Good Girl or Gold-Digger? by Kate Hardy Page A

annoyed. It drives me crazy.’ He leaned on the engine. ‘Well, it’s your choice. You can continue being hurt and angry, or you can tell me what I said and I can apologise for it. Up to you.’
    She was silent, but eventually she bit her lip. ‘You were going to suggest a fling.’
    ‘And, as I said, I was trying not to insult you. That’s why I didn’t suggest it.’
    ‘So it wasn’t…’ Her voice tailed off.
    ‘Wasn’t what?’
    ‘Nothing.’ She flapped a hand. ‘You’re right. Better to be sensible. And I don’t really mix with suits.’
    Then it hit him. She had the same look on her face as she’d had the evening before, when he’d kissed her and stopped.
    She didn’t think she was his type. She thought he was rejecting her.
    ‘Daisy,’ he said softly. ‘Are you trying to tell me I don’t think you’re my type?’
    ‘No.’ But she hadn’t looked him in the eye. He knew she wasn’t telling the truth.
    He walked round to her side of the engine. ‘Right. Define my type.’
    She still refused to meet his gaze. ‘Elegant. Girly. The sort who doesn’t have to borrow a dress to go to a posh hotel.’
    In other words, the complete opposite of her. ‘And you think I judge by appearances?’
    She lifted her chin. ‘Don’t you?’
    ‘No,’ he said, unsmiling and annoyed that she’d read him so wrongly. ‘I tend to look a little deeper. And, for the record, you don’t have to wear a dress to be all woman. You manage to do that even when you’re wearing a shapeless boiler suit and you’ve hidden your hair behind a cap.’
    She looked surprised, and then gave him a disbelieving stare.
    ‘I’m trying very hard to do the honourable thing here, but you’re making this impossible for me. Because I can see in your face you think I’m spinning you a line, and I can think of only one way to prove to you that I’m not.’ He cupped her face in his hands and brushed his mouth over hers, once, twice. And when her lips parted he traced a line of tiny, nibbling kisses along her lower lip, demanding a response.
    She let him deepen the kiss, sliding her arms around his neck; his hands automatically went to her waist, settling in the perfect hourglass curve.
    ‘Believe me now?’ he asked when he finally lifted his head.
    She looked dazed. ‘Uh. Yes.’
    ‘I’d guess,’ he said softly, ‘that someone—someone very stupid—did a number on you. And I’d also guess that he found your job threatening, and the only way he could feel good about himself was to put you down constantly. So he nagged you because you weren’t wearing make-up and high heels like his friends’ girlfriends did.’
    She flinched—only slightly, but enough to tell him that he was right.
    ‘He was wrong. Incredibly wrong. You’re bright, and from what I’ve seen you’re in the perfect job for you. You’d be bored stupid if you had to play housewife.’ He couldn’t help smiling. ‘Though, judging by how untidy your office is, you’d need a housekeeper anyway.’
    ‘I’m not that messy. And I know where everything is.’
    ‘You work on the volcano principle—that when a piece of paper is critical it’ll rise to the top of the pile.’
    ‘And your problem with that is?’
    ‘I’m a control freak.’
    ‘The sort who has a clear desk policy.’
    He laughed. ‘I had to stop myself tidying your office this morning.’
    She flushed. ‘It’s my office.’
    ‘I know, so don’t get territorial with me. I didn’t touch anything. Even though I wanted to.’ Which was precisely the dilemma he had where she was concerned. He wanted to touch. To taste. He drew the pad of his thumb along her lower lip. ‘So what are we going to do about this?’
    ‘Maybe…’ She stopped.
    ‘Maybe what?’
    ‘Maybe,’ she said slowly, ‘you could have dinner with me tonight. At my place.’
    If only she’d asked him earlier. ‘Sorry, I can’t. I’m going back to London this afternoon. I need to be in my office for a couple