Her eyes dodged mine again. "Really... It's tiny. Not famous."
An unknown small town.
I nearly laughed out loud.
God, Natalie had zero talent for lying. But it was so damn adorable. Made me want to grab her right now, kiss her hard until she couldn't spout any more ridiculous lies.
"Must be very small indeed," I said slowly.
Ryan jumped in, launching into an elaborate description of tonight's wine—vintage, terroir, craftsmanship. I nodded along absently, my attention entirely on the fidgeting figure across from me.
She barely touched her food. Her fingers unconsciously spun the silver fork. Her shoulders were locked tight, like she was ready to bolt any second. Just like that night at Mustang when she slapped me—that same defensive stance all over her body.
I didn't actually want to scare her—not now, not here. So for the rest of the evening, I just sipped my wine leisurely, chatted with Ryan about inconsequential business, pretending to be completely absorbed in this boring party, as if she didn't interest me at all.
But Natalie couldn't sit still. She stood up and addressed Ryan. "Sorry, I need to use the restroom."
She hurried toward the corridor by the courtyard side, her pale neck and that mole flashing before my eyes like the most tempting invitation.
I counted to ten.
Then I stood up too.
"Excuse me," I told Ryan.
Ryan blinked but didn't dare ask questions.
The corridor had a dark red carpet. The restroom was at the end of a relatively quiet hallway. When I pushed the door open, Natalie was standing at the mirror, hands braced on the marble counter, head down, shoulders rising and falling as she tried to steady her breathing. At the sound of the door, she looked up in alarm, saw me in the mirror, and spun around like a startled deer, back pressed against the cold counter.
"You..." Natalie's voice was tight. "This is the ladies' room!"
"I know." I reached back and locked the door with a deliberate click. I walked toward Natalie. She had nowhere to go, her gaze darting, could only stare at me helplessly.
I stopped in front of her, catching that familiar scent of warm orange blossom. The moment that fragrance hit my nostrils, my pants tightened.
Two months. I thought I'd forgotten her scent, but my body remembered ten thousand times better than my brain.
"Nightingale," I kept my voice low. "You remind me of someone I know."
Natalie looked up at me, blue eyes full of panic. The mask covered the upper half of her face but couldn't hide her bitten lip or her heaving chest. "Really? You've got the wrong person."
I didn't answer. My fingers traced the silver edge of the mask slowly, hooked a blonde curl that had escaped, and slid it toward her ear. Natalie's ears were sensitive. Sure enough, her breathing went completely ragged, the velvet neckline rising and falling. All I had to do was look down, and I could see the soft curves beneath.
My hands gripped Natalie's waist, and I lifted her onto the counter. She gasped, instinctively grabbing my shoulders. Her thighs hit the cold stone, and she shuddered, reflexively pressing half an inch closer into me.
Her chest pressed against my shirt.
God, I was about to explode.
"Richard..." Natalie's body trembled. Not from fear. Something else. I'd seen it too many times before. In bed. Beneath me when she came.
I'd bet anything she was already wet.
"You should call me Mr. Winston," I gripped her chin, tilting it up, forcing her face toward mine. My thumb moved from her chin to her lower lip, pressing that soft flesh. "After all, we just met."
She didn't speak. But her breath was hot against my fingers, making me want to replace my thumb with something else. So I pushed up Natalie's skirt hem, my palm sliding up her thigh.
That's when—
