Faking It to Making It. Ally Blake

blinked, her lashes jerking against her cheeks, then did as she was told.

      Nate opened the first page, speed-reading past schooling—state run. Tertiary education—scholarships. Work—applied mathematics with government agencies, before she’d moved on to build her own business—research with a bent towards the statistical.

      He slowed when he hit her favourite books, movies, TV shows, as a tumble of odd and wonderful nuances meshed together to form a picture of not just a set of sultry eyes and kissable lips but a woman. The Princess Bride nestled alongside Aliens and The Breakfast Club, Ray Bradbury butted up against Sophie Kinsella and John le Carré. And a litany of real-life adventures flew before his eyes.

      Compared with him, she’d lived three lifetimes.

      “You’ve really eaten live witchetty grubs? And—” he glanced down “—you were an extra on The Hobbit?”

      A smile hooked the corner of her lips, soft pink and warm. “All of the above. They taste better warm. Like nuts. Witchetty grubs, I mean. Not Hobbits,” she corrected.

      Laughing, Nate said, “Who knew statistics could be so much fun?”

      That just lit her up—eyes bright, smile wide, cheeks pink, she glowed like a touch-lamp on level one. He wondered what it would take to light her up all the way.

      Clearing his throat, he closed the folder.

      Just in time for her to add, “My dad was a maths professor, so we lived in university housing, holidayed on campus. He never left his rooms if he could help it, while I’d sneak out and find people to talk to about things other than chaos theory. To ask about dinosaurs and rainbows and France. Being a university, there were always people happy to oblige. I found there’s always potential to learn something new. You only have to ask. So I never say no to possibility.”

      “Never?”

      That earned him a sassy grin. One he felt right deep down inside.

      “What was your father like?” she asked. “Was he a lot like you?”

      “A good deal.” Worked a lot, took responsibility seriously, blue eyes that laughed easily.

      “How did he and your mother meet?” Her chin rested on her knee, her eyes the picture of innocence. But she’d forgotten, he had three sisters. Her nugget about her own father suddenly made perfect sense. She wanted to get inside his head. He almost felt sorry for her that she was going to waste her time trying.

      Nate said, “If it’s not in the dossier let’s consider it extraneous to the project.”

      Thwarted, she twisted her mouth.

      “So,” he said. “Tell me something about me.”

      “You’re testing me?” she said, sitting straighter.

      “If you can’t pull it off what good are you to me?”

      “Fine,” she said, crossing her legs on the couch, eyes burning into him, bright with challenge. “Bring it on.”

      “Favourite colour?”

      “Blue.” She looked around his white, silver and pale blue office and said, “But you’d have to be colour blind to miss that. Pick up your game, Mackenzie. You’re dealing with a pro.” She crossed her arms beneath her small breasts, pressing them up, creating swells above the neckline of her top.

      “Pets?” he said, his eyes lifting to stick to hers.

      She snorted out a laugh. “I’d bet my life savings that you’re not home enough to keep a cactus alive, much less a goldfish.”

      Considering he’d wire-transferred those life savings into her bank account only a couple of days before, he knew that wasn’t much. But she was right. “You?”

      “A dog.”

      “Really?”

      “You don’t like dogs?”

      “I like them just fine. So long as someone else is in charge of feeding, washing, walking, cleaning up after them. What kind of dog? Please tell me it’s not the kind that fits in a handbag.”

      “Ha! He’s an Airedale named Ernest. He belonged to an ex who thought he was going to be the next Hemingway. Turned out he was more opportunist than writer—he left Ernest behind as payment for the TV and stereo he took in his place.”

      “Ever get them back?”

      She shrugged as if it didn’t matter. But he was a master of body language, knowing when to attack a deal and when to take a breath, and by the hunch of Saskia’s small shoulders it mattered.

      “Charming,” said Nate, his tone belying his sudden desire to find out the guy’s name and hang him from a balcony till he coughed up the goods.

      “I came out with the better end of the deal.”

      “Good dog?”

      “Sheds like nobody’s business, has a wonky ear, will take a man down for an Oreo. But he’s never gonna steal my TV.”

      Finding it hard to reconcile the woman before him being involved with the kind of man who could do that kind of thing, he moved on. “Family?”

      She rolled her eyes. “You’re a middle child—older sister, younger twin sisters.”

      “A psychologist’s dream.”

      “I’m an only child, remember, so get in line.”

      He laughed and settled back in his corner of the couch. She settled back in hers. Game on, her smile said as she spoke. “Your mother is still about. Your father died when you were fifteen. A day before your fifteenth birthday, in fact.”

      Nate’s throat closed over at that last part—a small fact he usually left out, as if it was one intimacy too far. But he’d brought up the subject of family. He’d asked for it.

      She opened her mouth as if to say more, but he quelled her with a look. Then she brought her knees to her chest and snuggled in against the cushions as if she belonged there.

      “Women?” Nate asked, even while he wondered instead about this woman, about the kind of men she normally dated. No doubt men with goatees and sandals swarmed around her in droves. Unless she preferred her men clean-cut in suits.