Page 19 of The Billionaire Invitation

“I can’t drink another glass of wine without eating,” she said.

Which was not a no to more wine.

“We have menus,” Lucas said.

“And excellent room service,” Dante told her.

He didn’t miss the catch in her breath as she considered his offer. Inviting her up was bold, possibly reckless, but he wanted it so badly he could taste it.

He could only hope that was what she wanted, too.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Dante pressed the button for the elevator, his other hand wrapped around a freshly opened wine bottle.

Honesty reminded herself that at any point she could say no, and Dante would respect that. There was only one problem. She didn’t want to say no. She wanted to shout “yes” over and over again throughout the night. The need was so visceral, it frightened her a little.

She couldn’t blame wanting him on the wine she’d drunk, since the idea of him naked had entered her mind the moment she slipped off her suit jacket and handed it to him. Her asking for the check had been a weak attempt to usher her hormones out the door before they took over and raided the village.

She’d felt the current of his electric gaze sailing through her bloodstream. As much as she’d tried to focus solely on her questions about her fledgling nonprofit, she’d been unable to ignore the pulsating hum in her veins.

Bing! The elevator doors opened when the digital screen read PH. They had arrived at his penthouse. He held the doors and gestured for her to go ahead of him.

The floor boasted a lush lobby that was a miniature version of the one on the ground floor, minus the front desk and bar. The hallway split into two, with a suite on the left and one on the right. Dante put his hand on the small of her back and guided her to the left.

“Wait until you see the view of the city from up here.” He let them into the room, and when the door swung aside, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, certainly not this much…opulence.

The heels of her leather mules clacked across marble flooring as she took in the view through floor-to-ceiling windows. The rain had stopped, but drops and rivulets were suspended in time on the glass. Beyond, tall buildings checkered with lit windows loomed, black silhouettes against a gray cloudy sky.

She rested her tote on a massive marble coffee table that housed a stack of books and a vase filled with white hydrangeas. A huge L-shaped cream leather sofa and two curved chairs facing the windows on the other side of the coffee table dominated the space.

Dante stood at a built-in bar, its backlit shelves arranged with crystal glasses and a selection of top-shelf liquor bottles.

While he popped the loosened cork from the bottle and poured a splash of red into two wine glasses with long, elegant stems, she took a look around at the rest of the space.

Next to the bar, a black baby grand piano was ready for its close-up. Behind the bar a pair of open double doors revealed a table ringed with plush leather chairs. To her left was the bedroom. From where she stood, she could only make out part of a settee and table and the foot of what appeared to be a very large bed.

She touched her throat, suddenly warm.

“Take a tour,” Dante called over. “I’ll order room service. Unless that’s stepping on your nutritionist toes? Do you have any restrictions?”

Clearly not, since she was standing in her ex-boyfriend’s penthouse suite after swearing to herself she’d go home after one drink.

“I trust you,” she said. Oddly enough, and regardless of the past between them, that felt true.

She headed for the bedroom, too curious to keep from it. A massive California king bed dressed in crisp white sheets and a thick, downy duvet was in the center of the wall, an abstract painting overhead. She ran her hands over a folded brown throw neatly spanning the foot of the bed. Cashmere.

But of course.

A walk-in closet outfitted with a dressing area, custom shelves, and mirrored doors held Dante’s clothes. She took in the line of white shirts, suit pants, and jackets, and shelves packed with shoes.

“It’s a lot for two weeks, isn’t it?” he commented as he stepped into the room. He handed over her glass of wine. “My stylist set me up to live here even though I explained to her that I’d be in and out in two weeks, tops.”

His stylist? She sipped the full-bodied wine, rolling it around her mouth as she marveled at their differences.

When they’d been in college, Dante hadn’t behaved as if he’d been rich. Sure, he had lived in his own apartment—not a dorm room like her—but his place hadn’t been a lush bachelor pad with fine wines and walk-in closets. It seemed he’d blended into his wealthy lifestyle seamlessly. This was a penthouse befitting of a billionaire philanthropist.

“You think I’m all polish and no substance, don’t you?” he asked as if reading her mind.