Twelve Nights Of Temptation. Barbara Dunlop

delicate shoes, stiletto heels and such.

      Tasha peeled off her boots, revealing thick wool socks. For some reason, the sight made him smile.

      She rose, looking all business.

      “Care for a drink?” he asked, gesturing her forward.

      She moved, shooting him an expression of disbelief on the way past. “No, I don’t want a drink.”

      “I opened a great bottle of pinot noir. I’m not going to finish it myself.”

      “This isn’t a social visit,” she said, glancing around the room at the pale white leather furniture and long, narrow gas fireplace.

      She was obviously hesitant to sit down in her work clothes.

      “Here,” he suggested, pointing to the formal dining room. The chairs were dark oak, likely less intimidating if she was worried about leaving dirt on anything.

      While she sat down, he retrieved the pinot from the glass porch and brought two fresh glasses.

      He sat down cornerwise to her and set down the wine.

      She gave him an exaggerated sigh. “I’m not drinking while I work.”

      “It’s ten o’clock on a Saturday night.”

      “Your point?”

      “My point is you’re officially off the clock.”

      “So, you’re not paying me?”

      “I’ll pay you anything you want.” He poured them each some of the rich, dark wine. “Aren’t you on salary?”

      “I am.”

      “You work an awful lot of overtime.”

      “A good deal for you.”

      “I’m giving you a raise.” He held one of the glasses out for her.

      “Ha ha,” she mocked.

      “Take it,” he said.

      She did, but set it down on the table in front of her.

      “Twenty percent,” he told her.

      “You can’t do that.”

      “I absolutely can.” He raised his glass. “Let’s toast your raise.”

      “I came here to tell you I might have made a big mistake.”