Damn the distance to the Pearl, an out-of-the-way place that the more civilized members of my crowd like to frequent because it’s known for a private atmosphere and a chef who’s criminally underpaid, even at prices that are out of reach for most New Yorkers. At least, so I’ve heard. This is the first time since that disaster of a relationship that I’m even considering staying in the city for more than a month, so it’s possible the general population has become quite a bit wealthier while I was gone.

She was going to kiss me. And I wouldn’t have blamed her. Sitting so close to her in that car, breathing in the clean, sweet scent of her, made me want to run my hands up her thighs, push her dress up to her waist, and plow myself into her to the hilt. I would have settled for that kiss. I would have settled for anything. And as much as Kennedy is fighting to stay on the safe side of whatever this is between us, I think she might have gone for it, too.

But I’m not going to ask John to drive us around while I do what I really want, which is to make her come so hard she forgets her name, let alone all about these strange fears and hesitations of hers, until all that’s left is the two of us.

So I discreetly adjust the thick bulge in the front of my pants while I’m coming around to her side of the car, and take a deep breath of the humid August air. I’ll ignore the inferno raging between us and settle in for what’s probably going to be the nicest dinner of Kennedy’s life.

For now.

She still has pink cheeks from that almost kiss when she takes my hand and steps out of the car, looking toward the building. It’s an elegant pre-war brownstone that looks like it should be an apartment, and a flicker of doubt crosses Kennedy’s face. “This is the restaurant?”

I let her hand drop to her side and slide my palm around the side of her waist, guiding her toward the door. She leans back, hesitating a little or pressing my hand more firmly onto the small of her back—I can’t tell which—and I lean down. “This is a highly exclusive dining establishment that caters to people…” I choose my words carefully, because I don’t want to come off like some asshole who’s obsessed with his money. “…people of means who like a little more privacy. It’s very intimate.”

She relaxes a little into my touch, a relieved smile spreading across her full lips. “I take it there won’t be blaring house music and too many people crowded onto a dance floor.”

I raise my other hand to my ear, pausing in the middle of the sidewalk. “Not tonight, it sounds like.”

Kennedy laughs a little at my joke, and a warmth spreads through my chest and down my spine.

We’re steps away from the door when it swings open to reveal a host in a pristine tuxedo, and the last of the tension dissolves from Kennedy’s face. I’m not sure what she was imagining—some secret sex dungeon, maybe, or a reveal that I’m actually a serial killer—but now that it’s clear we’re actually going out to eat, some of her guard is coming down.

At least, I hope it is.

We’re seated at a back table near a window overlooking a garden in full bloom, and Kennedy takes a deep breath, her eyes wide while she admires the decor. Everything is understated, the cream color on the walls making a clean backdrop for the white linen tablecloths. In a place as dirty and overcrowded as New York City, this kind of color palate looks rich in a way that the restaurants pretending to be places like the Pearl never manage to match. Everything glimmers in the candlelight, and though all six of the other tables in the room are occupied, the conversation is hushed.

Kennedy straightens in her seat, beaming, and when she looks across the table at me, her eyes are glowing, delighted. “This place is amazing.”

I haven’t met many women who would prefer the Pearl over somewhere to see and be seen, but Kennedy is one of them. I got it right.

The waiter brings us freshly baked bread and pours our first glasses of wine, leaving behind small, simple menus printed in a flowing script.

“I can have him take the wine away, if you want.”

Kennedy considers it. “No. A wine like this must be delicious. It’s only at parties that I don’t drink. A good red, though…”

So she does have some flexibility to her rules.

Kennedy puts her menu down almost immediately. “Do you already know what you want?”

She bites her lip, grinning at me, and her gaze lingers on mine. “The petit filet. I love steak.”

“You won’t be disappointed.” I put down my own menu, and within seconds the waiter is back to take our orders.

When he’s gone, and we’re alone, Kennedy’s breasts rise and fall gently beneath the neckline of her dress. “The bread is already here. Is there anything else you wanted to know before the main entrees come?”

I look back into those eyes, shining in the candlelight, and tap my fingers against the tablecloth. I have a thousand questions for Kennedy. I want to know what her favorite color is. I want to know if any man has ever broken her heart. I land somewhere in the middle. “Why did you move to New York City?”

She nods a little, lips pressed together. “My sister wanted me to move here.”

“You have siblings?”

“One sister. Abby.” Her eyes drop down to the tablecloth for an instant, and then she meets my gaze again. “She’s two years younger than I am.”

“Are you close?”

Kennedy takes a deep breath. “We’re close, I’d say.”

“Does she live in the city?”

Kennedy shakes her head. Are there tears in her eyes? What the hell did I stumble on?

“Did I pick a bad topic?”

She raises a knuckle to the corners of her eyes, and when she smiles again, it’s as if nothing had ever happened. “Not...bad, exactly. I love my sister. But talking about her is maybe something we should do closer to dessert.” Kennedy draws in another staggered breath, shaking it off. “My turn. What makes you want to keep jet-setting all over the globe and throwing yourself off cliffs?”

Now she’s struck a nerve. “If I said I loved travel, would you believe me?”

She considers me with narrowed eyes. “No.”

I laugh at her serious expression. “You’d be right not to.” I lean in, dropping my voice. “The truth is that I love jumping off cliffs.”

Kennedy laughs behind her smile. “You’re not running away from anything?”

I give her my best grin. “Maybe we should discuss that closer to dessert.”

She sits back, lifting her wine glass from the table and taking a thoughtful sip. “Gideon Hawke has darkness in his past?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

Kennedy fixes me with a look so piercing that it cuts right to my core. “I think it all depends on how dark you mean.”