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He coughs into his champagne, then dabs his serviette to his mouth, giving me a reprimanding look. “Jesus. Don’t say things like that.”
I eat a chunky chip, chuckling. “And your answer?”
“As many times as I can manage?”
“Ballpark?”
“Dunno. Three or four?”
“Okay, I’d be happy with that.” I think about what he said and frown. “Wait, you mean three or four times over the next few days, right?”
“Three or four times a night,” he corrects. His brows draw together. “Although we’ll probably be radioactive by the end.”
“What?”
He finishes off his champagne, his eyes sparkling as much as the wine. “I finally have you within arm’s reach. You really think I’m going to have you once and then roll over and go to sleep?”
I narrow my eyes, then say, “You’re messing with me.”
“No. Ordinarily, maybe once a night might be satisfactory, but our time’s limited, and I want to make the most of you.” His eyes gleam with amusement. “I don’t know what you expected, but you’re going to get seriously screwed this weekend.”
I catch my breath. This competition to try to shock each other is pointless. He’s always going to win.
He flicks open the buttons on his jacket, slides it off, and places it over the back of his chair. The front of his waistcoat is made from the same material as his jacket and trousers, but the back is satin, and a lighter blue with a gorgeous swirling pattern in the fabric. The contrast with the crisp whiteness of his shirt is startling.
“I’m guessing your suit is bespoke,” I say, somewhat faintly. It fits snugly to his frame. “Where’s it from?”
“A very nice Italian tailor.”
“In Wellington?”
“In Italy.”
My eyebrows rise. “You actually go to Italy to get your suits?”
“I do. My business suits are British, from Savile Row. My evening suits are Neapolitan.”
I lean a chin on my hand, fascinated. “What’s the difference?”
“The cut, as well as some of the features. Both styles have high armholes compared to the American suit. But Italian suits have less shoulder padding. They’re snug fitting, with piped pockets.” He lifts the jacket to show me. “British suits have flapped pockets and usually a ticket pocket. They developed from military uniforms, so they’re stiffer and more structured. Great for the office. Italian suits are more flamboyant; they have brio. Perfect for the evening.”
“Brio?” I’ve not heard that word.
“Panache. Style.” He lifts an eyebrow and smiles.
“You fascinate me,” I tell him, a tad breathless.
“It’s not unusual to wear an Italian suit. Saxon and Damon are the same.”
“Yeah, but they don’t give me the feels.”
He meets my eyes, and we study each other for a while.
“I like the way you look at me,” he says eventually.
I smile, then lean back as Wiremu approaches to collect our plates. “Would you like to see the dessert menu?” he asks.
“Yes, please,” Kip says. Wiremu takes the plates away, then returns with a menu for each of us.
