Mr. Tyler.” Yvette sauntered out of her building wearing a gorgeous black dress that clung to every inch of her toned and incredibly banging body. If you’d been living under a rock and didn’t know who Yvette Delacroix was, she was the Victoria’s Secret Angel with the “don’t fuck with me” strut, dark chocolate brown hair, and bedroom eyes. I’d been bugging Becca Barnes to hook us up for months.

Yvette wore a pair of five-inch silver stiletto heels and was pretty damn close to my height. I wanted to grab her up, flatten her against the door of my Maserati Levante, and give her a good tongue-fucking. Maybe I was the savage she’d accused me of being. I smiled at her, bowing slightly, and opened the passenger side door. She gave me a cat-with-the-cream smile and folded herself into the front seat, crossing her legs so that the black dress slid up and revealed several mouth-watering inches of creamy white thigh. Fuck. Me.

“Ever been to Andre’s?” I asked her after I’d closed the door behind me. I’d called her assistant (Sarah?) to figure out if Yvette Delacroix was a gourmet gal or a burger and beer kind of babe. “Gourmet,” the assistant had answered. Andre’s was going to blow Yvette’s mind.

“That little bistro in Cambridge?” she asked, pursing her lips. “C’est ca va.” And then she smiled and translated for me, “It’s okay.”

“Ca va?” I asked. “Well, then you clearly haven’t had their crab dip.” I spoke in flawless French with a damn solid Parisian accent. I had been a French minor in college, motherfuckers. Also a little known fact, I have my masters in comparative literature from the University of California Berkeley. Don’t tell the boys at Dudley’s Coffee. They don’t pay me to be smart.

“Mmm,” Yvette purred, considering me. “So, not just a pretty face, eh, bad boy?”

“Oh, I didn’t say I wasn’t pretty,” I winked. “And I didn’t say I wasn’t bad either.”

Thank God the ride to Andre’s was short. Yvette was blowing my mind, and being that close to her and not being able to touch...

I got out and gave the keys to the valet, opening Yvette’s door and offering her a hand to step out. She took my hand lightly in hers, and her touch was cool.

The owner was a big Patriot’s fan, and he came out to show us personally to our seat. I don’t think he had a clue who Yvette was, because he asked after the identity of my “beautiful guest.” I bet Yvette wasn’t used to being unknown, for she was frowning when we sat down.

“Ready to have your mind blown?” I asked her.

Yvette considered it, her brilliant eyes meeting mine across the table. Then she shrugged. When the waiter came up, I ordered a bottle of the white burgundy, the mussels and crab dip as an appetizer, and two of the arctic char entrees. I might look like an extra off of The Vikings set (hell, I had been an extra on The Vikings last summer), but I could pull off elegant when I chose to.

As we waited for food to arrive, I tried to get to know Yvette a bit better. I asked her questions about her parents and about modeling; I asked about her travels and her favorite foods. I’ll tell you what – she was flirty as hell. Her every shift in her seat seemed calculated to make me drool. A strap sliding down her shoulder, her dress sliding slowly up her thighs, the neck dipping down over her cleavage, and her hair brushed back behind perfect ears. She answered every one of my questions with a small smile or a charming wink and a clever retort.

It was halfway through the meal before I realized that she hadn’t asked me a single question. In fact, we’d finished the bottle of wine before I realized that for all that shifting, those clever remarks, and her winks – she was bored. She wasn’t at all interested in me, in the dinner, or in my conversation. Somewhere between the time I’d picked her up and the end of the appetizers, I’d managed to bore her.

Fuck. Fuck.

I switched tactics. I’d been trying to be friendly and warm. Maybe she wasn’t into that shit. Maybe she wanted Berserker Burke, the idiot tight end who spent his weekends in a DJ booth. Women were fucking difficult. Come on too strong with some of them, and you’re a misogynist, insensitive dickhead, but try to be fucking polite – you’re boring.

“D’accord,” I said, switching to French, for we’d been speaking in English. If she wanted a dickhead, I could be a dickhead. “Don’t tell me you’re not at all interested in me? We’ve been speaking about you for an hour. Are you going to play into all of the model stereotypes? Or are you going to be interesting?”

That had her. She sat up straight and looked startled. I stared at her, thinking about all of the delicious things I’d like to do to her in bed and letting it show on my face. Rather than get angry, she seemed to consider me for a moment. She leaned forward, accepting my challenge. Fuck, this woman was so fucking hot.

“Okay, Sauvage,” she said, her eyes sparking with sudden fire. “You speak French – have you been to Paris?”

“Not yet,” I said.

“So, you’ve never been to Le Cinq? You’ve never seen Opera at le Garnier?”

I blinked. Shit. “Not yet.”

“Have you been to Milan? What about Japan?”

“On my list of places to go.” What the hell? Was this some kind of test?

Yvette sat back as if I’d confirmed something, and the waiter chose that moment to come up and ask if we wanted anything else.

No way was I giving up that easily; I started to order another bottle of wine, but Yvette cut in. “Just the addition.” The waiter blinked at her.

“The check,” I translated, dumbfounded. The waiter had it on him, and I handed him my Black card. Yvette dabbed the sides of her perfectly lipsticked mouth with her napkin, and she filled the silence he’d left by talking about Becca Barnes and saying how maybe she’d come by and watch a game this season.

She was letting me down easy! She was fucking letting me down easy! Flashbacks to college when I’d thought being a football star would land me all the girls I wanted, but the cheerleaders hadn’t known what to make of the star tight end who wanted to talk about Emile Zola…

The waiter brought the check back, and Yvette stood up as I was signing. She politely waited for me as I rose. I offered her my arm, and she took it (thank God!) and let me walk her out.

“Do you want to get a drink downtown?” I asked as the Valet rushed off to find my car.

“Oh no,” she said, pointing to a dark Cadillac pulling up around the corner. “I’ve got a party to go to.” She leaned up, her perfume wafting up around me as she kissed my cheek lightly. “Thank you for dinner, Sauvage.”

And before I could object, she strolled toward the Cadi, opened the door, and disappeared inside.