Chapter Eight
Caesar
I lift my head and blink as Maddie wipes her face. Her eyes are red and watery, and guilt tugs at me.
“Hey…” I take my pocket square out of my top pocket and hand it to her. “Come on, don’t cry. I’m sorry I got angry. I felt blindsided, that’s all.”
“I know.” She wipes her eyes on the square of cloth and blows her nose. Then she holds it out to me.
“Please, keep it,” I say wryly. What’s upset her? Is it just because I got cross? I didn’t yell, and it could be argued that she deserved a dressing down after what she did.
But my father brought me up to believe a real man never shows his temper with a woman. “If you’re ever angry with a girl,” he told Marcus and me when we were teens, “turn and walk away until you feel calm again.” If I can’t be civil to Maddie, I need to end this conversation.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.
I still can’t believe she’s the girl I met on the night of the ball.
She looks so different with her white hair and complexion.
And yet… her unusual looks are also somehow perfect for her.
She’s unique… fascinating. I’m having trouble tearing my gaze away from her.
But she’s still the woman who seduced me and lied to me. And she’s still the granddaughter of the man I detest with every fiber of my being. I mustn’t forget that.
I should keep our conversation strictly business, but her betrayal feels like an elephant in the room who’s holding a flag and waving it in my face, and I can’t ignore it.
“Why did you do it?” I ask.
She blinks. “Do what?”
“At the ball, you said you didn’t know who I was. But when you came into this boardroom, there was no surprise in your eyes. You knew I was going to be here, which meant you knew my real identity. Why did you lie to me?”
She lowers her lashes and fiddles with the pocket square in her lap.
Then she lifts her gaze to mine again. “Of course I recognized you,” she admits, startling me with her frankness.
“You’re the patron of the Ashford Foundation.
You’re splashed across the internet. Everyone we passed turned to talk to you.
I would have known who you were even if you’d been wearing a Victorian diving suit. You’re very… distinctive.”
I’m flattered, but I don’t admit it. Instead I frown and demand, “So why lie?”
She hesitates. Then she says, “Because I knew you wouldn’t talk to me if you knew my surname.”
“You’re right, I wouldn’t have.” Resentment bubbles up inside me. “Did he send you?”
“Who?”
“Your grandfather. Did he send you to seduce me?”
“No,” she says. Her eyes flare. “And I resent the implication that I’m some kind of Mata Hari who’d use her body in that way.
Why on earth would I have done that? So I could blackmail you by saying, ‘If you don’t agree to this partnership, I’ll tell everyone that we had a one-night stand, and you were absolutely amazing in bed?
’ Well, on the floor. I can’t imagine you’d be devastated to have that rumor spreading through polite society.
In fact I’m sure you’d positively encourage it. ”
Her compliment shocks me. She thought I was amazing?
She huffs through her nose. “I’d never had a one-night stand before, and I didn’t go to the ball looking for one.
I don’t have men falling at my feet the way Brielle does.
I’m always the one who does the falling.
Literally, most of the time.” She looks me in the eyes.
“I lied to you because I knew you wouldn’t stay if you knew I was a Rutherford…
and I wanted you to stay.” Her cheeks flush. “Fool that I was.”
Clearly, she regrets our time together. That stings.
She shrugs. “Anyway, it’s done now. I don’t really care what you think of me.
I do care, though, that you think I’m interested in anything other than the science.
I truly believe in what we could achieve if we work together.
That’s what you need to focus on. Not on how I came on your face and soaked your shirt. ”
I think she was trying to lighten the tension, but as I lift an eyebrow, she turns completely scarlet.
Leaning back in my chair, I stretch out my legs, and we study each other. I don’t know whether to be cross or amused. Her expression remains wary.
Do I believe that she wasn’t sent to seduce me? I don’t want to, but nothing about her that night felt calculated. And that’s the problem.
“So,” I say. “Cupcake.”
She pokes her tongue out at me.
“Is Brioche waiting for you in the lobby?”
She frowns. “You mean Brielle?”
“Sorry. I thought of madeleines and cupcakes and naturally jumped to brioche.”
Her eyes widen. “How did you know madeleines are cakes?”
“I know stuff. Are all your brothers named after French baked goods too?”
“Iain wasn’t, but I think Tarte Tatin might have been.”
That makes me give a reluctant laugh, and her lips curve up, just a little.
“I’m going to call you Mon Petit Gateau from now on,” I tell her, somewhat grumpily.
“I’m a girl,” she says. “Shouldn’t it be Ma Petite?”
“I don’t think it works like that. Gateau is a masculine noun.”
“Oh, so now you’re an expert in the French language, as well as French kissing?” She sounds exasperated, but there’s heat in her eyes.
My heart speeds up as I remember our hot kisses and the way our tongues tangled…
but then I remember what family she belongs to, and like a fire in the hearth, the flames die down to embers.
She’s beautiful, unusual, and fascinating, but I will not allow Tom Rutherford or any member of his family to get within a country mile of Ashford AgriTech.
She might not have set out to seduce me, but I’ll never be a hundred percent sure she’s not trying to soften me up before he goes in for the kill.
I clear my throat and take out my phone. “So… Blackridge Station. Next Saturday?”
“Sounds good.” She takes out her phone, too. “Are you happy taking our plane?”
“I’m not sure. Are you planning to throw me out over the Remarkables?”
“I’ll make sure you have your own parachute, don’t worry.” She types it into her calendar. “Shall we say two p.m. at Auckland airport?”
“Sounds good.” I type it in. “Shall I book a hotel in Queenstown?”
“Blackridge is over an hour away, and it’s too far to drive every night. The road’s rough, and the weather’s unpredictable.”
“Sounds delightful.”
“Oh, you’re a North Island softie, are you?”
“I prefer a proper mattress and room service, if that’s what you mean.”
“I bet you haven’t slept in a tent since you were a teen.”
“Damn straight.” My eyes widen in alarm. “Jesus, we’re not going camping, are we? I’m not staying anywhere without running water and a bathroom.”
She snorts. “We need to be out on the paddocks at sunrise. We’ll stay at Shepherd’s Cottage. It’s been renovated, so it should suit even you, Mr. Fancy Pants.”
“As long as I don’t have to share my bed with a sheep, I’ll be fine.”
She rolls her eyes and slides her phone into her purse.
“You sure you’re okay being away over Valentine’s Day?” I ask.
“Just another day for me,” she says.
“No admiring beau that needs entertaining?”
“Well, no, because I’m not from Regency England.” She throws me an exasperated look. “What about you? Don’t you have Mrs. Right waiting to cook you the perfect meal before she screws your socks off?”
“Unfortunately my socks will be staying firmly on. Especially if you’re forcing me to wear rubber boots.
” I blow out a breath, irritated beyond measure by everything that’s happening.
Talk about death from a thousand paper cuts.
“This is a fucking nightmare.” I realize too late how that sounds—as if I’m talking about going with her.
She reddens. “Right.” I open my mouth to correct myself, but she continues, “Tell me about it. I wonder how many ways I’m going to have to pay for making the worst decision of my life?”
Ouch. I narrow my eyes, but she doesn’t notice as she gets to her feet and picks up her briefcase. “I should have let Brielle go with you,” she snaps.
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I love my sister too much to make her put up with you for longer than thirty minutes.”
I rise to face her. “So instead, I’m stuck with you, Miss Vanilla Cupcake.”
Her eyes flare, and she pokes me in the chest with her finger. “Don’t call me vanilla.”
She’s not wearing heels today, and when I move closer to her, I have to look down a fair way. Her lashes are unbelievably pale and fine. But her upper lip has the same Cupid’s bow. The tiny mole I kissed sits above it. And she smells of the same perfume she wore that night.
I can still remember how she tasted. And the sounds she made when she came.
“Not a single thing about you is vanilla,” I murmur. Then, conscious she might interpret that as softening toward her, I add, “You’re more like wasabi. One mouthful and everything in my life explodes.”
That earns me a glare. “You didn’t have to say yes,” she points out tartly. “I distinctly recall you booking the room.”
So it’s all my fault now? “I’m not denying there was some attraction. But you’re right, I wouldn’t have done it if I’d known who you were. You took that choice away from me. Can you imagine how that would look the other way around?”
She drops her gaze and reddens. That’s hit home. The idea of a man lying to a woman to get her into bed is abhorrent. But why is it different if the roles are reversed?
The thing is, if I’m honest with myself, the main reason I’m angry is that I like her.
Up until today, I’ve thought of her continually, and I’ve daydreamed many times about what would happen if we were to meet again.
But discovering that she lied to me about her identity has cast a shadow over what I thought was a wonderful, enjoyable evening.
She took away my agency, which is a hard pill to swallow for a man who copes by always staying in control.