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The latter held infinitely more appeal.
Her gaze came back to his, held for a moment, and awareness thickened the air between them. He saw the flicker of her eyelids, the surge of tell-tale colour in her cheeks, and knew she was just as conscious of their chemistry as he. Heat skated through him, but then the waiter arrived with their starters and Emily dropped her gaze. Lingering by the table, the waiter began to explain the different culinary elements on their plates. Ramon went to wave him off until he noticed that Emily was listening intently. He sat back and let the Frenchman finish, then watched her pick up her knife and fork and take a sample, sliding a sliver of beef carpaccio into her mouth. ‘You’re a foodie,’ he observed, forcing his gaze away from those soft, perfectly shaped lips.
She glanced up. ‘If that means I appreciate good food, then yes, I suppose I am.’
He picked up his own cutlery. ‘Do you dine out often?’
She shook her head. ‘Only occasionally.’
Her answer pleased Ramon more than it should have. He’d already learned from young Marsha—who had a talkative streak he’d shamelessly exploited—that Emily had no significant other and preferred working to socialising. But, workaholic or not, Emily Royce was too beautiful to escape male notice. If she’d said yes to his question, he would’ve imagined her being wined and dined by men with a great deal more than food on their minds, and that was sufficient to turn his thoughts inexplicably dark.
‘I suppose you eat out all the time,’ she said, ‘With all the travelling that you do.’
‘When the mood takes me.’ Which, admittedly, was often. Dining alone rarely appealed and, no matter where in the world he was, he never wanted for a willing companion. Lately, however, his palate had become jaded, the abundance of food, wine and women failing to distract him.
This past week in London was a prime example. Twice he’d gone out with his friend Christophe only to return to his suite before midnight, alone. Not that he’d encountered a shortage of enthusiastic women, but none had held his interest. It’d left him restless and frustrated. Pursuing pleasure was a means of distraction. The alternative—boredom—was dangerous. It invited reflection, and looking too deeply inside himself never revealed anything good. That was why he never stood still for long. Why he always looked for his next challenge, whether in the boardroom or the bedroom.
Refocusing, he took a mouthful of rare, tender venison and, following Emily’s lead, paused for a moment to savour the flavour and texture of the food. It was, he appreciated as he swallowed, outstanding.
‘Good?’
Realising he’d closed his eyes, he opened them and looked straight into Emily’s. ‘Exceptional,’ he said, dropping his gaze to her mouth, knowing he’d give up the rest of his meal in a flash for one taste of those luscious lips. There would be no boredom with Emily, he decided. Not with all those hidden depths to
explore. She would challenge him in bed, just as she did in the office. Lust churned through his veins, hot and savage, triggering a flood of explicit thoughts as tempting as they were dangerous.
‘May I ask what percentage of your revenue is generated by your food and beverage department?’
He looked at her, her question making a mockery of the desire raging through his body. She was talking business while he pictured her naked and spread beneath him. He wondered if he’d misread the signs of attraction and then he saw how tightly she gripped the handles of her cutlery. How short and shallow her breaths were and how the pulse in her throat flickered visibly. No. He hadn’t misread anything. She was fighting for control of her body, just as he was doing. With brutal determination, he concentrated his thoughts and came up with a number that sounded correct.
And then she asked another question, something about the occupancy rate of Saphir’s suites, and he understood that she was attempting to keep things impersonal. Preventing the undercurrent of sexual tension from pulling them under.
Right then his body wanted anything but impersonal. And yet his brain conceded that restraint was the wisest action. Emily didn’t strike him as the kind of woman who indulged in casual affairs. If they slept together, and her expectations went beyond the physical side of things, she’d only end up disappointed. Or, worse, hurt.
Still, keeping his mind focused and his urges restrained proved a challenge throughout the rest of their meal. When Emily’s dessert finally came, he sat with his double-shot espresso in front of him and watched her devour every last morsel of the rich, decadent dark chocolate soufflé. At the end she licked her spoon clean, the tip of her pink tongue catching one last smear of chocolate, and Ramon suppressed a groan. He could feel his body responding. Feel a stirring of the old, impulsive recklessness he knew better than to indulge.
Emily looked up and froze, the spoon in her hand suspended halfway between her mouth and the plate. ‘Ramon...’
Hearing her say his forename for the first time—and in that husky, slightly breathless tone—sent a small shockwave of heat through him that mingled explosively with the lust. He dragged his gaze from her mouth and locked onto those silver-grey eyes.
‘Stop,’ she whispered, her eyes wide and pleading, and he didn’t feign innocence.
There was no point.
He knew his desire was stamped on his face and he wouldn’t pretend it didn’t exist. His reputation as a player was well-earned but he didn’t engage in cat-and-mouse games. When he set his sights on a woman he pursued her without pretence. He wouldn’t deny the truth, to Emily or to himself.
And the truth was, he wanted her.
* * *
She’d had too much champagne.
Emily put down her spoon and lowered her gaze from Ramon’s. She couldn’t watch his eyes stare at her mouth a moment longer. Not because she felt scandalised by the brazen interest in his heavy-lidded gaze, but rather because of the wild curiosity pulsing through her. The shocking temptation to lean across the table, part her lips and invite him to take what he wanted in spite of having just now implored him to stop.
Oh, yes. She’d had too much to drink.
And it was time to be sensible. Time to steer the conversation back to safer ground.
Except she’d tried that, hadn’t she? And it hadn’t worked. Worse, now she found herself not wanting to behave sensibly at all. Not yet, at any rate. She was dining in Paris in plush, exotic surroundings with a man who made her think about sex! She was, quite literally, miles removed from her normal, familiar world and she didn’t feel like herself. She felt like Cinderella, and she wasn’t ready for the ball to end.
