Coffee
"You saved the trade representative?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then you saved the assassin?"
"I'm afraid I did, sir, yes."
"If you think you can use this to buy your way onto the Prime Minister's security detail─"
Shame on you, Meg. You know he could have that if he wanted it. Hell, he could have anything if he wanted it, including your job. Including you.
"Well, that wasn't my first thought, sir."
She stopped cold, her spiked heel catching in the carpet. She swallowed to get her voice under control. It would be utterly inappropriate for him to hear the desperate relief in it—and as this most recent affair proved, he missed very little.
"Of course not."
"No, sir."
She began walking again. "I'll see that you receive a commendation."
"That won't be necessary, sir."
Like hell it wouldn't. But that wasn't the most important question. She stopped again and faced him, doing all in her power to channel her frustration, her yearning, into a tone of exasperation.
"Well, what do you want?"
He took a moment. A calm, intense, Fraser-moment. Damn him. In that moment, her mind completely packed up and moved out leaving only her emotion-driven, hormone-riddled fantasies to rule the roost, and she knew this because in three heartbeats of silent eye contact she heard his heart say I want you in my arms, my body on yours, my mouth on yours…
His tongue darted out to lick his lips.
"Coffee."
She blinked, surprised to find herself still standing. And in a public place, no less.
"Would you care for some coffee?"
Her mouth dropped open and she gaped at him. Is he asking me on a date? OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod! Is that even allowed?
"Uh…" Great leadership there, Thatcher. You're the boss, so act like it. "Well, I don't think that—"
"Ah." He ducked his head. He clearly understood her dilemma, but she felt like she'd kicked him. He was turning away from her, and she suddenly, desperately, didn't want that.
"All right."
"Good." His eyes returned to hers.
How can he be so calm? I'm a nervous wreck! What do I do now?
"Yes. Um…fine. Get the car." That makes sense, right?
"Do you want to drive?"
No, not this first time. She wanted him to drive, to make the choices, to turn that all-seeing gaze on her body, to use those slow, methodical hands on her skin… On the other hand, if she were driving, she could ride him, break that calm façade, make him do the one thing he never did—lose control.
"Yes."
Oh, God, he was talking about the car, you idiot!
"No. You drive."
That makes sense. He usually drives. But you're the boss, aren't you?
"No. I'll drive."
You are acting like a teenage fangirl, Margaret. Make a choice.
"You."
He took one more beat to look into her eyes, probably waiting to see if she'd vacillate again. Or perhaps reading the depth of her feelings for him. His hand wrapped around hers lightly as he took the keys a last time.
"Understood."