Mr and Mischief (2 page)

Emily felt herself flush. Was that a criticism? And while she’d been high-spirited on occasion, she’d never involved herself in an actual scandal. Although she supposed high-spirited and scandal were synonymous in Jason’s view. ‘I suppose,’ she told him rather pointedly, ‘it’s what makes me good at HR.’

‘Absolutely, among other things.’ He smiled, a proper one, not just a little quirk of his lips, revealing a dimple in one cheek. She’d forgotten about that dimple, forgotten when Jason smiled properly his eyes turned the colour of honey. They were normally brown, just as his hair was brown. Brown and boring. Except when he smiled. Abruptly, Emily turned back to the table. She could tell Jason was watching her, felt his assessing gaze sweep over her. Strange, how you could
feel
someone watching you.

‘Are you planning Stephanie’s wedding, as well?’ he asked now. ‘Some big fancy do?’

Emily turned around, brushing another unruly strand of hair from her eyes. ‘The wedding? Heavens, no. That’s far above my capabilities. And she’s having it back home where she grew up.’

‘But you’ll be there, won’t you? Maid of honour, I suppose?’

‘As a matter of fact, yes.’

Jason’s smile deepened, and so did his dimple. Something flashed in his eyes, something dark and unsettling. ‘And you’ll dance, won’t you? At the wedding?’ His voice had dipped to a husky murmur, a tone Emily didn’t think she’d ever heard him use before, a tone that brushed across her senses with a shiver. She frowned, then froze as she realised just what Jason was alluding to with that little murmured remark… . Jack and Isobel’s wedding, when they’d danced, and she had been seventeen years old and very, very silly. In the seven years since that episode had occurred, Jason had never mentioned
it. Neither had she. She’d assumed he’d forgotten it—just as she had. Almost … until now. Now it was suddenly taking up far too much space in her brain.

‘Of course,’ she said after a moment, her voice light. She decided to ignore any implication he might have been making. They hardly needed to talk about that unfortunate episode now. ‘I love to dance.’ She glanced at him again and, despite her now almost twenty-five years, she felt every inch the gauche girl she’d been at that wedding. She’d made
such
a fool of herself, but at least she could laugh about it now. She
would
laugh about it.

‘I know,’ Jason said, his voice still no more than a murmur. ‘I remember how we danced.’ The corner of his mouth quirked up again, only for a second, as his gaze held hers. His eyes really were the most amazing colour … like whisky, or chocolate, but with golden glints… . ‘Don’t you?’ he pressed, a lilt of challenge in his voice.

So he was going to mention it—and make her mention it, as well. From that knowing glint in his eyes, he intended to tease her about it, although why he’d waited seven years to do so, Emily had no idea. She smiled wryly, determined to ride it out. ‘Ah, yes. How could I forget?’ Jason didn’t say anything, and Emily shook her head, rolling her eyes as if it was no more than an amusing little anecdote. It
was
a silly enough episode, seven years in the past, and surely it had no power to embarrass her now, even if she’d been mortified at the time.

It was just, Emily told herself, that they’d never talked about it, not when he’d hired her, not when he’d kissed her cheek at their niece’s baptism, nor when he’d sat at the far end of the table at Christmas dinner. On all of those occasions he’d remained rather remote, and only now was Emily realising how glad she’d been to retain that little distance. Yet here he was now, standing so close, bringing up all these memories, and behaving in a very un-Jasonlike way. It unnerved her.

She let out a light little laugh and gave him a self-mocking smile. ‘I made quite an idiot of myself over you.’

Jason arched an eyebrow. ‘Is that how you remember it?’

Of course he wouldn’t make it easy for her. He never did. Not when she was six, not when she was seventeen, and not even now she was almost twenty-five. She should be used to his lightly mocking smiles, the eloquent arch of a single eyebrow, but somehow with the distance in their professional relationship she’d forgotten. She’d forgotten how much he could affect her.

‘You don’t remember?’ she asked, pretending to shudder. ‘That’s a relief, I suppose.’

Jason didn’t speak for a moment, and Emily busied herself with organising the dirty cutlery into a tidy pile. ‘I remember,’ he finally said, quietly, without any humour at all, and she felt a strange, icy thrill all the way down her spine.

And suddenly, without either of them saying anything more, Emily felt as if that memory was right there with them, living and breathing and taking all the air. She certainly remembered it, could feel even now how young and happy she’d been—and so very silly.

Jason had asked her to dance, the obvious and polite thing to do since he was the brother of the groom and she the sister of the bride. He’d been a worldly twenty-nine to her naive seventeen years, and she’d been breathless and giddy from three glasses of champagne when he’d taken her in his arms and led her in a gentle and unthreatening waltz. It had been a dance of duty, and Emily had known it for what it was—she hadn’t even
wanted
to dance with boring Jason Kingsley in the first place. All he’d ever really done was tease her or scold her.

Yet somehow, when he’d taken her in his arms, keeping her a safe six inches from his body, she’d felt something else. Something new and tingly and really quite nice, in a disquieting sort of way. She’d been an innocent at seventeen, and
had never felt that sweet rush before. And so, despite Jason’s serious expression and boring waltz, she’d tipped her head up and smiled at him with as much flirtatious charm as she thought she might ever possess and said, ‘You’re quite handsome, you know.’

Jason had looked down at her, his face so aggravatingly solemn. His expression hadn’t changed one bit. ‘Thank you.’

Somehow Emily didn’t think that was what he was supposed to have said. She wasn’t sure of the script, yet she knew she didn’t like these lines. And yet he
had
been handsome, with his dark hair and eyes, the white of his smile and the strength of his arms as he held her that proper distance away from his body. She could still feel the heat and strength of him and, fuelled by the champagne fizzing through her veins, Emily had added, ‘Perhaps you’d like to kiss me.’ She’d tilted her pretty little chin up further, and had even had the audacious stupidity to pucker her lips and wait. She’d let her eyelids flutter closed, so suddenly desperate to have him kiss her. It would have been her first kiss, and at that moment she’d wanted it so very much. She’d wanted Jason, which was ridiculous because she’d never once thought of Jason that way—never even considered such a possibility—until he’d asked her to dance.

The moment had gone on too long, several seconds that had made agonising awareness, as well as a punishing sobriety, steal over Emily. She’d opened her eyes and seen Jason gazing down at her in what was almost a glare. His eyes had narrowed, his mouth had tightened, and he hadn’t looked friendly—or boring—at all. All of her flirtatiousness had drained out of her, leaving her as flat and stale as the dregs of her own champagne. She’d almost felt afraid.

Then his expression had changed, the glare wiped clean away, and he’d smiled faintly and said, ‘I would, rather. But I won’t.’ And with that, before the dance had ended or even
really started, he’d set her gently and firmly from him and walked off the dance floor.

Emily had stood there for several seconds, unmoving and incredulous. The public humiliation of being left on the dance floor was bad enough, but far worse was the private humiliation of being so summarily rejected by Jason Kingsley. She’d been quite sure, at that moment, that he really wouldn’t want to kiss her. And because she’d been seventeen, tipsy, and it would have been her first kiss, she hadn’t been able to lift her chin and throw her shoulders back and saunter off the dance floor like she’d meant to. Instead she’d stumbled across the parquet, dissolving into drunken tears before she’d even left the ballroom.

Definitely an idiot.

She turned to smile brightly at him now, forcing the memory—and its accompanying mortification—back to the far recesses of her brain. ‘Well, I shan’t ask you to dance again, I promise you,’ she assured him. ‘Never fear.’

A smile flickered across Jason’s face like a wave of water. His gaze rested on her thoughtfully, as if he were taking her measure. ‘But, Em, I was counting on you to ask me to dance.’

Slightly thrown, Emily laughed and replied, ‘Well then, I certainly won’t ask you to kiss me.’

‘Then I shall be especially disappointed,’ Jason returned, his voice soft, and Emily felt shock slice through her, rendering her quite speechless, until she realised that of course Jason was just teasing her, the same as always. Except he’d never teased her quite like that before.

Jason watched as shock widened Emily’s jade-green eyes, her tongue darting out to moisten her lower lip. He felt a sudden jolt of desire at the sight of that innocent little action, and it both surprised and annoyed him. He had no business feeling that way about Emily … again.

He hadn’t even meant to seek her out tonight. He had only a few months to be in London, and spending time with Emily Wood was low down on his list of priorities. In fact,
not
spending time with her was a priority. He had other more suitable women to pursue. Women who were sensible, level-headed and businesslike, perfect for his purpose. Emily, with her cat’s eyes and teasing smile and endless legs, was definitely not any of those things. Even more importantly, she was off-limits. She’d been off-limits seven years ago, and she was still off-limits now—for more reasons than he cared to name or number.

‘How does it feel to be the Head of Human Resources?’ he asked, determined to move the conversation back to business. ‘Youngest in the post.’

‘Strange,’ Emily admitted. ‘I hope I’m up to the task.’

‘I’m sure you will be.’ He’d watched her grow into her position in HR from afar, and he’d been both surprised and encouraged by the way she’d taken to the role. Her promotion had been a smart business move, even though some—including Emily herself—might think it hinted at nepotism. Jason never let feelings get in the way of business. Or of anything.

‘As for your first duty,’ he told her, ‘there’s a woman I’d like you to interview on Monday, for a receptionist position.’

Emily glanced at him rather sharply. ‘Oh?’ she asked, her tone a bit diffident.

‘Helen Smith. She’s just come to London and could use a bit of help.’

‘A friend of yours?’ Emily asked, her voice sharpening just a little, and Jason suppressed a smile. Sometimes Emily was so easy to read. Could she actually be jealous? Did she still harbour a bit of the adolescent affection she’d shown him seven years ago?

The possibility was intriguing … and dangerous.

He still remembered the moment she’d tilted her pretty face up to his and said,
‘Perhaps you’d like to kiss me.’

And he
had
wanted to, more than he’d been willing to admit, even to himself.

That sudden, fierce jolt of lust had nearly knocked Jason to his knees. She’d been seventeen, practically a child, completely innocent and utterly naive. The strength of his own response had shocked and shamed him; he’d left the wedding immediately afterwards, near trembling with the aftershocks of surprising and suppressed desire, determined to put Emily completely from his mind.

And he’d accomplished just that, almost forgetting her completely, until three years later when she’d traipsed merrily to London without a plan—or a job—and he’d reluctantly offered her an entry level post.

He remembered how she’d sprawled in the chair across from his desk, her honey-blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders, her green cat’s eyes alight with mischief. She’d worn an indecently short miniskirt and a top in a vivid green that matched her eyes; he suspected she considered such an outfit business attire. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her long tanned legs, or the way one foot swung back and forth, a spiked heel dangling from her scarlet-polished toe.

Jason had stood behind his desk, his hands shoved in his pockets, doing his best to appear stern and disapproving. She’d been only twenty at the time and had looked artless and beautiful and so very young. And while he’d managed to forget how Emily had affected him three years ago, it had come back to him then with an overwhelming rush of memory and feeling.

‘You can have me do anything,’ she’d told him. ‘I’m not fussed.’ He’d stood there, looking grim, trying not to let it show on his face just what he could imagine having her do. It had been three years since they’d danced at the wedding, three years when he’d barely seen or thought of her at all, and yet he’d still felt that fierce dart of lust. When she’d leaned
forward her hair had swung around her face and he’d smelled the scent of her shampoo. Strawberry.

She’d looked up at him from underneath her lashes, her eyes dancing with amusement. ‘Honestly, Jason, you look positively dire! I’m not that bad, I assure you.’

From somewhere he’d summoned a smile. ‘And whatever I have you do—I assume you want payment for it?’

She’d looked momentarily thrown, her expression unguarded and vulnerable, and with a stab of self-loathing he’d realised again just how young and inexperienced—in every way—she was. Then she’d laughed, a rich, throaty gurgle that had made Jason shove his hands even deeper into his pockets, a scowl marking his face. Emily had the laugh of an experienced woman, a sexy, sultry laugh, and it
did
things to him. When had she started laughing like that? When had she started to really grow up?

‘Well, yes, that was the idea,’ she said, smiling with that artless honesty that exasperated and endeared her to him at the same time.

And so he’d given her the post, as she’d undoubtedly known he would, and then he’d kept his distance. He’d had no intention of involving himself with an innocent like Emily, especially considering how their families were related. And he’d succeeded … until now. Now, when he’d seen her in the party room, wearing a candy-pink business suit that was so short it nearly showed her bottom when she bent to pick up a bit of rubbish from the floor. He’d stared at her, noticing the long, tanned length of her legs, the way that ridiculously short skirt moulded over her curves.