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“I want to show you something.” He tips his glass and finishes his bourbon, gesturing for me to finish my drink as well. Never one to shy from a challenge, and because I have no idea how to respond to his sincerity, I gulp mine down, enjoying the last olive for dessert.
I walk with him through the crowd of well-dressed people in my on-sale dress and uncomfortable shoes. Unsurprisingly, heads turn. We garner male and female attention alike. The women fiddle with their necklaces and watch him with longing before sending me decidedly less favorable glances. I have the idea many of them wouldn’t mind a moment on his arm.
Or in his bed.
I can’t blame them. He’s tall, handsome, and powerful. He’s not wrong about loneliness. I’ve been there. Since I met him, though, that shadowed corner has seen some light. What I crave is attention, and yes, connection. I didn’t expect to find it in Nathaniel Owen.
Navigating through this gallery and that, I ignore the throb of my toes in these shoes. Never again. Nate nods to the guards. I have a momentary fantasy in which I’m Rene Russo to his Pierce Brosnan in The Thomas Crown Affair, which only adds to the surreal-ness of this moment.
We arrive at a pair of double glass-paned doors and Nate pulls a key from his pocket. “Lainey Owen—my mother—donated the roses.”
He slips the key into the antique doorknob and opens the doors, gesturing for me to walk ahead of him. The courtyard is lit by iron lampposts shining softly overhead. I admire the night sky and wonder if he stipulated low wattage bulbs to allow for stargazing here as well.
Rose bushes tower on my left and on my right. A stone path cuts through the garden and wraps around. I follow it, admiring the various-colored roses at every turn. They choke the air with their sweet, unique fragrance.
“Beautiful.” I touch a pale peach bud.
“Yes, very.” I turn to tell him to keep his cheesy lines to himself, but the words lock in my throat. He’s watching me, intent, his eyes blazing. He cups my hip with one hand, then lifts the other to my jaw. Then. He kisses me.
His mouth is firm, surrounded by a rough five o’clock shadow practically invisible given its light color. I feel it, though. My eyes close when his tongue slides into my mouth. I don’t resist.
I grip the lapel of his suit jacket with one hand and tug him against me. Heat surrounds me, infiltrates me, assaults me. His tongue tastes of bourbon and the faintest tinge of brine from the olive he ate.
When his lips leave mine, his chest expands to take a breath. “That martini tastes better on you.”
As lines go it’s a good one. I don’t hide my grin of appreciation.
“You’ve stepped outside your comfort zone tonight,” he observes. I have. I drew attention to myself the moment I rested my palm on his forearm. All eyes were on us when I let him lead me away from the event. “Care to take it further?” His palm still warming my hip and my jaw, he dips his chin in the direction of the lit exit sign. “I’ll cover for you with Daniel. Tell him you stayed the whole hour. He’ll believe me.”
“Hmm. You two seem chummy lately.”
Nate’s grin makes that comment worth it. “Vivian Vandemark. You really do believe the worst of me, don’t you?”
I lift and drop one bare shoulder. His blue eyes take in the move. He wants me. The feeling is mutual. And after that kiss, more like sixty-forty.
“Stop denying yourself,” he murmurs with a cocksure tip of his lips. He pulls me closer, teasing with his mouth hovering over mine. We’re practically chest to chest but he doesn’t kiss me again.
I’ve been denying myself for years. Truth is, I’m damn sick of it. My craving for him is visceral. He’s potent and he was also right. I’m lonely. We can take advantage of each other in the most delightful way…
I don’t need a formal invitation but he offers one, mistaking my silence for hesitation.
“Come home with me.”
I shed my guard like a second skin, pressing my breasts to his suit and whispering my answer against his mouth. “Okay.”
