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bar. “That’s where I was headed.”
    “Oh.” Her face fell, resisting all her efforts to hide it. When she smiled again, it was strained and false. “Well. I shouldn’t keep you then.”
    He wanted to tell her that she wasn’t keeping him, because there was no known place in the universe where he’d rather be, but his pride had taken one too many whacks from her today, and he didn’t think it could take another one.
    So he forced himself to back up and turn toward the bar, taking what felt like the biggest risk of his entire life. “Have a good night, Claudia.”
    “And you,” she said cheerily.
    He took one grudging step away from her, then another. On the third step, he started giving himself mental kicks in the ass. Stupid! He was so stupid! Had he really thought—hoped—that she’d invite him to stay? Claudia? Really, moron? Didn’t he already know her better than that? Why hadn’t he figured out a way to keep the conversation going a little longer, or at least—
    “Marcus,” she called after him.
    Deep inside him, something that had lain dormant for far too long woke up, flapped its wings and soared as high as their jet had earlier. Which made it hard for him to suppress his idiotic grin and arrange his features into an expression that was politely puzzled and nothing more.
    “Yeah?” he asked, glancing at her over his shoulder.
    She hesitated before gesturing vaguely toward her drink. “I...seem to have this Scotch I’m not going to finish.”
    “Oh, yeah?”
    Flushing prettily, she swept her hands through her hair, ruffling it. “And you like Scotch, as I recall?”
    He inclined his head. “I drink the occasional Scotch, yes.”
    “Why don’t you have this one, then?”
    That wasn’t the invitation he wanted—no, needed—to hear. So he picked up the tumbler, raised it in a grateful toast to her and took a sip.
    “Thanks,” he said, turning to go again. “I’ll just take it into the bar with me. Have a great night.”
    She scowled. “Marcus! You’re not this bloody clueless! Have a drink with me!”
    By this point, he couldn’t stop his smile if he tried, and he didn’t want to try. He wanted to dance and sing. Veering back to the banquette, he sat next to her, close enough for their knees to brush, and gave her shoulder a bump with his.
    “Was that so hard?” he asked.
    “Yes,” she said sourly, brushing lint off her pants. “You have no idea.”
    “Look at me,” he told her.
    At first he thought she’d refuse, but then her turbulent gaze flickered up to his.
    He opened his mouth, which was full of things he wanted to tell her but knew she wasn’t ready to hear.
    You don’t know how beautiful you are.
    Don’t be afraid of me.
    I want you.
    So he swallowed all those back and focused on one small thing.
    “It’s just you and me, Claudia, sitting here having a drink. Nothing to get stressed about.” He paused, reining himself in hard. “Okay?”
    She nodded, the corners of her eyes crinkling into a tiny smile. “Okay.”
    “Great,” he said, light-headed with relief. “What can I get you, beauty?”

Chapter 5
    “E arl Grey tea?” Marcus asked five minutes later, watching Claudia fish a small plastic bag containing a fancy tea bag out of her purse. They’d managed to flag down a passing server, who brought an oversize mug and a small silver pot of hot water along with a platter of cheese and crackers, olives and chocolate-covered strawberries. “Do you always bring your own?”
    Now she was busy adding sugar and lemon, but she paused to flash him a grin. “Always. You Americans don’t know the first thing about good tea. Not to worry, though. Your country has other things to recommend it.”
    He raised a brow and sipped his Scotch. “This should be interesting.”
    “Well, you’re very good at strong coffee, obviously. And supersizing things. You just don’t get a two-pound serving of chips—”
    “Fries.”
    “Yes, fries, in London, do