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He looked like he had a secret to share that I was all too eager to hear.
Unashamed, he perused me with open interest, an appreciative glint in his eyes. He liked what he saw, he told me silently.
I faced him in my seat and crossed my right leg over my left.
His jaw clenched and his nostrils flared when he took in the tops of my naked thighs. Tonight, I wore a low-scoop backless mini-dress with a high neck halter top. Demure in the front. Scandal in the back. It was one of the few black dresses I owned that made me feel sexy, confident, and like I could have anything I wanted in the snap of a finger.
The man finally spoke, and his voice was a gruff purr that caused my toes to curl in my strappy heels. “Why didn’t you defend yourself?”
Taken aback by his response, I murmured, “Pardon me?”
“That guy called you a whore. Why didn’t you defend yourself?”
I almost sputtered, caught off-guard by his bluntness. “Because he simply wasn’t worth it.”
“Hm.” He clicked his tongue, swirling the contents in his glass and taking another swig. He drained the whiskey, then set it down on the bar top with athunk, signalling to the bartender for a refill. “Yet it bothered you. Wouldn’t you rather set him straight so he doesn’t repeat those words to another woman?”
No, it hadn’t crossed my mind in the heat of the moment.
It irked me that this man brought it up. Almost like he was accusing me of not doing better. It dimmed his sex appeal. A little. Barely. “Of course it bothered me, but I was too focused on ushering him away.”
I flicked my chin in a manner I knew was haughty and fished a maraschino cherry out of my drink. I licked it first before plopping it in my mouth.
He watched me with barely concealed hunger. “Fair enough. Although I must admit, whore doesn’t always have to be a derogatory term.”
“Pardon me?” That was twice.
He shifted a seat closer. I was hit with a wave of his spicy cologne, and how he was even bigger, bolder, taller up close. Truly alluring with those brown eyes and long lashes.
“Whore,” he rasped the word like it was the sweetest term of endearment. “Some even use it as a pet name during sex. Along with other colourful words most would deem derogatory towards a womanoutsideof the bedroom.”
At this proximity, I could smell the whiskey on him. But he wasn’t intoxicated. He seemed like a man who was constantly in control of all things, including his inhibitions, without being afraid of indulging whenever he liked.
The way wickedness gleamed in his eyes, I was the next thing he wanted to indulge.
“And you are telling me this because?” I asked coyly, arching my eyebrow.
He gave me a shark grin. “Maybe I’m trying to persuade you to see things differently.”
“What’s your name?” I figured it was an important piece of information if he wanted me to ‘see things differently’.
He leaned closer and I welcomed his nearness.
“Zeno,” he rasped. “What’s yours?”
“Darla.” I bit my bottom lip. He licked his own, staring at mine. “Your accent…are you from here?”
There was a slight hint of it, but it was masked for the most part.
“I’m Italian, but I grew up in France.” He saidFrancethe same way he saidwhore—with a purposeful drawl. “My family came to Canada when I was thirteen. I’ve been living in Montardor ever since.”
“Interesting.” I took a sip of my martini, watching him with intent.
Zeno gauged me as his finger reached out to tuck a strand that fell out of my chignon, gently skimming it behind my ear.
“Has anyone told you how beautiful you look tonight, Darla?” he dragged out my name as if tasting it on his tongue the way you would the first sip of rare wine.
I loved it. “Thank you.”
