Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 104821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Thankfully, it was an invisible, metaphorical line. If it were real, I’d be screwed in my four-inch heels.
The line meant I had two rules for tonight: think before I speak, and no more freaking blushing.
The young guy at the door smiled at me and opened the glass-front door for me. “Ma’am.” He dipped his head.
“Thank you.” I shot him my best smile and stepped inside. The light was low, and I was only able to see thanks to the dim lights that hung over each table. “I’m here for Damien Fox,” I said to the hostess.
She smiled and ran her finger down the list in front of her. “Follow me, Ms. Lloyd.” She stepped out from behind the platform and guided me through the dimly-lit restaurant to the very back. The high-backed, black leather booths provided privacy from the other patrons, and I wasn’t at all surprised that this was the table he’d booked.
I also knew that these particular tables booked out months in advance, so he’d pulled some serious strings for this.
A smile crossed his lips as he caught sight of me. He slid out of the booth, and I took the moment to admire the way his black shirt hugged his body. It fit him perfectly, like a second skin, and just gave the hint of solid muscles on his upper arms.
What? I was human. He might have been an arrogant ass, but he was a hot arrogant ass.
“Ms. Lloyd,” he said in a low voice, taking my hand.
My skin tingled as he brushed his lips over my knuckles. “Mr. Fox. I see you’re pulling out all the stops.”
He ran his dark gaze over my body. “Speak for yourself, sweetheart.”
I raised an eyebrow. I wanted to say, “What? This old thing?” but then he’d assume I’d bought it for him, and I’d owned it for nine months. I just hadn’t worn it yet. “That sounded like a compliment.”
“I am capable of such things.” He kept hold of my hand until I was sitting down. Taking his own seat, he said, “Red or white?”
“Rosé.”
He ran his tongue over his lower lip, hiding a smile, and turned to the hostess. “A bottle of your finest rosé for the lady.”
With a nod, she disappeared.
Damien pulled his attention back to me. “I’m starting to think you do that to be awkward.”
I had to fight my own smile. “Partially,” I admitted. “But I do prefer rosé to the others.”
“You don’t drink red or white?”
“I’ll drink Chardonnay if I can’t get a rosé, but why would I choose to not drink my favorite wine in a place I know they serve it?”
“Especially when I’m the one asking you.”
“Exactly.”
His eyes shone with amusement. “You look beautiful.”
He was taking the charm offensive route, obviously.
“Thank you. You don’t look so bad yourself,” I replied, crossing my legs under the table.
It was at that moment that a waitress returned with a bottle of wine. We went through the whole pour, sniff, sip, approve, pour some more routine before she set the bottle down and left us to look at the menu.
“That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Damien said when we were alone. “Have you been drinking already?”
“No, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t tempted.” He didn’t need to know about the vodka shot for some good old Dutch courage. That little moment was between me and Mr. Grey Goose.
He offered me a menu and, wordlessly, I took it. The leather-bound book was soft beneath my fingers as I opened it to the appetizers page. Minutes of silence passed while we both looked through the dishes on offer, but I wasn’t really focused.
What was the purpose of this dinner?
What was his aim?
What was his game?
Surely, he had to know that on some level, there was no chance I’d sell to him. Was he really attempting the seduction technique to see if he could win that way? Would he give up when he didn’t?
Why didn’t I have any of these answers still? And why wasn’t I bold enough to just ask all of them to his face?
I knew the answer to that last question; he’d have all the answers, but none of them would be genuine or true. They’d all be lies, fabricated to further whatever his agenda was.
I glanced at him over the top of my menu. He was focused on his own, his eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks with his downward gaze.
He was smooth. Too smooth. Too handsome. Too sleek and perfect and untouchable.
And secretive.
Why didn’t anybody know anything about him? Here I was, having dinner with him, and all I really knew about him was that he was relentless in his pursuit of the things he wanted, he owned a ton of business, and his dad potentially had contacts within the mafia.