LITMIR.BIZ

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How could he forget? If he wanted to walk left, she would insist they go right.

      He persisted. ‘Something cool, then?’

      ‘Tell you what, put me down and I’ll think about it.’

      Cooper paused, then cleared his throat. How had that detail slipped his mind?

      He lowered her and she brushed off her gown. Her scent lingered—cinnamon and perhaps vanilla, a combination of spicy and sweet that suited her down to the ground.

      A spiral of hair spilled across her heart-shaped face as she angled her head to study him. ‘I’ll be honest. I don’t know how to take that invitation.’

      On the surface it might look like more pity, or an attempt to slip that notch on his bedpost, or, at best, a waste of time. But it was much simpler than that. Maybe it was seeing his friend happily married, but if she was feeling a little lonely tonight, so was he.

      He scooped his hands into his pockets.

      Of course, a more rational explanation was that he’d been working too hard for too long. But all that was too much information.

      ‘We know we’re not suited in a romantic sense, so you needn’t worry that we’ll somehow fall into bed.’ Hurt flooded her eyes and he inwardly cringed. Damn. And he’d thought her friend was tactless. He pushed on. ‘We’d just be two responsible adults, who have mutual friends, sharing a drink and some conversation after a wedding.’

      A faint line formed between her brows. She nibbled her lower lip and studied him.

      He withdrew his hands from his pockets. ‘Or I can ride with you down to the ground floor and see you get a cab.’

      The doubt in her face faded. She had the most exquisitely shaped lips—soft, luscious, made for kissing, not warring. But that was getting off-track.

      She tipped her head. ‘There’s a coffee shop off the lobby. Guess I could enjoy one quick hot chocolate on the way out.’

      Surprised, but pleased, he thumbed the lift button. ‘One quick one it is.’

      An elderly lady appeared and squeezed between them to hit the ‘up’ arrow. ‘That shop closes at ten,’ she told them, rearranging a cerise shawl around a pair of robust shoulders. ‘If you’re after hot chocolate, I recommend Room Service. Best I’ve tasted.’

      A lift arrived, and the lady disappeared behind the doors. At the same time the next lift pinged … going down.

      Cooper scrubbed his jaw. ‘Guess that does that.’

      ‘You have something against Room Service?’

      He looked at her hard. He must have it wrong. ‘Are you saying you’d come to my room?’

      ‘Depends. Do you have one?’

      ‘As a matter of fact, I do.’ Despite his attempt at blasé, surprise must have shown on his face.

      ‘We’re both over twenty-one,’ she pointed out calmly. ‘Besides, you just finished telling me seduction is the last thing on your mind. In case you’re worried, the same goes for me.’

      He grinned at her impudent look. Or was it saucy? If she wasn’t such a pain in the rear end …

      But she was right. He had a plan. A list. Now it was set in his mind, nothing would dissuade or distract him. He wouldn’t seduce her, though others might. He constantly cautioned his kid sister to be careful. Guys loved sex. Most would do almost anything to get it. And plenty ran a sprinter’s mile if precautions failed and suddenly baby made three.

      A couple of minutes later they arrived at the penthouse floor and he let her into the apartment. She crossed the Italian marble floor to sample the expansive harbour view that featured the Opera House’s majestic shells.

      ‘You reserved a whole loft apartment for the night?’ she asked, moving to the far wall to inspect his favourite painting—a warm, brightly hued abstract he’d picked up in Hanoi. ‘Must’ve cost a packet.’

      He shucked out of his jacket and hung it on the hall stand. ‘I own it.’

      ‘Oh, you do not.’ Her sceptical face slid. ‘In this hotel?’

      Making his way to the expansive black granite wet bar, he nodded.

      ‘This is the sort of space I imagine movie stars hire,’ she murmured, taking it all in. ‘Do you actually live here?’

      He picked up the bar’s phone extension. ‘I have a house in the northern suburbs.’

      Making herself at home, she folded into the couch, the emerald of her gown striking against the beige suede cushions. His gaze skimmed her hair.

      What would those upswept dark waves look like dancing around her shoulders? Stunning, would be his guess. Long and bouncy.

      ‘I bet it’s big?’

      With a start, his mind skipped back. The line connecting him to Room Service rang in his ear. ‘Excuse me?’

      ‘Your house,’ she said. ‘I bet it’s big.’

      The agent had described it as a mansion, but it was more an investment—like this double-storey loft. ‘It’s comfortable.’

      He ordered their drinks, then poured two ice waters.

      Her grin was knowing. ‘You look like you come from money.’

      He hadn’t thought about it. ‘My parents were well off, but far from rich. When they died, five years ago, I had to provide for my younger sister. So I pumped more energy into my law firm and at the same time invested well. Shares, bonds, property. The usual portfolio.’

      ‘You must have lucked out on some great choices along the way.’

      Luck had had little to do with it. His success was based on good planning.

      Frowning, he moved to join her. ‘You have a real thing with superstition, don’t you?’

      ‘Only about certain things.’

      ‘For instance?’

      ‘Spilt salt. You have to throw it back over your left shoulder for good luck.’

      ‘What about black cats?’

      ‘They bring good luck. Even better if you stroke their head three times.’

      Stopping before her, he laughed. ‘You honestly believe that?’

      ‘King Charles I of England loved his black cat and had it guarded every minute. The very day after it died he was arrested and later beheaded for treason. Thank you …’ Accepting her water, she tilted her head at him. ‘I don’t even know your name.’

      Easing down beside her, he pulled loose his black bow tie. ‘Cooper Smith. Yours?’

      She swallowed a mouthful. ‘Sophie will do. I hate my last name.’

      ‘Couldn’t be any worse than Smith.’

      ‘That’s a note from heaven compared to mine.’ She heeled off her silver stilettos and wiggled two sets of dainty toes. Painted deep red. Very nice—particularly against her creamy skin. ‘My mother said not to worry because I could dump it when I got married.’

      A feat she wasn’t certain of accomplishing now.

      He put her toes, and marriage, from his mind and eased back into the cushions. ‘You could change your name by deed poll.’

      ‘A bit drastic, don’t you think?’

      He grunted. Had she agreed with anything he’d said tonight? Pity the poor fool who fell in love with her. She’d have him hopping all over the place.

      ‘Statistics confirm both men and women are waiting longer to marry.’ He hid a wry grin behind his glass. ‘So you might get lucky yet.’

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