No Holding Back

He winked. “Double-O-Seven stuff.”

“Seriously?” She nearly swallowed her tongue. Had she not just been thinking James Bond? And here he was, the legend come to life, though she doubted he was actually doing anything but running his late father’s business. A business, of course, she knew nothing about as far as he was concerned, so she’d play along. “You’re a spy?”

“Not even close. What are we going to do with you?”

She had many ideas by now, none of which she could say out loud. But his abrupt change of subject away from the personal meant this could be a tough interview. “If you’ll point me to a phone I can call Triple A and have my car towed.”

Say no, say no, say no.

“Why don’t you wait until this weather clears? I’m sure Triple A will have its hands full rescuing motorists who couldn’t find conveniently unlocked, apparently deserted houses.”

“If you’re sure…” Stranded in a mansion with a hot über-rich playboy who could make her career? A miracle. Though she had no idea if Jack Brattle actually was a playboy. She could rule out gay now that she’d met him and had been on the receiving end of those eyes. If he was a playboy, he certainly kept his conquests as thoroughly out of the press as he kept himself. Maybe he sold his discarded women into slavery to ensure their silence.

She did think it was odd he wasn’t more disconcerted about his door being left unlocked.

“Are you hungry?” He put a hand to his sadly now-covered stomach. “I’m starved. Hardly got a thing to eat tonight.”

“Were you out?”

“For a while. The forecast convinced me to ring in the New Year at home.”

“Considering the state of my car, you made the right choice. Home would have been a lot simpler.”

And one-eighth the fun.

“Where in Philly is home?”

“Ah.” She glanced pointedly at her surroundings. “A stunning three-room estate above a shoe-repair shop.”

“Location, location, location.”

“So they say. Did you grow up in this…hut?”

“Yes. You never did tell me if you were hungry.”

“Famished.” Another abrupt change of subject. He wasn’t going to make this easy by volunteering long tales of his childhood, was he.

“This way to the kitchen.” He pointed down the hall and curved his other arm behind her as if he were going to touch her, but ohh, not quite. “Or maybe you’ve already been there.”

“I…took a peek, yes. Couldn’t resist. This is so not my life.”

“Don’t assume that’s a bad thing.”

“No?” She turned at the top of the stairs to see his face. Reserved as usual. “Why? Most people would die to—”

“Most people have no idea.”

Billionaire’s Bitter Secret. “Tell me then.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“What do you think I think?” She knew he thought she’d gone too far when he shot her a look and started down the stairs ahead of her. “You think I ask too many questions.”

“You do sound like a reporter.”

“Didn’t I tell you I was one?” She laughed again, ha ha ha, watching him closely, but he only laughed, too, ha ha ha. Wow. Obviously he wasn’t as suspicious as he seemed or he’d have been all over that one. “Just naturally curious I guess.”

He ushered her into the kitchen and turned on subtle track lighting around the tops of the cabinets that lit the room one might almost say romantically, if one was thinking along those lines, but, of course, Hannah wasn’t. She wasn’t going to fall in the blink of an eye for any more toads who happened to be wearing prince’s clothing. Might as well become infatuated with movie actors.

Of course, she did that, too.

“Have a seat.” He indicated a tall stool pulled up to the space-age-looking island in the center of a vast area that would set any chef drooling, then rubbed his palms together. “What do you feel like?”

“Surprise me.”

“Okay. Let’s see.” He narrowed his eyes, looked her up and down speculatively, which made her hope her stomach wasn’t pooching out in doughy rolls. “You don’t look like a peanut-butter-and-jelly woman…”

“Ha!” She put on a deeply offended look. “I’m a prime, grade A, number-one peanut-butter-and-jelly woman. My desert island food.”

His smile made the corners of his deep brown eyes crinkle. “Then let’s go in another direction. You game?”

“Sure.” When he looked at her like that she’d agree to anything.

“Any foods you hate?”

“Tofu hot dogs. They taste like how my dentist’s office smells.”

He chuckled, which made him look twice as charming, she should mention, and worse, making him laugh gave her a stupid silly thrill. “Crossing tofu hot dogs off the list. Now…”

He looked around, as if choosing which cabinet to open and amaze her with first. Then he opened one with a flourish…and apparently struck out. As he did also on his second try. One more, and he made a sound of satisfaction and pulled out a couple of plates.

Hannah kept on her polite smile. He didn’t know where he kept his plates? Did this man do nothing for himself?

Powerful Billionaire Helpless in His Own Home.

Two drawers later he’d located knives, forks and spoons. Quite a while passed before he found champagne glasses. The champagne, however, he scored on his first try, and she’d just say that wow, it was not Asti Spumante, and it made her uncomfortable thinking of how much the bottle cost and how much her parents could have used the money she and…Jack…would drink up in such a short time. Probably a week’s groceries in that bottle. Maybe two.

“To start us off.” He removed the cork expertly and just as expertly poured her a glass. Clearly he had more experience with bartending than cooking, she’d guess with bottles exactly this expensive and more. “Happy New Year, Hannah.”

“Thank you, Jack.” She lifted her glass and toasted him, feeling a fizz of excitement even before she’d started drinking, a feeling she recognized all too well. No, no. No crushes. She was here as a professional first, not a female, and never the twain should meet. “You’re not having any?”

“After I get the food ready.”

“Cheers, then.” She took her first sip tentatively, hoping to be able to sneer and assure herself a bottle of bubbles couldn’t possibly be worth that much money.

Oh wow.

Not that she was an expert, in fact, she prided herself on being an expert on all things not likely to be in Jack Brattle’s palace, but even she could tell the champagne was exquisite. Nothing like the swill Gerard served at the party, not that she’d blame him with that many people drinking that much. But this…tiny bubbles that streamed daintily upward, a smooth delicate flavor that changed over the course of the sip-swallow, and no sour aftertaste to ruin the experience. This was why champagne existed, and what everybody was after while making do with inferior stuff.