TWENTY-ONE
“Miss,” says Tuxedo Man, bowing. When he gestures toward Michael, I understand I’m to make the rest of the walk to his table alone.
“Keep it together,” I warn myself through stiff lips as I approach Michael’s table. “Don’t say anything stupid. Let him do the talking.”
He doesn’t take his gaze off me as I walk. By the time I reach him, my face is throbbing with heat.
“Hi,” I say shyly.
He stands, kisses me on both cheeks, and smiles down at me. “Hi yourself. Sit.”
I do, only it’s more like collapsing. He kissed me! On both cheeks!
“Do you like bourbon?” He pushes his drink across the table toward me.
No. Gross. “Yes! I love it!” Relieved to have something to do other than drool at him, I guzzle the drink. And immediately regret it.
I cough as fumes sear my nose and throat. My grimace of disgust could win an award.
Michael chuckles. “How about a glass of wine instead?”
I’m so embarrassed I could wrap myself in one of the stupid velvet curtains and spend the rest of eternity cocooned under the table, but I nod because a rational answer is expected. “Thanks.”
Michael signals for a waiter, who materializes from thin air. “Sir?”
“A bottle of the 2000 Romanée-Conti.”
The waiter bows so low it’s comical. It looks like a yoga pose.
“Right away, sir.”
He vanishes as quickly as he arrived, leaving me, Michael, and my raging insecurity alone.
Michael leans against the booth, stretches one arm along the back, and smiles. “You came.”
I know it’s just me, but that sounded super sexual. “Um. Yes. I c-came.”
He stares at me until I want to squirm. Then he reaches out and softly touches my cheek. “Your cheeks are burning, Joellen.”
So are my panties, sir. “I’m a little . . . this is all a bit . . . surprising.”
I worry that’s the wrong thing to say, because his smile fades. He drags a hand through his hair, props both elbows on the table, and looks at the tablecloth. He’s wearing a jacket that matches the color of his eyes, a white shirt open at the collar, tan slacks, and a huge chunky gold watch that glitters under the lights. I think it has diamonds.
Cam would probably snicker at a man who wears a watch with diamonds.
Why am I thinking about Cam?
I sit up straighter, push McGregor out of my head, and focus on Michael. Beautiful, elegant Michael, who now looks like he’s about to cry. “Michael? Are you all right?”
He clears his throat and turns to me with a smile that looks forced. “I’m sorry. You’ll have to forgive me—it’s been a rough couple of weeks. This divorce . . .” He makes a dismissive motion with his hand. “Enough about me and my problems. Let’s talk about you.”
I don’t want to talk about me because I’m boring, but mostly because his show of emotion has made me bold. On impulse, I touch his arm. “It’s totally normal to be upset when you’re going through a divorce. You don’t have to pretend everything’s okay.”
Who am I now, Dr. Phil?
Michael gazes at me with a look of intense concentration, a little furrow between his brows. “Thank you. That’s very kind of you. I’ve always liked that about you, Joellen. You’re kind.”
He lightly rests his fingers on the back of my hand, and I have to force myself not to suck in a breath at the jolt of lust that zings through me.
We stare at each other in silence until the waiter reappears, then we break apart like we’ve been caught having sex in public.
I fan myself with my napkin while the waiter opens the bottle and pours two glasses of wine. This is hell on my nerves. If I get out of this club tonight without having a total mental breakdown, I’ll count myself lucky.
When the waiter leaves, Michael lifts his glass. “A toast.”
I lift my glass, too. “What are we toasting?”
Michael’s lips lift into a small, seductive smile. “New beginnings.”
A faint wheeze passes my lips. I repeat, “New beginnings,” in a strangled voice, and chug my wine in a few short gulps.
He doesn’t look at all disturbed by what most people would consider strong evidence of a drinking problem. He simply takes a sip of his own wine and refills my glass.
“You’re nervous.” He looks at me from the corner of his eye as he pours.
I exhale hard and close my eyes. “It’s that obvious?”
“Don’t be embarrassed. I’m flattered.”
I open my eyes and stare in disbelief at his handsome profile. “You’re flattered?”
“That,” he says with a chuckle, like he’s pointing something out. “I really like that.”
Now I’m confused. “What?”
He sets the bottle on the table and turns to me, blasting me with the full paralyzing effect of his baby blues. “You’re oblivious to how charming you are. It’s very appealing.”
It’s all I can do not to fall over dead. I swallow more wine and whisper shakily, “Thank you.”
After a moment where I refuse to look at him because I’m too afraid of what he might see on my face, he asks, “Do you find me attractive?”
I honk out a laugh that would sound at home coming from a goose. “Attractive? Are you kidding? I think you’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen!”
Except for Cam.
I’d like to slap whoever that little voice belongs to inside my head, but I don’t have time to dwell on it because Michael has settled his hand on my knee, causing my leg to erupt in flames.
I wore a skirt, one of the few I own. It’s a simple black thing, but it fits well. I did end up shaving my legs because I thought what the hell, if we end up shagging in the bathroom at the Liquid Kitty, my life will be complete.
But now that Michael has his hand on my bare skin—hopeful slut that I am, I didn’t wear panty hose—I think it might have been a bad idea, because the effect of his warm palm on my knee is what I imagine the three wise men felt when they first glimpsed the baby Jesus in the manger.
Namely, rapture.
“Thank you,” says Michael, his voice husky, his gaze on my lips. “I find you very attractive, too.”
He leans in until he’s so close I can smell his breath, sweet and aromatic with the dry spice of wine. He’s going to kiss me. Oh God. Oh shit. It’s really going to happen!
But then it’s not happening, because I’ve flattened my hand on his chest and held him back.
He stares at me. I stare at him. We’re both not sure what’s happening.
“Um . . . you’re technically still married, right?”
He blinks. Frowns. Shakes his head. “We’ve filed for divorce.”
Right! He’s a free agent! Get in there, girl!
My inner slut seems to have no conscience, but apparently I do. “I mean . . . it only just happened. Like, last week. Maybe you should . . . give yourself a minute to . . . adjust.”
His heart thuds hard and fast under my palm. I find it exquisitely erotic. Also I’d like to punch myself in the face.
“You’re probably right,” he says reluctantly, as if he doesn’t think I’m right at all. He pulls away slowly, looking confused.
I’m sure the man has never been denied anything in his life, but for some reason, here we are, in an alternate universe where it makes sense for a girl like me to turn down a man like him.
“No, you’re absolutely right.” He shakes his head as if clearing it, and now he looks appalled. “Good God, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I’m thinking. I keep putting you in these terrible positions. Next you’ll probably think I’m some kind of lecherous creep, expecting favors for advancement in the company!”
The thought had never crossed my mind, but now I’ve got Cam in my head, standing there staring at me with his arms folded over his chest, tapping his foot like I told you.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” I shout. Michael looks startled by my volume. I decide it’s time to guzzle more wine and do so with gusto.
The waiter reappears, asking if we’d like to order something to eat.
Michael takes charge. “Yes. We’ll each have filets, rare, and we’ll share the Caesar. And another bottle of wine.”
“Very good, sir.”
The waiter bows off, Michael reaches for his glass, and I sit in misery, wondering how this could have gone so wrong so fast.
I hate rare meat. I’m allergic to anchovies. When a man orders food for me without asking what I want, I don’t feel taken care of, I feel disrespected and honestly a bit murderous. And I can’t stop thinking about Cam, which is making me confused, uncomfortable, and irritated with myself, a trifecta of negative emotions that add up to an overwhelming urge to flee.
Oh, no. I’m about to do something stupid.
I turn to Michael with a brittle smile. “I’m gonna go. Thanks for the wine.”
“What? You’re going? You just got here!”
I scoot out of the booth before I can change my mind. “Sorry,” I mumble. “I’m sorry. See you at work.”
“Joellen, wait! Don’t go! Please, just sit down and talk to me!”
I hesitate because it’s the first time he’s used the word please. Everything else has been an order. I glance back at him. He’s standing at the side of the table, looking contrite, confused, and devastatingly gorgeous.
But something about this still feels wrong.
“Thank you so much for inviting me here, and thank you again for the wine, but I can’t stay for dinner. I . . . I already have dinner plans.”
He looks so crestfallen I feel guilty. So I hurry over to him and kiss him on the cheek before I can change my mind. When I pull away, he grabs my wrist and pulls me against his chest. Into my ear he says, “I want to talk more. Can I call you later?”
His warm breath fanning down my neck makes my eyes cross. I mumble a yes and ask if he has a pen so I can write down my number.
“That’s not necessary. I already have it.”
I frown, looking up at him. “You do?”
He smiles gently at me, still holding on to my wrist like it’s a leash. “Well, technically I have all my employees’ phone numbers.”
“Oh. Right.” I produce a nervous little laugh. “Of course you do.”
His gaze drops to my mouth, and his smile fades. He leans forward to kiss me, but I turn my face so his lips graze my cheek. His husky chuckle sends a tingle up my spine.
“Okay. I get it. We’re giving me time to adjust.” He grips my other wrist, pulls me even closer, and bends his head to my neck. He inhales against my skin, his lips skimming the sensitive spot just under my ear.
He whispers, “I hope it won’t take too long.” He presses the softest of kisses to the pulse pounding in my throat, then releases me so abruptly I stumble back.
His eyes are electric. They sear the space between us so it seems like the air itself will ignite.
Without a word, I turn around and run.
I’m pacing my living room rug when the knock comes on my door. “It’s open,” I call, already knowing who it is.
I could pick Cameron McGregor’s knock out of a police lineup of knocks. Like the man himself, it’s very distinctive.
He comes inside with his usual swagger, asking where his dinner is, but stops dead when he sees my face. His brows draw together. “Were you on the phone with your mum again?”
“I went for drinks with Michael. He tried to kiss me. Twice.”
Cam stands there for a moment, watching me pace. “Tried?”
I nod, chewing on my thumbnail, and turn around and pace the other direction.
Cam slowly closes the door, moves around me, and sits on the sofa. But he doesn’t prop his feet up on the coffee table like usual. He leans forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped, watching me walk. There’s a tenseness in the way he holds himself, a coiled readiness, as if at any moment he might spring to his feet. His eyes are like a hawk’s.
“You wanna tell me what happened?”
I tell him everything, from our sprint around the office hallways in the morning through the shortest, strangest date in the history of dating. When I’m finished, Cam is silent.
“What do you think?”
He slowly leans back, spreads his hands over his thighs, and exhales a breath through his nose. “I think it was smart.”
I stop pacing and look at him. “Smart? Which part?”
“The whole thing. It was well played. Delay will only make him want you more.”
“Cam, I wasn’t playing him!”
He cocks his head, inspecting my face. “So you didn’t want to kiss him?”
He sounds disbelieving, which pisses me off. “In case you haven’t noticed, this isn’t a game to me!”
“Don’t dodge the question.”
I growl in annoyance, tear the elastic out of the bun in my hair, and pace back the way I came. “It just didn’t feel right. The whole thing was weird. Like, sudden.”
Cam’s voice is dry. “You’ve been lustin’ after the man for a decade, lass. That’s hardly sudden.”
“Sudden from his side! He never noticed me before a few weeks ago, and now we’re drinking wine at his private club the second his wife files for divorce?”
“How d’you know he never noticed you before? Did he tell you that?”
I stop and consider it. “Well . . . no.”
“He’s been married the entire time you’ve known each other, right?”
“Yes.”
“So he wasn’t in a position to tell you if he fancied you. This was his chance.”
I drag my hands through my hair, still damp at the nape from my shower, and consider what he’s suggesting. Finally I drop onto the sofa next to him and sigh, rubbing my forehead. “Honestly I don’t know what to think. I acted like I was having a breakdown. I was a complete wreck. I probably blew it.”
“Except he said he wanted to call you.”
I shake my head, unconvinced and unsettled.
“What kind of wine did he order?”
I lift my head and stare at him. “Why does that matter?”
“It matters. Do you remember the name?”
I search my memory. “Romany Conty? Something like that?”
Cam looks impressed. “Jesus. He must really like you.”
“You recognize it? I thought you didn’t drink wine.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t know the name of one of the most expensive burgundies on earth. They’re at least a few thousand dollars a bottle.”
My mouth falls open. A wheeze of disbelief slips out.
“Let’s get back to you not wantin’ to kiss him. What’s that all about?”
I consider the question carefully but find I don’t have any good answers. “I guess . . . I was just too nervous.”
After a moment, Cam says, “Hmm.”
Before I can ask him what the hell he means by that cryptic “Hmm,” the house phone rings. I freeze in terror.
“Ohmigod. Do you think that’s him?”
“Only one way to find out, lass. Go answer it.”
I start to panic. “What if I say something really stupid? What if I ruin the whole thing? This might be my last chance with him!”
Cam looks at the ceiling and sighs, but I ignore his irritation because I’ve got a brilliant idea. I grab his arm and shake it.
“You go pick up the portable extension in my bedroom and walk me through it!”
He crinkles his nose. “Don’t be daft. I’m not lurkin’ in the background while you and pretty boy have phone sex!”
“We’re not going to have phone sex!” The phone continues to ring, and now I’m having heart palpitations. I shove Cam and leap to my feet, jabbing my finger in the direction of my bedroom. “Pick it up! Go, go, go!” I run into the kitchen and rip the phone from the wall, taking a deep breath before saying calmly, “Hello?”
“Joellen, it’s Michael.”
“Oh. Hi there.” I manage to sound nonchalant. Meanwhile I’m silently screaming at Cam and making wild arm motions directing him into my bedroom.
He shakes his head like he can’t believe he’s getting talked into this, rises from the couch, and disappears into my bedroom. A second later I hear a soft click and I know he’s picked up the line.
In a low, husky voice, Michael says, “I’m in the car. I couldn’t wait until I got home to call you.”
I respond with a lame and thoroughly unnecessary safety reminder. “I hope you have Bluetooth. It’s dangerous and illegal to drive while talking on the phone if you’re not hands free.”
Cam appears in my bedroom door, holding the portable phone receiver to his ear, grimacing in disgust. He mouths, You’re hopeless.
I frantically motion for him to join me in the kitchen.
Michael says, “I’m not driving. My driver is.”
“Oh.” Duh.
“But thank you for your concern.” There’s a touch of laughter in his voice. “It’s gratifying to know you’re worried about my safety.”
Cam strolls toward me making a rolling motion with his hand that I think means I should keep the conversation going.
“So, um . . . sorry again about running out on you like that. I think I was just nervous.”
Cam enters the kitchen and leans against the counter, looking bored. Until, that is, Michael next speaks.
“No apologies necessary. Though I have to admit when you said you already had plans for dinner, I was a little worried. You said there isn’t anything going on with you and that idiot Cameron McGregor character, but I hope I don’t have any other competition!”
Cam stiffens. His nostrils flare. His gaze slashes to mine, and in it I see a holocaust.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.