She slaps the dishtowel down beside the sink and glares round at him.

He grins.

She is so beautiful and fiery.  Independent and unafraid.  An enigma, this girl.  He's never met anyone like her.

It's the reason he is out here in the kitchen instead of dancing under the party lights with his guests.  It's the reason he 'accidentally' dropped a glass carafe of eggnog moments before she was due to leave for her evening off. He's bored with the rich beautiful women that scurry around him. None of them can hold his attention for more than one evening.

He tries to tell her.  "You are the most gorgeous woman I've ever met."  He knows she can't hear him.  He has never learned to sign.

As she stomps off, snatching up the mop and muttering under her breath, he leans against the doorframe watching, enraptured.

Infuriating.

He is infuriating.

When she came to work here, she fell in love with his home on the beach, his taste in furnishings, his lifestyle, his classic car collection.  She liked him for those choices.  Until.

Until she noticed that he was out with a different girl nearly every evening.  Until he began invading her space, hanging about the kitchen, making messes, and watching her all the time.  It was disconcerting.

Furiously mopping up the mess, she glances over at him.  Twinkling.  Why are his eyes twinkling?  Why does he enjoy lording himself over her so much?  Can he not enjoy his perfect life without being cruel to others?

When she finishes clearing the sticky spill, she spins to see him still watching her.  Still twinkling away.  She grits her teeth.  She would love to smack that self-satisfied smirk off his face.  As she stands there trying to control her temper, he uncrosses his ankles, lifts himself away from the doorway, and moves toward her.  Sparks fly from her eyes as she challenges him with them.  Her hands rap out a message she knows he cannot read, 'You are such a pompous DICK'.

This is the first time he has ever made proper eye contact with her, and it exhilerates him.

Her eyes draw him to her.  Her hands are flying.  He takes hold of them, brings them to his lips.  Kisses them.

Looking up at him, the glinting anger in her eyes morphs into puzzlement, then back to haughty indignation.

She pulls her hands away.  Tries to tell him in sign that he has no right to touch her.

But while he has her attention, he tells her 'I love you'.  She can't hear, but she can read his lips.

Then he uses his hands to speak to her, using one to brush along her neck and entangle itself in her thick curls, and the other to gently cup her face.

And she uses her lips to speak to him; first they open slightly with surprise, then curve up into a smile, and finally press against his.