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“Not at all,” he said, enjoying the chance to defend his answer. “What’s a date all about? Getting to know someone, right?”
I took the bait and nodded slowly, remaining wary. “Yes, I suppose so.”
He smiled, asking, “May I?” reaching for my hand. I hesitated but relented, allowing Nico to grasp my free hand. He flipped my hand, palm-side down, to trace the small veins beneath my skin. I fought to keep the shivers at bay, trying to remain outwardly unaffected, even bored. “Let’s say the underside of your palm represents your private self and the top of your hand represents the shield we put up to protect the soft parts of our hand that we only trust with those we know won’t hurt us.”
“Okay,” I said, puzzled, drawing a short breath as my heart rate quickened. “How does that relate to sex on the first date?”
“I challenge you to tell me any other way to truly get to know someone without using sex.” He slowly rotated my hand so my palm faced up. “Sex reveals vulnerabilities, our deep truths, and strips away the facades that we readily wear to hide ourselves from the world. In other words, sex removes the shield, leaving us with our soft spots unprotected.”
I swallowed as tiny trembles I couldn’t contain shook my body. I pressed my lips together before my tongue darted to wet my bottom lip. Suddenly, it was very warm in his apartment, and the air had become charged with electricity. “I...guess I see your point...but it’s a stretch,” I lied, loathe to let him see how his little demonstration had turned up my internal heat.
He laughed, disagreeing. “In truth, Miss Hughes...sex is the great equalizer, and what better way to determine whether or not you are a match than when you are in your deepest reality?”
I allowed him to hold my hand a moment longer than necessary, then quickly withdrew, shaking my head with a wobbly “Interesting theory but I’m not sure I can put that in the article. Luxe isn’t that kind of magazine. We’re more about classy, not trashy.”
I was totally lying. Patrice would eat that shit up and probably highlight the passage in a glitzy pull quote, but I couldn’t bring myself to admit that.
The awful truth was, Nico had somehow turned a far-fetched explanation into the sexiest demonstration I’d ever experienced, and I hated the way I felt way too breathless for my own comfort. I wasn’t like Daphne, easily seduced or beguiled with a few choice words, but I could still feel the phantom touch of his fingers tracing my skin.
Nico didn’t seem to mind and shrugged. “I’m only being honest. You asked what my idea of a perfect date would be, and I answered you.”
I rubbed at my hand. “So lie to me,” I quipped with a flustered laugh, realizing my gaffe, then amended quickly, “I mean, don’t lie but maybe use your imagination. You have to remember that women are going to read this and want to know how they can impress you. This is your chance to put your dreams out there.”
“As in my dream woman?” he asked for clarification, shaking his head, as if he knew there was no such thing. Something about that fatalistic opinion struck me as sad, though I wasn’t a hopeless romantic by any means. I knew that true love was just a greeting card sentiment, but a part of me wished it were real. Maybe deep down, Nico did, too.
“Sure,” I answered, curious as to what he considered the epitome of a female partner.
But Nico didn’t seem interested in following that plot thread and detoured neatly as his gaze traveled the angle of my neck as sensuously as if his lips were nibbling a trail. “Were you ever a dancer?” he surprised me by asking.
My cheeks flushed with heat as I admitted, “Uh, yes, when I was younger. A long time ago.”
“But you’re not anymore.”
“No.”
“Why’d you give it up?”
Even though my hopeful ballet career died a long time ago, it still hurt to revisit those memories. I should’ve snapped my mouth shut but I didn’t. “I hurt my knee performing a grand jeté when I was sixteen. It was never the same afterward and I knew I’d never make it to the New York City Ballet with that kind of injury, so I quit dancing altogether.”
“Tragic,” he murmured, and I sensed he was being genuine. His expression turned quizzical. “From what I understand, injuries are common for dancers but many heal with the right care and therapy. Why didn’t you?”
Nico could never possibly understand how something like that would’ve been totally outside of my family’s capabilities financially. I’d known the minute the muscle had torn that my career was done. “My parents didn’t have the money for the intensive care that my injury required to put me back to where I was,” I explained, stiffening against the inevitable ache in my heart for what would never be. “I wasn’t going to ask my parents to bankrupt themselves so I could continue dancing.” The clip in my tone was a warning that he was treading on dangerous ground. I lifted the recorder with a pointed look. “Now, about that dream woman...”
Nico smiled, slow and easy, ignoring my lead. “I’ve always had a thing for dancers. There’s just something about the graceful way they carry themselves that always seems to stick with them, even long after they’ve stopped dancing.”
I couldn’t argue. I prided myself on maintaining proper posture, a throwback to my dancing days. An imaginary string pulled taut perpetually suspended my head. I could still hear my dance instructor’s voice, “Backs straight, chins high, dahling!”
“Do you miss dancing?” he asked, interrupting my short reverie.
I exhaled a long breath. “It was a long time ago.”
“That’s not an answer,” he chided.
“I’m not the one being interviewed.”
His gaze inadvertently dipped to my dress, and I could practically feel his judgment, same as when Patrice openly curled her lip at my fashion choices. I lifted my chin and met his gaze squarely, almost daring him to make a comment so I could shoot him down. I swear, don’t people have better things to do than judge what other people are wearing? Is the world really that shallow? Of course it was... I worked for a fashion magazine and I saw it firsthand.
Nico surprised me when he pulled away, his gaze narrowing as if he’d heard my internal dialogue. “Let’s get down to brass tacks. You don’t like me very much,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Why?”
My cheeks flushed with guilt. I really needed to work on my poker skills if he saw through me so easily. Or maybe I hadn’t really tried all that hard to disguise my contempt. Either way, my inability to smother what I was thinking or feeling had just bitten me in the ass—again.
“I like you just fine,” I protested, trying for an earnest expression, but I felt as if I probably looked like the Joker with a pasted-on smile so I tried a different tack. “I mean, fine enough to do this interview. I doubt we have enough in common to enjoy a friendship, but other than that...I’m sure you’re great.”
“You’re a terrible liar,” he said, enjoying my sudden squirming. “Why don’t you like me?”
He wasn’t going to stop pressing. I could lay it all on the line and risk everything or I could try to lie through my teeth and maybe flirt a little. The latter made my dignity shrivel like a raisin, so that left me with pure honesty. I shut off the recorder—again. “Not that it matters for the sake of this interview, but maybe, I don’t care for your personality type.”
“Which is?”
I waved away his question. “Are we really doing this? Look, I’m sure there are plenty of women who would give their right foot to date you, I’m just not one of them.”
“I didn’t ask if you wanted to date me, I asked why you didn’t like me. But since you brought it up, why wouldn’t you want to date me?”
I hesitated, wondering how I’d lost control of this interview. I should’ve realized the Donatos were master manipulators. I should’ve been more diligent—or walked out when I’d had the chance.
But my chance to right the ship ha
d just sailed.
Nico snorted with derision. “C’mon, you really think I can’t smell your condescension from a mile away? Sweetheart, you’re going to have to be a better actress than that if you’re going to fool anyone into believing that you don’t think I’m a big pile of shit.” I opened my mouth to protest, but he wasn’t finished. “What I don’t understand is why Luxe would insult my family in such a manner as to send someone who clearly hates me to do this interview. I mean, what the fuck? Was this all a joke or something?”
Just apologize and appease his monster-sized ego. The answer seemed so simple, and yet I couldn’t do it. I stiffened, wary. “If you planned on being a dick from the start, why didn’t you let me leave?”
He shrugged. “I was curious but now I’m just bored and irritated.”
“Why should my opinion matter at all?” I countered, feeling reckless. There was something about Nico that I couldn’t quite shake, something that made me want to push when otherwise I might wisely fold.
Or maybe I was just tired of being railroaded for the sake of a paycheck. Patrice had never been my biggest fan, and this colossal train wreck of an interview shouldn’t come as too big of a surprise, right?
Would she fire me?
Maybe?
Nico leaned forward, invading my space. “You think I’m another useless trust-fund baby with nothing better to do than spend my money on hookers and blow or at the very least strippers and booze.” When I didn’t deny it, he barked a laugh at my expense, as if I were an unprepared newb who hadn’t done a lick of research. “My family donates gobs of money to various organizations and charities, but it is scattered among the different companies we own. We choose not to advertise our philanthropic endeavors because we believe that’s private and we aren’t looking for accolades. So we don’t talk much about those things, but because we don’t advertise, you make an assumption that I’m just another rich playboy who wipes his ass with money.”
