Page 7 of Pretty Wicked

The playfully wolfish look was gone, replaced with need, undeniable and as uncontrollable as a forest fire. For a moment I could not look away from it. The shocking intensity drew me in, and held me in its fierce grip. I felt an answering call in the pit of my being. God, I wanted this man. I wanted to feel his body thrusting into me.

Then I remembered myself. What the fuck was I doing?

I smiled tightly and we began to walk toward the lift. There was a foot between us, but the sexual tension between us was so strong I felt it reach out and brush against me as if he was touching my skin. Inside the lift I stared straight ahead. Once, when I glanced sideways, I saw him staring at me. He looked almost perplexed.

He settled me in the car and I wanted to ask where we were going but I didn’t. Far more mysterious to be uncurious. Instead I turned my head and watched Londoners spilling out of restaurants and bars and enjoying the hot summer evening. I turned toward Miko.

‘How long will you be in London?’

‘Five days.’

‘Oh.’ I wanted him gone. I wanted to wreak my revenge and move on. Never see him again. So why did that information hurt a little?

The car came to a stop outside the elegant entrance of the Dorchester Hotel. The doorman greeted Miko by name. In the lobby we took a left turn and were inside the coolly pristine three Michelin starred Alain Ducasse at The Dorchester.

Attended by several waiters we were shown to and seated at the exquisitely beautiful and stunning table lumière. It was surrounded by four and a half thousand shimmering fiber optics, which dropped dramatically from the ceiling.

When the sommelier arrived and engaged Miko in conversation I gazed at him. Hardly anything of the boy I remember in jeans and black leather remained. He seemed so urbane and sophisticated.

Eventually the sommelier went away, the menus were whisked away, and Miko turned his entire attention to me. His eyes held a sort of challenge.

‘So,’ he said, his voice deep and low. ‘Tell me about you.’

I smiled, just a hint of conspiracy in my voice. ‘Wouldn’t that rob the mystery of our…dalliance?’

‘What makes you think of this as a dalliance?’

‘Something that is meant to last only five days could be classed as one.’

‘I have not put an expiration date on my desire for you.’

I shrugged carelessly and he frowned.

He reached forward and took my hand and again a tiny frisson of electricity shot up my arm. Instinctively, I drew back. He withdrew his hand and stared at me, his expression suddenly enigmatic. Slowly, I let my hand brush against the white tablecloth until it connected with his, then with my middle finger I began to caress the inside of his wrist. He reacted beautifully. His eyes flashed.

I blinked when his hand moved suddenly and caught my wrist in his. Gently he began to run his finger in circles on the inside of my wrist. I took a deep breath. Fuck, She magazine was right. It was an extremely erotic thing done properly.

‘Are you playing games with me, Lexi?’

Unable to speak I shook my head.

‘Because it very much looks like you are from where I am sitting.’

Instead of answering him, I let my toe run up the inside of his calf, delicately but suggestively.

As an answer he put his hand on my knee. My first reaction was unrehearsed and surprising. I parted my legs. Thank God, warm cheese and black pepper profiteroles arrived. I quickly busied myself with those. They were probably delicious, but tasted like sawdust in my mouth. I swallowed them down with a big mouthful of wine. I looked up and saw him watching me.

‘When were you in America?’ he asked.

‘A long time ago.’

‘Is there any reason you are being so evasive, Lexi?’

‘I’m not being evasive. It was a very long time ago and it was a…dull time.’

‘So you like it here?’

I took a sip of wine. ‘Yes, it’s nice.’

‘Would you ever like to go back to the States?’

‘Maybe.’

He leaned forward. ‘Why do I get the impression you don’t want to talk to me?’

I lifted my chin. ‘Let’s see how you like it when you are being interrogated.’

‘I wasn’t aware I was interrogating you.’

I just stared at him.

‘Go for it,’ he said and leaned back in his chair.

‘Have you always been rich?’

‘Yes. Do you hold that against me?’

‘No.’

‘Good. I can’t help being rich just as you can’t help being born in the family that you were born in.’ He threw in a devastatingly attractive smile. ‘I work eighty hours a week to earn my own keep. My father is not paying for this.’

I blushed with shame. Fortunately, the food arrived. I did not order a starter because I knew eating more than a tiny amount was impossible while wearing this dress. Miko too had refused a starter.

‘Bon appétit,’ Miko said, and I dug into my steak. Even though I was in turmoil I had to admit the black truffle sauce was excellent. It melted in my mouth.

‘Is your food good?’

‘Mmm…’ I nodded, keeping my eyes on his slow cooked shoulder of lamb.

He kept the conversation light during the meal and refused dessert when I did.

‘Not much of an appetite?’

I grinned. ‘Are you kidding? I’m starving. It’s this dress.’

His face changed. And I realized I had forgotten to be sophisticated. I quickly looked away.

‘Shall we have coffee upstairs?’ he asked.

‘Upstairs?’ There was an edge of panic in my voice.

‘I am in the Oliver Messel suite.’

‘Oh.’

~~~~~

Seven

Both of us were careful not to touch the other in the lift. I stared fixedly ahead. That ‘thing’ between us seemed to intensify in that confined space. My palms were sweating. Damn, I was in big trouble. My heart was pounding so hard I felt certain he must be able to hear it. It was a relief to get out.

The Oliver Messel suite was spacious and decorated in an English countryside style, made opulent with Italian gilt and bowls of freshly cut flowers. The floral curtains had been drawn closed and table lamps glowed with yellow light. I stepped onto the beige and pink carpet with trepidation.

‘Make yourself comfortable,’ he said, and closing the door went to order the coffee.

Coffee arrived while I was in the bathroom, reapplying lip gloss with a shaking hand. My eyes seemed shiny and excited. I’ll just drink my coffee and go, I told my reflection.

He had removed his jacket and was sitting on a dusky green, long sofa. When I came in he rose to his feet and waited while I took my place on the sofa next to him. I perched a couple of feet away from him.

‘Shall I pour?’

I nodded. My mouth was dry and I felt the butterflies going crazy in my stomach. The last time my stomach had hosted butterflies in it was seven years ago. I watched the curve his body made as he leaned forward, and the way the muscles in his arms and shoulders stretched his shirt.

‘Sugar and milk,’ I said, and was surprised to hear my voice sound high and unnatural.

‘Biscuit?’ he asked.

I shook my head. ‘Same problem as before.’

His eyes lingered on my body and I suppressed the desire to cover myself.

He passed me my coffee and with his legs angled toward me leaned back. I was terrified the cup was going to rattle in the saucer, so I hastily put it down on the low table in front of us.

‘You shouldn’t wear such tight clothes if men looking at you makes you so uncomfortable.’ His black eyes were dancing with mischief.

I wriggled to the opposite edge of the sofa. ‘Most men don’t stare so hard or so long.’

‘British men are too polite to stare. Come back to America, sweetheart.’ There was laughter in his voice, but his eyes were undressing me with an inten

sity that was unnerving. He looked positively dangerous.

‘I… I should go soon,’ I stammered.

‘What’s the rush?’

‘It’s late.’

‘You’ve got two hours before everything turns to pumpkin, rats and rags.’

‘I’m not really sure what you want from me.’

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