crystal glasses partially filled. Lisa had been part of the production hundreds of times and wondered silently what any of them would say if she told them she would have preferred a fresh glass of iced tea. Wine always went straight to her head.
And it didn’t take her MBA to know that she needed all of her faculties in prime working order when it came to dealing with Rourke Devlin, who hadn’t volunteered even a polite disclaimer about the value of his time.
But she said nothing. Merely smiled and picked up the glass, sipping at the crisp, cool Chardonnay. It was delicious. Something she might have chosen for herself if she were in the mood for wine. But she would have pegged Rourke as a red wine sort of man. To go along with the raw red meat those strong white teeth could probably tear apart.
“I told the chef we’d have his recommendation,” Rourke said. “Raoul never disappoints.”
“How nice.” She really, really wished they were meeting in his office. This just seemed far too intimate. Additional diners around them would have helped dispel that impression. “Isn’t Fare usually open for lunch?” It was well past noon. And the reviews she’d read about the place had indicated it took months to get a reservation.
“Usually.”
Which explained so much. She lifted the wineglass again and thought she saw the faintest glimmer of amusement hovering around his mobile lips. And it suddenly dawned on her why they were in a restaurant and not his office.
Because he’d known it would set her on edge.
She wasn’t sure why that certainty was so suddenly clear. But it was. She knew it right down in her bones. And the glint in his eyes as he watched her while he lifted his own wineglass seemed to confirm it.
She set down her glass and reached down to pull a narrow file out of her briefcase. “Ted gave you some indication why we wanted to meet with you.” It wasn’t a question. She knew that Ted Bonner had primed the pump, so to speak, with his old buddy, when he’d arranged the meeting once Paul had jumped on the bandwagon of approval. “This prospectus will outline the advantages and opportunities of investing in the Armstrong Fertility Institute.” She started to hand the file over to Rourke, only to stop midway, when he lifted a few fingers, as if to wave off the presentation that they’d pulled together at the institute in record time.
Not that he could know that.
Ted wouldn’t have told the man just how desperate things had become. Friendship or not, Dr. Bonner was now a firmly entrenched part of the Armstrong Institute team. And nobody on that team wanted word to get out about the reason underlying their unusual foray into seeking investors. Their reputation would never recover. Not after the string of bad press they’d already endured. Their patients wouldn’t want their names—some very well-known—associated with the institute. And without patients, there wouldn’t just be layoffs. The institute would simply have to close its doors.
Damn you, Derek.
She lowered the prospectus and set it on the linen cloth next to the fancy little bread basket that the waiter delivered, along with a selection of spreads.
“Put it away,” Rourke said. “I prefer not to discuss business while I’m eating.”
“Then why didn’t you schedule me for when you weren’t?” The question popped out and she wanted to kick herself. Instead, she lifted her chin a little and made herself meet his gaze, pretending as if she weren’t riddled with frustration.
He was toying with her. She didn’t have the slightest clue as to why he would even bother.
And she also left the folder right where it was. A glossy reminder of why they were meeting, even if he was determined to avoid it.
He pulled the wine bottle from the sterling ice bucket standing next to the table and refilled her glass even though she’d only consumed a small amount. “Have a roll,” he said. “Raoul’s wife, Gina, makes them fresh every day.”
“I don’t eat much bread,” she said bluntly. What was the point of pretending congeniality? “Are you interested in discussing an investment in the institute or not?” If he wasn’t—which was what she’d tried to tell Paul and the others—then she was wasting her time that would be better spent in preparation for meeting with investors who were.
“More bread would look good on you,” he said. His gaze traveled over her, seeming to pick apart everything from the customary chignon in her hair to the single silver ring she wore on her right thumb. “You’ve lost weight since I last saw you.”
There was no way to mistake the accusation as a compliment and her lips parted. She stared, letting the offense ripple through her until she could settle it somewhere out of the way. “Women can never be too thin,” she reminded him coolly, and picked up the wineglass again. Might as well partake of the excellent vintage since it was apparent that he wasn’t taking their meeting seriously, anyway.
No doubt he’d agreed simply to get Ted off his back.
“A ridiculous assumption made by women for women,” Rourke returned. “Most men prefer curves and softness against them over jutting bones.”
“Well.” She swallowed more wine. “That’s something you and I won’t have to worry about.”
He looked amused again and turned his head, glancing at the bank of windows. His profile was sharp, as defined—and cold—as a chiseled piece of granite. His black hair sprang sharply away from his forehead and the fine crow’s-feet arrowing out from the corner of his eyes were clearly illuminated.
Unfortunately, they didn’t detract from the total package.
“The view here is good,” he said. “I’m glad Raoul went with my suggestion on the location. Initially he was looking for a high-rise.”
She wanted to grind her teeth together, as annoyed with her own distraction where Rourke-the-man was concerned as she was with his unpredictability. “I didn’t know that restaurants were something you invested in. Techno-firm startups seemed to be more your speed. Aren’t restaurants notoriously chancy?” She lifted a hand, silently indicating the empty tables around them.
“Venture capitalism is about taking chances.” He selected a roll from the basket and broke it open, slathering one of the compound butters over half. “Calculated chances, of course. But as it happens, in the five years since Raoul opened the doors, I’ve never had cause to regret this particular chance.” He held out the roll. “Taste it.”
She could feel the wine wending its heady way through her veins. Breakfast had been hours ago. Wait. She’d skipped breakfast, in favor of a conference call.
Which meant drinking even the tiniest amount of wine was more foolish than usual.
Arguing seemed too much work, though, so she took the roll from him. Their fingers brushed.
She shoved the bread in her mouth, chomping down on it as viciously as she chomped down on the warmth that zipped through her hand.
“Good?”
Chewing, she nodded. The roll was good. Deliciously so.
It only annoyed her more.
She chased the yeasty heaven down with more wine and leaned closer to the table. “Obviously excellent bread and wine isn’t always enough to ensure success, or this place would be busting at the seams.”
“Raoul closed Fare until dinner for me.”
She blinked slowly and sat back. “Why?”
“Because I asked him to.”
“Again…why?”
“Because I wanted to be alone with you.”
A puff of air escaped her lips. “But you don’t even like me.”
Rourke picked up his wineglass and studied the disbelieving expression of the woman across from him. “Maybe not,” he allowed.
Lisa Armstrong had looked like an ice princess the first time he’d seen her more than six months ago in a crowded Cambridge pub called Shots where he’d been meeting with Ted Bonner and Chance Demetrios.
He’d had no reason to change his opinion in the few times he’d seen her since.
“But I want you,” he continued smoothly, watching the sudden flare of her milk-chocolate eyes. “And you want me.” He’d known that since he’d maneuvered her into sharing a single, brief dance with him months earlier.
Her lips had parted. They were slightly thin, slightly wide for her narrow, angular face, and a shade of pale, delicate pink that he figured owed nothing to cosmetics.
And he hadn’t been able to get them out of his mind.
Obviously recovering, those lips pursed slightly. Her eyebrows—darker than the gold that covered her head—returned to their usual, level places. Her brown gaze was only fractionally less sharp than it had been when she’d first sat down across from him. But a strand of hair had worked loose of that perfect, smooth knot at the nape of her neck and had curled around her slender neck to tease the hollow at the base of her throat. “You have an incredible ego, Mr. Devlin.”
So he’d been told. By foes, friends and family alike. He pulled his gaze from that single, loose lock of hair that tickled the visible pulse he could see beneath her fair, fair skin. “I don’t think it’s egotism to recognize facts. And you might as well make it Rourke.”
“Why?” She didn’t seem to realize she’d reached for the other half of the roll he’d buttered and flicked a glance at it before dropping it back on the small bread plate. “Are we going to be doing business together after all?”
His inclination was to admit that they weren’t.
But he also had plenty of good reasons to want to ensure that Ted Bonner and Chance Demetrios were able to continue their work without any more hitches. Investing in anything that Ted was involved in would be a good bet.
But through the Armstrong Fertility Institute?
Not even Ted knew why that particular idea was anathema to him.
Maybe it was small of him, but he wasn’t ready yet to release Lisa Armstrong from this particular hook. He was enjoying, too much, having the ice princess right where he wanted her.
He hid a dark bolt of amusement directed squarely at himself.
Nearly where he wanted her.
“Our salads,” he said instead, glancing at Tonio, their waiter and Raoul’s youngest son, as he approached with his tray.
He could see the ire creep back into Lisa’s eyes.
She controlled it well, though. Merely smiling coolly at Rourke as Tonio served them. He wondered if beneath that facade she would have preferred giving him a swift kick or if she really was that cool, all the way through.
It would be interesting to find out.
Interesting but complicated as hell.
He picked up his fork, his appetite whetted on more levels than he presently cared to admit. “Eat,” he said when she looked as if she weren’t even going to taste Raoul’s concoction. He hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d observed that she’d lost weight.
At the Founder’s Ball in her floaty gown of slippery brown and white that had hugged her narrow hips and left the entirety of her ivory back and shoulders distractingly bare, she’d felt slender and delicate in his arms.
Now, even with the thick weave of her jacket and the wide-cut legs of her slacks, he could tell she was even thinner.
She took her work to heart.
He could have told that for himself, even if Ted hadn’t mentioned it.
Often in the office before anyone else arrived. Often there later than anyone stayed.
For Ted to even notice something like that, beyond his Bunsen burners and beakers, was something. He’d said she was a workaholic.
Ironically, that gave her and Rourke something in common.
She was poking at the tomato salad and he was glad to see that some of it actually reached her mouth. His sister Tricia would take one look at her and want to fatten her up with plenty of pasta.
“How long have you and Dr. Bonner been friends?”
He had to give her points for adaptability. He’d expected to receive a mostly chilly silence for his autocratic refusal to discuss what they both knew she’d traveled to New York City to discuss. “Since we were boys.”
Her gaze flicked over him. “I find it hard to envision you as a boy. Were you schoolmates?”
He almost laughed.
Ted Bonner had grown up with wealth and privilege. Rourke and his three sisters might have had the same, if their father hadn’t walked out on them when they were young. Instead, the Devlin clan had gone from being comfortable to being…not.
They’d been locked out of their fine Boston home with no ceremony, no explanations.
He’d been twelve years old.
For a while, his mother had struggled to keep them in Boston. He and his sisters had switched from private to public schools. They’d moved into a basement apartment a lifestyle away from what they’d been used to. But in the end, within a handful of years, Nina Devlin had simply been forced to move them all back to New York where they’d moved into the cramped apartment above the home-style Italian restaurant his grandparents owned and operated.
And Rourke’s father? He’d landed in California with a surgically enhanced trophy wife who’d been fewer than ten years older than Rourke.
He’d seen them only once. When he’d been twenty-three and had raked in a cool million over his first real deal.
That was when Trophy Wife had indicated a considerable interest in Rourke’s bed and Dad had claimed Rourke was a chip off the old block.
He’d never seen either one of them again.
“Ted and I were in the same Boy Scout troop,” he told Lisa, fully expecting the surprise she couldn’t hide. Before they’d left Boston, his mother had chugged him across town to keep him involved in the troop that he’d been drafted into by his father, before he’d skipped. Rourke had hated it until he and Ted had struck up an unlikely friendship.
“You were a Boy Scout.”
“Trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly—” He broke off the litany of Scout law when she snorted softly.
“Sorry,” she said, but aside from the bloom of pink over her sharp cheekbones, she didn’t particularly look it. “I just have a whole mental image of you wearing khaki shorts and merit badges.” The tip of her tongue appeared between her pearl-white teeth. Then she laughed softly, and shook her head. “A considerable change from your usual attire.”
He dragged his gaze away from the humorous stretch of her lips only to get caught in the sparkle of her eyes.
He tamped down on the heat shooting through him.
He hadn’t seen her smile, really smile, since that first glimpse of her at Shots when she’d been laughing over something with her friend Sara Beth.
Glancing at Tonio, who immediately cleared away their salads, Rourke picked up the prospectus. “The Armstrong Institute’s been plagued with bad press,” he said, breaking his own trumped-up rule of no business over lunch. “Questionable research protocols. Padded statistics.”
“Both allegations were proved false. By none other than your Scout buddy, Ted.”
“Yet the bad aftertaste of innuendo remains.”
The sparkle in her eyes died, leaving her expression looking hauntingly hollow. “That’s a little like blaming the victim, isn’t it? The Armstrong Institute has never operated with anything less than integrity. Nor has any of its staff. But we’re to be held accountable now for someone else’s shoddy reporting?”
“Integrity.” He mulled the word over, watching her while Tonio returned again with their main course of lobster risotto. “Interesting choice of words.”
Her gaze didn’t waver as she reached for her wineglass again. “I cannot imagine why.”
She would be a good poker player, he decided. Not everyone could baldly lie like that without so much as a blink. She was even better at it than his ex-wife had been.
