A Stark Mismatch

V. A Stark Deal

SURELY, THE heavens must be playing with her!

What bloody good luck. The voice echoed around Angela's head while a rapid thought came to her: she could not appear stupid in front of this man.

And so, she tried to put aside her surprise and remained seated.

She had to admit with internal shame that she had imagined many ways to interact with him if she ever came across him again. She even reimagined and revised their encounter in the garden! But none of those prepared her for this surprise.

"Your bed is what?" she heard herself ask. It was not the best greeting, but it was an effective distraction. While waiting for him to recover, she used the time to gather her wits.

The anger in his eyes diminished, replaced by plain surprise as he eyed her up and down. "We can discuss my bed later."

She did not understand what he meant and cared very little to know. Her concern was her throat. It was too dry. "You are Mr Stark," she managed.

He blinked, the initial surprise now replaced by amused ambiguity. "And you are the lady with the wooden soles," he said, walking into the room. Eyes never leaving her face, he shut the door closed on the club manager who was about to say something. "Good Lord, you are indeed a magnificent view in full light."

That is unexpected, Angela thought. This conversation was not mirroring any of the ones she had imagined.

A deep chuckle vibrated from his throat. Angela thought it sounded pleasant. His sapphire eyes bore into hers as he expertly, without looking, settled behind his table. "Were you following me, madam?"

She blinked, realizing something. "That is why you were in the garden. You were curious about their conversation," she stated. "Has Lady Margaret acquired your services?"

The smile on his face remained, but the glimmer in his eyes was fading. "I do not divulge my business transactions with just anyone." He folded his hand under his chin. "Who are you?" he asked, eyes traveling from her eyes down to her mouth, and even lower.

She had heard stories from Millie, her maid, that there were men bold enough to stare at women in such vulgar ways. The best way to handle them, as Millie said, was to make them feel unimportant.

Her ears were burning, but she did not blink, nor flinch. "Did your manager not tell you?"

"No, he made me believe I will be facing an unwelcome lover."

He was too blunt. She should not, but she liked it. "Well, fortunately for you, I am neither." When he frowned at her last word, she elaborated, "I'm not a lover. Nor was I unwelcomed."

"My manager claims otherwise."

"I was reluctantly welcomed, then."

"This is a gentleman's club, madam."

"Yes, I'm very much aware." She looked around his small office. Not a window in sight; all paneled walls and a good number of books. "I prefer that we avoid tedious small talks. May I proceed with my business?"

His brows rose. She could tell from the way he was smiling at her that he would reject her. She was only here this long because he was choosing to prolong her stay for whatever reason.

"As you may know, I have become aware of your club's special and discreet services in the Averly Ball—at the garden," she added the last three words with emphasis out of habit because she knew that her thoughts and spoken words did not always have the best relationship now and then. Also, she was too aware of his intense attention on her, and it was making her more uncomfortable to formulate the correct sentences. For assurance, she added, "The garden where Lady Margaret and her friends were gossiping about—"