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“Put it on mine,” Dante’s voice was low and gravelly, his accent like a Spanish summer on her skin. Maggie felt her heart stutter. As always, she experienced a sinking feeling of depression to realise that she’d hooked her target.
Oh, it was the purpose of her evening, so she should have been relieved. Only Maggie always hoped against hope that these poor wives were wrong. That their husbands weren’t out trying to shag anything that moved.
Her faith remained shaken; her hope unwarranted. In the two years she’d played her part in these undercover operations, not once had a single target turned her down.
She concealed her disappointment and instead, angled her head to fix Dante with a slow, steady appraisal. She had to convince him that she was interested. That she was available. She needed him to do something that showed his despicable morals for the sake of the camera.
It was always the same tactic. Get the man to make a move, be sure the photographer had snapped the image, then whisper something sexy about freshening up, and affect a silent escape before any real seduction could take place. She was happy to get the proof these women required, but not to be complicit in the marriage breakdown by actually doing anything with the sleazy husbands.
“That’s not necessary,” she demurred, all the while making a show of eating him up with her eyes. It was not hard. He was sinfully good looking. Not in that movie star way that some girls seemed to go wild for. He was darkly tanned, with jet-black hair and dark eyes that were flecked with caramel. He had a scar that ran from his ear to his nose; it wasn’t dark nor deep, but it was still visible – a silver highway on the roadmap of his face. She would have guessed it had happened many years ago. She banked down on her curiosity. This was an act. Nothing more.
“A beautiful woman on her own in a bar, buying one of my wines. Of course I will add it to my bill.”
“One of your wines?” She blinked her huge blue eyes, feigning ignorance.
His lips curled into a sardonic smile. “Si. Something I suspect you are well aware of.”
Maggie’s heart was pounding against her chest now. She propped an elbow on the bar, and lifted the glass to her mouth. It was a beautiful red wine, light in body but robust and spiced. “It’s lovely,” she complimented, replacing the glass on the bar top. She lifted an index finger to her lips and wiped an imaginary droplet of wine from the corner of her mouth along her lower lip. His eyes followed the gesture, and when he looked at her again, the desire was unmistakable.
“Shall we find somewhere more private to enjoy this?” He asked, leaning across her to pick up the bottle. In doing so, he brushed his arm across her breasts, and effectively trapped her where she was with his legs.
She gulped. If she sought photographic proof, then surely that gesture alone would suffice.
“Sure,” she nodded, leaning her head forward so that she could whisper in his ear. That would be the clincher for the snapper, she thought, inhaling his scent deeply. “Why don’t you find a table and I’ll go and freshen up?”
“You are fresh enough,” he murmured with a shake of his head. “And I am not a man to be kept waiting.”
Maggie’s pulse was going haywire; her nerve endings were reverberating with a strange energy brought on by this man.
“Oh,” she said quietly, lowering her eyes. Though she was certain she had proven his intentions sufficiently for the photographer’s purpose, what would the harm be in getting a few more shots? An extra snap or two wouldn’t hurt. Telling herself it was the only reason she acquiesced, she found herself nodding, slowly, her eyes holding his steadily.
“Excellent,” he said with a decisive nod of his raven-dark hair.
Maggie followed behind him, uncertainty flowing through her veins. It was impossible to separate the assignment she’d been given with the very real desire that was beating its own pulse in her body. But it was unmistakable, the desire. Like a force pounding through her, she felt a bone-deep attraction to Dante Velasco.
He was someone else’s husband! And a husband known to be unfaithful. She lowered her gaze to his long, tanned fingers and saw that he did not wear a ring. Well, why would he? If he intended to leave his wife at home and flirt with other women?
“This looks good,” Maggie stopped walking and pointed to a table near the piano.
“No.” He did not pause, but continued weaving through the bar, until finally he reached one tucked around a corner. It was too secluded to be an accident, and he was too quick to find it for it to be his first time.
Just once, she would like to be proven wrong. Just once, she would like one of these guys to say to her, “Oh, I’m married. Have a great night though.”
It was just not the way of men, though, she thought with a sigh. She had come here tonight, dressed in such a way that practically laid her out on a platter for him. And he was grabbing a fork and preparing to dig in.
When she sat down, he didn’t even bother with pretending to keep his distance. He placed one arm along the edge of the chair, and he lifted the other hand, pressing a finger against her lower lip. “Your mouth is very sexy,” he said seriously, running his fingertip along the same path she had traced only minutes earlier.
“Thank you,” she said, dipping her head forward. She felt shy around him. It was unusual for her, but such was his overpowering charisma that she felt her own natural ebullience weaken in response.
“Here.” He held her wine glass to her. “Tell me what you taste.”
Maggie took a large gulp. She was grateful for the feeling of it burning down her throat. “I’m not much of a wine connoisseur,” she lied, replacing the glass on the table.
“Just try.”
Maggie took another sip, and this time, she described the flavours. “Cinnamon and blackcurrant.”
“Very good,” he said. “The flavour of wine is very personal. Everyone tastes something different. But I taste what you taste, and I think that bodes well. Do you agree?”
