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"I’m aware of how much you love your accessories, especially your shoes and purses. And I know you’d never place your bag on the floor. And putting it on the table is simply gauche, so—" He raises a shoulder.
"So, you arranged for an extra chair for my Birkin?"
"Was I wrong?"
"You were..." I hesitate. I don’t want to admit he’s right. That he correctly anticipated that I do take great care of my shoes and my handbags. They’re an extension of me. They project who I am to the world. They are more than a brand statement; they are a declaration of how much I value myself. Somehow, I hadn’t expected this…uppity, almost-royalty twat to understand that. But in one fell swoop, he’s done that and more. Probably just a lucky guess. Maybe I’m reading too much into it. I place my handbag on the chair and tip up my chin. "Thanks," I murmur.
"You’re welcome." He inclines his head.
I glance about the restaurant again. "So, we’re the only ones here?"
"And the bodyguards."
In my peripheral vision, I spot my security detail positioning themselves at strategic points in corners around the room and standing by the entrance. It’s dim enough that their black suits blend with the shadows. Only, I can’t forget they’re there, of course. It’s a necessary evil I’ve lived with since I took on this position.
"You know I don’t mean them, either."
"There’s also the service staff." He waves a hand in the air, and as if by magic, a waiter materializes next to him with a bottle of champagne.
"Are we celebrating something?" I scowl.
"You agreed to have dinner with me—"
"I agreed to give you two hours to convince me why I shouldn’t hate the idea of you" —he begins to speak, and I raise a finger— "of which, you now have eighty minutes left."
He curls his lips. "Are you always this…blinkered?"
"Are you always this…carefree?" I snap.
His grin widens. "Appearances can be deceptive."
"You don’t say."
He arches an eyebrow at the waiter who pops the cork on the champagne. The sound ricochets about the space, emphasizing, again, that we are the only ones here.
"You still didn’t tell me where everyone else is," I murmur.
The waiter pours the bubbly into my glass, then Hunter’s. He places the bottle in the ice bucket perched on a stand next to the table that I only now notice. Then he fades away into the darkness.
"Given the potential speculation seeing the two of us together could cause, naturally, I had to find a solution to take you out to dinner in a public space while ensuring we had privacy."
"Ergo, you used your money and influence to buy out the place?"
"I simply asked the owner, who happens to be a friend, if he could accommodate us. And he did."
"Is it always this easy for you? To wave your hand and have all of your needs met? To incline your head and have minions jump to do your bidding? To ask and always receive?"
"Except with you."
He narrows his blue-green gaze on me from across the expanse of the table. The candlelight highlights the golden-brown specks in the depths of his eyes and haloes his dark hair, turning it almost blue. The hollows under his cheekbones seem more pronounced, the dip in his chin seems more delicious.
I try to tear my gaze from his, but it’s as if he holds me in a tractor beam. Awareness tugs on and stretches the air between us. My heart begins to race. This is ridiculous. So, he’s good-looking. I knew that already. What I hadn’t realized is that hidden behind that polished mask he presents to the world is an untamed animal. A beast lying in wait to unleash that darkness inside of him. An edginess, a sharp wickedness that I never would’ve guessed he’d be capable of, but which I sense now lapping at the restraints that he’s placed on himself.
I curl my fingers around the stem of my champagne glass. "I didn’t say I wanted champagne."
"You love champagne. It’s your drink of choice," he declares.
My eyebrows shoot up. "And you guessed this, how?"
