The Rules of Engagement

‘No,’ he agreed in a voice so rugged it would have done a pirate proud. ‘So I take it the Z9’s a car.’

She laughed, tossed her purse onto the bar and motioned to the bartender for a cocktail. ‘It’s not just “a car”. It’s a work of art. Poetry in motion. I’ve seen grown men drool just looking at it, and that’s just the engineers who built the thing.’

‘Have a picture on you?’

She shook her head. ‘Oh, ho, no. You’ll have to wait for the big reveal like everyone else.’

Then she snapped her mouth shut and slowly spun on the stool ’til one of her knees slid against one of his. When her eyes grew dark and she puffed out a short sharp breath, he knew she’d felt the same jolt of electricity shoot through her leg that had burned into his.

She said, ‘You’re mocking me, aren’t you?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘And why?’

‘Poetry in motion? It’s a car.’

One corner of her lovely mouth lifted as her eyes narrowed. ‘Were you this cheeky on Saturday? I’m almost certain I wouldn’t have taken you home if you were.’

She finished with a shrug, and a small smile, her eyes skimming over him before sliding away. The subsequent roll of her shoulders was akin to saying, I’m struggling not to picture you naked. No, not imagine. Remember.

And there it was, the thing that had imprinted the hours spent with her deeper onto his mind than usual—her candour.

The way she’d not hidden her attraction to him for a second. The way she’d asked him home simply because she’d wanted to. The way she’d given herself over to him in bed with an abandon he envied. It had all the appearance of being genuine. Even he, the king of the cynics, found himself believing it. Or maybe, that day, he simply wanted to.

He’d spent the morning laying off a guy who’d systematically, over many months, made the foundation’s funds his own. A man he’d hired. He’d vetted. He’d respected and liked. And if there was anything still able to chink his well-buffed armour, it was the bitter indignation of being played. If his inept parents had taught him one thing it was that he never wanted to be blindsided like that again.

So having someone look him in the eye and tell it like it was, was akin to waving a glass of water in front of a man who’d woken up to realise he was alone in the desert.

Gazing at her profile—her slightly dishevelled hair, her thick sooty lashes, her soft pink lips—he took a punt. ‘Hungry?’

At the use of her own come-on line from two nights earlier, she blinked. Fast. Her nostrils flared and pink flooded her cheeks. Desire and doubt warring in her ingenuous eyes. But when he smiled her pupils dilated and he could barely see the honey-coloured circle framing them.

Realising it wouldn’t take much, he said, ‘I know you said drinks, but I missed lunch and could do with a bite.’

Her mouth quirked. ‘I was trying to be all cool and nonchalant, if you hadn’t noticed.’

‘I noticed. You did a commendable job.’

She glanced at the restaurant, and said, ‘Sod it. I’m starving. Let’s eat.’

‘Good. Because I went ahead and reserved a table.’

Her now glinting eyes swung back to him. ‘Sure of yourself much?’

‘Just enough it would seem. And hungry enough if you’d said no I might have left you here while I ate by myself.’

Her eyebrows shot up a half-second before she burst out laughing. ‘Way to make a girl feel special!’

Dax motioned to the maître d’, then turned back to her as he said, ‘I think we both know I have other ways.’

The pink in her cheeks flooded to her neck, creeping across her collar bone. He ached to feel the heat of her skin, the blood surging so near the surface. He wished he’d never brought up dinner and asked another question instead.

But by then the maître d’ was there, and Caitlyn had grabbed her tiny bag and slid off the stool.

He placed his hand in the small of her back and they wove through the growing crowd towards the small table in a low-lit corner of the restaurant, her skin feeling as if it were burning hot against his hand even though the many cruel layers between them meant it was physically impossible.

* * *

After five minutes of watching Caitlyn eat her bruschetta, slipping slivers of tomato from the top and sliding them into her mouth, then slowly licking the olive oil from the tips of her finger, Dax knew he needed a new focus or they’d never make it past the entrée. Hell, it wouldn’t have mattered to him if they didn’t but she’d seemed so excited about dessert.

‘So tell me about yourself,’ he said, his throat tight.

Caitlyn frowned at him as if he’d said something objectionable, then lifted her shoulders and said, ‘What you see is what you get.’

‘Really?’ He leant forward, enjoying very much the way her breaths hitched every time he did so. ‘Then I’m thinking only child. Grew up on a goat farm. Captain of the high-school girls’ lacrosse team until you were suspended for ball tampering.’

Her tongue did a sweep of her bottom lip, which made him lose his train of thought, but he picked himself up ably.

‘But you went on to complete your schooling in the end, and thank goodness, otherwise you would have missed out on all those lingerie pillow fights with your university roommates.’

Her eyes sparkled deliciously as she licked a stray speck of oregano from her finger. ‘You done?’

‘My powers of deduction have reached their limits. Though if I missed any of the highlights, or the sordid juicy lowlights for that matter, now’s the time to tell me.’

She stilled, her eyes dancing between his, a furrow appearing between her brows. ‘You really want to know?’

‘You’re the one who ordered the soufflé, remember,’ he said, sitting back, giving her space. ‘We have time to fill.’

When he waited for her to fill the silence, she slowly released her breath, like a balloon losing air through a tiny hole, then said, ‘Fine. Only child, yes. Never played lacrosse though. Dancing in front of my bedroom mirror with a hairbrush was about as athletic as I got in high school. And...I grew up on the Central Coast and have never even seen a goat in the flesh.’ She frowned at her fingernails. ‘My mum lives there still. Same place. Same house. If we didn’t have the same knocked knees I’m not sure either of us would believe ourselves related.’

She shook her head, then sat on her hands as if they were the ones she was upset with.

‘And your father?’ Dax asked, surprising himself at wanting to know when before it had been just conversation.

She gave him a blank stare. ‘He didn’t have knocked knees.’

His silence stretched again.

She rolled her shoulders, and her eyes for good measure, before saying, ‘Mum always said I got my dad’s elbows and his nerve. I reckon I look just like him, in fact. He was the complete opposite to her. All spirit and fire. Couldn’t stay still even if you sat on him. He travelled constantly. He was a pro rally-car driver actually. A really good one. Did the Dakar rally a few times. He died on the job when I was eleven.’

The speed with which she got out the words and the soft, sad little shrug told him more about her relationship with her dad than even her words had. They’d been close. She missed him still. It was the complete antithesis of the relationship he’d had with his parents, then and now.

‘And the pillow fights?’ Dax asked, his voice unusually deep.

She slowly looked up at him under her long auburn lashes and the revival of the sparkle in her eyes wiped every other thought from his mind. ‘Well, they were way more fun than you could ever imagine. Your turn.’

Dax was still trying to get his head around the image of Caitlyn bouncing about in her underwear, when he heard himself saying, ‘Grew up here. Still live here. My parents are both gone.’