CHAPTER SIX
Mason snuck a few glances at Daisy’s profile as she stared out at the scenery. She was surprisingly familiar with a lot of the older songs on his playlist. She occasionally hummed along and seemed to have a preference for the Queen ballads. Mason had a hard time keeping a straight face when she unexpectedly belted out a hilariously off-key accompaniment to “Bohemian Rhapsody,” complete with screeching guitar solos and all. He didn’t even know if she was aware of it—but it was fucking adorable. When Prince’s “Purple Rain” came up, she bounced excitedly in her seat and looked at him.
“I love this song!” And once again with the off-key lyrics. This time, Mason joined in, leaving his inhibitions on the side of the road and enjoying himself thoroughly in the process. He never sang along with his tunes, preferring to just listen and enjoy . . . but as he sang, his voice sounding rustier than a two-hundred-year-old nail, he found a freedom of spirit that he couldn’t recall ever having before.
“This is so wonderful. I never knew it was here.” Daisy stared out at the rustic log cabin tucked away in the forest like a perfect little fairy-tale cottage. It even had smoke curling from a fieldstone chimney. If not for the discreet sign above the door—“Le Café de la Forêt”—she would have thought it was a private residence instead of a restaurant.
“It’s a bit out of the way, usually only frequented by hikers and campers.”
“Is that how you know about it?”
“Nah, an old buddy of mine owns it.”
“Army buddy?”
“No.” Daisy was fascinated by the tinge of red suddenly highlighting his sharp cheekbones. “Modeling buddy.”
“I didn’t know one made buddies in the modeling industry. I always imagined it being quite cutthroat.”
“Nah, the male modeling industry is just one happy family of outstandingly good-looking guys. All getting along, bromancing or romancing—depending on one’s proclivities—having sing-alongs and danceathons. It’s awesome, nothing cutthroat about it at all.” He unbuckled his seat belt as he spoke, ignoring Daisy’s helpless giggles, and reached over to unbuckle hers as well.
“Come on, you’re going to love Chris, he’s an awesome guy and a freaking great chef.”
“He’s a chef?”
“He was modeling to pay for culinary school.” He exited the car and rounded the front to open the door for her. She still couldn’t get used to that, and when he held out his hand, she couldn’t do anything but place hers in it. She tried—unsuccessfully—to gracefully swing her legs out of the car, and he assisted her with the gentlest of tugs.
He didn’t let go of her hand once she was out and instead tucked it into his elbow as he led her to the front door of the picturesque cabin. The rain had let up a great deal since that morning, and it was drizzling slightly, creating havoc with her curly hair by frizzing it uncontrollably.
Her glasses steamed up when they stepped into the warm, rustic interior of the restaurant, and Daisy inhaled appreciatively. The place smelled of baked bread. It was warm and homey, and she immediately loved it.
“Do my eyes deceive me?” a deep male voice boomed dramatically, and they turned to face the most amazing-looking man Daisy had ever seen in her life.
“Close your mouth, Daisy,” Mason instructed mildly. He reached out, gripped her chin between his thumb and forefinger, and gently shut her gaping mouth.
“Mason Carlisle, mon ami! What a pleasure this is,” the tall, well-built, beautiful man with absolutely perfect facial bone structure said. Straight nose, sharp cheekbones, luscious mouth, chiseled jaw, and intense eyes, combined with absolutely flawless ebony skin. His shaved head just made him look even more classically beautiful. For a man like this to be hidden away in such an isolated place seemed a total waste.
“You’re . . .” Her voice failed her, and she cleared her throat and tried again. “You’re Christién.” Of course she recognized him. He had been the male equivalent of a supermodel, and to find him here, practically in her backyard, was just surreal.
“Ah oui. I am. And who are you, ma petite?” His French accent was so sexy. He was Congolese, she remembered reading that somewhere. She wondered how he had wound up in this tiny corner of Africa. She would have expected him to live in Paris or Milan or somewhere equally cosmopolitan.
“I’m, uh . . . I . . .”
“This is Daisy McGregor.”
“You’re as pretty and fresh as the flower you are named after, ma belle.” Daisy giggled like a giddy teen. The sound was so bubbly and adolescent it completely threw her, and a self-conscious hand flew up to her mouth as if to force the foolish sound back in. Mason’s face was completely unreadable. Nothing there, not even the constant little amused smirk that he usually wore around her. He always looked like he found her endlessly entertaining. She hadn’t really known that until she now noticed its absence.
“Mason, it’s been months, nearly a year, if memory serves.” He then launched into some excitable French, and Mason completely stunned Daisy by responding in the same language. She hadn’t known that he was multilingual. Then again, there was so much that was still a mystery about the man, and for all his seemingly laid-back attitude around her, she didn’t think he’d be very forthcoming about his private life and past. Not with her. Their relationship wasn’t the kind to inspire confidences from him.
“But we are being rude. Forgive us, ma petite.” Christién suddenly switched back to English, and taking Daisy by complete surprise, he placed his hands on her shoulders and tugged her toward him to plant a kiss on each cheek.
Whoa! He smelled almost as good as Mason.
“This is the way of friends who have not seen each other for many months. But I have a new friend now. Oui? Come, sit. You must eat. You have the glorious look of a woman who enjoys her food very much, non?” The observation, coming from anybody else, would have been considered an insult. But Christién said it in such an overtly admiring voice that it couldn’t be construed as anything other than a compliment.
The place was empty, which was unsurprising, considering how far away from everything it was. And since it wasn’t advertised anywhere that Daisy knew of, she immediately worried about the economic viability of Christién’s business.
He ushered them to a gorgeously crafted round wooden table, with padded spindly-legged chairs. The place was beautifully furnished. All the woodwork was stunning and obviously bespoke. More people should know about this place.
As she sat down, she reached for the beautifully bound menu, but Christién snatched it away.
“Non. You will eat a special meal. Nothing you can find on this common menu.” She doubted very much that there was anything remotely common on that menu, but she allowed him to take the decision from her. Mason was watching her keenly, that inscrutable expression still on his face, and his intense stare was starting to make her uncomfortable. Christién ensured that they were warm, promised to be back with something to drink, and left them abruptly alone.
“I love it here.” She sighed, breaking the long and awkward silence that had descended over their table. Mason made a noncommittal sound and toyed with the place settings.
Daisy’s fingers absently traced over the detailed scrollwork carved into the wood, and his eyes dropped to watch the movement, his gaze disturbingly intense.
“So your buddy is pretty famous,” she observed, her voice laced with amusement, and Mason shrugged.
“You seem a little starstruck.”
“Well. The guy’s a supermodel. Wasn’t he voted the sexiest man alive like three years in a row? And he modeled for Calvin Klein, Alexander McQ—”
“I’m aware of his résumé,” Mason interrupted. “I just didn’t think it was the type of thing you’d be conversant with.”
“Why? Because I’m not a fashion plate and outstanding beauty like my sisters?” The words were defensive, and Mason sighed.
“No. Because it’s a lifestyle I figured you’d find frivolous and beneath you.”
What?
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“You’re an educated woman, you have a proper career. I just thought you had weightier things to think about than models and stuff.” The last word trailed off self-consciously as Daisy gaped at him in absolute astonishment. “Daisy, you’re the smartest woman I’ve ever dated. You’re not like the others, who would get giddy over shallow shit like this.”
“We’re not dating,” she said, a little astounded that she had to actually remind him of that fact.
“You know what I mean.”
“I’m not entirely sure I do.”
Mason wasn’t sure he knew what he meant either. He had just been weirdly disappointed when Daisy had not only immediately recognized Chris but had instantly started fangirling over him. It didn’t fit with his image of her. She was the brainy girl; she was supposed to be better than that. She shouldn’t care about superficial crap like this, and yet she’d been nearly speechless at the sight of Chris. He definitely didn’t like the way she had gone gaga over the other guy. Mason liked how slightly in awe of him Daisy always seemed. He thought back to the obvious little crush she seemed to have on him that first night before she had discovered the truth. He’d enjoyed her fascination, even though he had known it wasn’t something he could encourage. Still, to now see some of that infatuation transferred onto Chris stung . . . more than a little. He wanted her attention and focus on him alone.
“Never mind,” he dismissed, his voice rough, and he cleared his throat self-consciously. “It’s not important.”
“So you and Chris worked together?”
“Not at all. He did a lot of the catwalk stuff. Very much in demand because of that flawless bone structure and skin of his. He was in the big leagues, and I was small fry. I modeled mostly body shots for catalogs and magazines. I was shamelessly used for my hot bod. This mug of mine wasn’t special enough for anything else.”
He rubbed a rueful hand over his square, stubbled jaw as he spoke, and Daisy had a hard time believing there was anybody out there who didn’t think he was absolutely stunning. Sure, Christién was gorgeous, but Mason had a rugged masculine appeal that the other man, with his too-perfect features, was lacking. While she could stare at Christién all day, Mason was the one who made her feel weak-kneed and hot under the collar. Not that she would ever reveal that fact.
“Chris and I ran in the same circles, and at one point were rivals for the same woman.”
“Ah, the beautiful and talented Gigi,” Christién supplied as he placed a couple of steaming mugs of something delicious-smelling in front of them. Daisy wrapped her cold hands around the hot mug and inhaled deeply. She could smell both cinnamon and chocolate infused with something else.
“Drink up, ma petite fleur. It is my own recipe. You won’t be disappointed. So, Mason was telling you about the time we were both infatuated with Gigi?” He clutched a hand to his chest and sighed, the sound steeped with longing and tinged with more than a little melodrama. “Gigi. So beautiful and so treacherous. She loved having us compete for her affections, and in the end, after we were like snarling dogs after the same bitch, she threw us over for a woman.”
Mason chuckled, took a sip of his drink, and then shut his eyes as he savored the taste.
“Chris and I found ourselves in the same little osteria in Milan, nursing our wounded egos at the bar,” he said. “We started talking and discovered how much we actually had in common. We’ve been friends ever since.”
Daisy made a noncommittal sound, dying to ask for details. He’d revealed so much and yet so little. What exactly did the two men have in common? Other than similar tastes in women and a background in modeling? She was desperate to ask but not sure she had any right to the information. She took a sip of the hot drink and moaned involuntarily. Gosh, it was good.
“This is delicious.” Chris gave her a smug grin, and after thumping Mason on the back, he excused himself to prepare their meal.
“Why did you decide to stop modeling?” Daisy asked, deciding to leave the topic of women and vice behind.
“I think the more pertinent question is why did I start,” he corrected. When he didn’t elaborate, she felt compelled to prompt him for more.
“Well? Why did you start modeling, then?”
“It was just after I’d left the army. I was bumming around, feeling a little disconnected from civil society. Everybody else seemed so . . . normal. And I wasn’t. I was staying with a friend, sleeping on a mattress in his living room, doing the odd job here and there. The plan was to join the army, see the world, get a degree on their dime. The reality was, I saw the worst of the world, and I didn’t have time to get that degree because it turned out that I had other more valuable skills and the army wanted me to hone those particular talents before anything else. So I gained a skill set that was useless in normal life and that put me in pretty much the same boat I was in before I left Riversend. Waiting tables. Doing delivery work. Odd jobs. I was working at a trendy restaurant in Soho when an older guy slid his card across the table and told me to contact him if I ever got sick of waiting tables.”
He shook his head and laughed in a self-deprecating way before raising his eyes to meet hers. Daisy was completely riveted by his story and trapped beneath that piercing gaze.
“I thought he was hitting on me. I’d had a few guys offer me money to suck their co—” He coughed, catching himself before saying the word. “Sorry. Anyway, a few older guys offered me money to do stuff with them. Older women too. And I would have dismissed Bernie as just another one of those guys, if one of the waitresses hadn’t spotted him giving me the card. She told me that he was a big deal in the modeling industry and that I should follow up and see what he had to say. I called him the next day, and he asked me to come to his office and lined up a few jobs almost immediately.” He shifted his broad shoulders awkwardly. “Modeling never sat well with me. It’s not my kind of thing. But within three months the money made it worth my while. Like I said, I was never in Chris’s league. But I did all right.”
He had done more than “all right.” Daisy had seen him in so many magazines and advertisements during that year. Prominent brand names in some of the bigger fashion publications. He was being modest, and she knew it was because that chapter of his life embarrassed him. Which was ridiculous when he had been such a success at something he’d essentially been half-assing. In truth, Daisy didn’t think the man had ever experienced real failure. Everything he decided to do, he excelled at. Which was rather extraordinary for a guy who came from such humble beginnings.
“And how did you get into the bodyguarding business?” She propped her elbows on the table and rested her chin in the palms of her hands, wriggling a little in her chair to get comfier.
“I went to an industry party. Lots of rich and famous around, and I spotted one of my buddies.” He grinned. “Army this time. He was shadowing this old lady. At first I thought he’d got himself a sugar mama, but there was something in his stance that made me pause. There’s a thing we do—soldiers, that is—when we first walk into a room. We assess. We look for potential threats, exits, barricades, anything that can help us if the shit hits the fan. It’s instinctive. But Sam was doing more than that; he looked like he was on active duty. He never once relaxed. He noticed me immediately, of course, acknowledged me with a nod, and then went back to hulking over his little, old—obviously stinking rich—lady.”
“Sam Brand, right? Your business partner?” Daisy breathed. He gave her a speculative look.
“You know a lot about me.” Daisy fought back her blush as she considered her response to that observation. She stuck with mostly the truth.
“Just what I’ve read in the tabloids. Besides, it’s Sam Brand.” She put enough awe into her voice to divert him from the truth, and he glared at her.
“I’m starting to think you’re just using me to get to my friends.”
“Well, can you blame me? Have you looked at them lately?”
“They’re just guys. Besides . . . Sam’s gay.”
“Really?” Surprise made her almost shout the word, and Mason sighed before moving his shoulders uncomfortably.
“No. Not really,” he admitted with a wry grin. “He’s as straight as an arrow. But you’d hate him. He’s a prick with women.”
“It’s not like I’m ever going to meet him. So I’m allowed to fantasize.”
“Here we go with the fantasies again. What’s he doing? Standing around, flexing his muscles?”
Affronted, Daisy said the first thing that popped into her head. “Nope, he’s doing that slow strip tease we talked about last night . . .”
“Unoriginal.” Mason scoffed. “The bastard’s stealing my sexy moves.”
“And,” Daisy inserted loudly, while holding up a finger to shut him up, “I’m mirroring his every move! His top comes off . . . my top comes off. His pants for my skirt. His socks, my bra!”
Mason knew she was being the Daisy equivalent of risqué, and he found her sweet for trying, but he was more than happy to seize control of the conversation again.
“Yeah? A pink bra? Lacy?” She knew exactly what he was referring to, he could see it in the embarrassed wash of color high on her cheekbones as well as the increased pace of her breathing.
“No. Not like that at all. Pink is much too girlish and innocent for the occasion. This one is black, with red lace, made not for support but for seduction.”
And just like that, little Daisy McGregor felled him. The thought of her full breasts straining against the confines of a sexy, barely there bra was ridiculously hot. He could picture the soft, pretty mounds overflowing at the top, eager to be released, quivering and ready to spill into some lucky bastard’s willing hands. Pink tips distended and begging to be tasted.
Kissed. Licked. Suckled.
Mason was hard in seconds, and his own breath came in jagged pants as he fought to bring himself back under control.
“Matching panties, of course. With little red bows at the sides.” He bit back a groan at her words. The woman was killing him. She was utterly destroying him, while casually swinging her feet back and forth like a schoolgirl and taking appreciative sips from her warm drink. The higher-than-usual pitch of her voice and her slight breathlessness were the only indications that she wasn’t comfortable with this role of femme fatale and that the whole conversation was well outside of her comfort zone.
Despite that—or maybe because of it—her words were a huge turn-on. Largely innocuous though they were. It was Mason’s own imagination, filling in the blanks, that was doing the real damage here. If she knew the thoughts racing through his mind right now, she’d bolt. So he did his level best to even out his breath and slouch even further down in his chair in an effort to conceal yet another hard-on.
It was becoming an embarrassing habit by now.
“Well, hell, we’re going to have to start calling you Dirty Doctor Daisy from now on.” He grinned lazily. “Your fantasies are showing some improvement. Definitely heading into PG-13 territory.”
To his own ears, his voice sounded strained, but she huffed and tossed a napkin at him, clearly not finding anything amiss. He deftly caught the napkin and leaned forward to pinch her cheek, like some creepy affectionate uncle. He had to keep her oblivious to his inconvenient attraction to her. If she knew about it, and he acted on it, she would wind up getting hurt. Sex for her would be an emotional act; for Mason it was a basic animal need. He would break her heart, and Mason didn’t think he’d be able to handle the massive amount of guilt that would go hand in hand with breaking her heart.
“So what happened after the party?” she asked, and he frowned, confused.
“What?”
“After you saw Sam Brand with the old lady?”
“Oh.” Shit, that conversation felt like forever ago. He’d forgotten that her fantasy was supposedly constructed around Sam Brand, and suddenly he fucking hated the thought of her fantasizing about taking off her clothes for Sam.
Logically he knew the whole thing had been made up on the spot, but the fact that Sam was the leading man in that little scenario made Mason feel downright murderous. He picked up his mug, viciously controlling the slight shake in his hand, and took a measured sip of the rapidly cooling drink, desperate to get his thoughts in order before replying to her question.
“Sam called me the next day, gave me some shtick about prancing around in my underwear, before telling me that he was working for a personal protection company. He didn’t agree with some of the company policies and was thinking of branching out on his own. Wanted to know if I would consider giving up my pretty-boy gig for some real men’s work.”
He snorted at that last thought. Men’s work. The four badass women they employed would happily—and efficiently—kick Sam’s ass if he ever said anything like that in their presence.
“I said yes so fast I nearly sprained my tongue. We went into the business as full partners. Luckily, both Sam and I had connections—Sam from his previous jobs and me from the modeling industry—and built a client base from there. We had a staff of twenty elite close protection officers in a year and became a recognized and trusted brand within eighteen months.”
He shifted his shoulders; he wasn’t comfortable talking about himself, but Daisy had once again dropped her chin into her palms and was staring up at him over the tops of her glasses. She looked like a curious little owl, with her hair haloing wildly around her face, and despite the distinct lack of anything seductive in the pose or in her expression, Mason crazily wanted to kiss her again.
Maybe it was because she looked so damned interested in everything he had to say. It was flattering. Intelligent women like her tended to put him into one of two categories: dumb jock only good for a fuck, or arm candy . . . only good for a fuck. He was accustomed to being overlooked and underestimated. He was often dismissed as nothing more than a good-looking, brainless slab of muscle, a henchman to keep the bad guys at bay. Clients appreciated his appearance because the wealthy liked to surround themselves with beautiful things, and that was all he’d been to them: a functional ornament, there to look pretty but be scary. He sure as hell hadn’t minded the no-strings sex that came along with the territory. Clients were strictly off limits, of course, but their friends most definitely were not.
Still, it had rankled to be dismissed as nothing more than a moron with big muscles and a low IQ.
“Gorgeous, isn’t he? Poor dear is frightfully good looking but unfortunately quite dull-witted. Then again, it doesn’t take much brainpower to jump in front of a bullet, does it?” That comment, from an aging pop diva, still stung, and it hadn’t even been close to the worst he’d heard. But he’d been starstruck when he met her and disillusioned very soon afterward.
“Why do you want to know all of this anyway?” Irritated by his lapse into melancholia, the question came out a bit more abruptly than he intended. “We’re supposed to be focusing on you and the wedding stuff.”
“Isn’t it better if we each know something about the other? More believable?”
Yeah, that made sense. And kind of disappointed him a little. He wanted her interest to be genuine, and wasn’t that just perverse as hell?
Get it together, douche bag! the general in his head commanded.
“I suppose you’re right. But seriously, enough about me. Tell me more about you.”
“We covered that last night.”
“Surely there’s a lot more to know about you?”
“I’m pretty boring,” she said with a self-deprecating grin. “I knit in front of the TV on Friday nights. Nothing earth-shattering there. You’re the one who has partied with princesses and politicians.”
“Hardly partied. That was all work.”
“Even the modeling parties?”
“Especially those.” He grimaced as he recalled that scene. Sex, drugs, alcohol . . . and a shitload more drama than a frickin’ telenovela. While he was modeling he might as well have spent his Friday night knitting in front of the TV, he had been that far removed from the party scene. The only reason he had been at that party, the night he’d reconnected with Sam, was because Chris had needed . . . He nearly choked back a laugh as he remembered. Chris had needed a wingman.
Because, of course he had.
As if on cue, Chris bustled back with a basket full of freshly baked, delicious-smelling bread, which he placed on the table between them. Daisy’s eyelids slid to half-mast, and she moaned as the warm, tantalizing aroma drifted upward. She reached for a slice and bit right into it.
“Oh my God, this is amazing,” she said around a mouthful of bread, and Mason grinned at the lack of artifice. He grabbed her hand and pulled it toward him and tugged the remaining piece of bread from her fingers. With his teeth. He didn’t really think about the intimacy of the impulsive act until his lips brushed against the tips of her fingers. And then he couldn’t prevent himself from compounding the colossal error in judgment by giving her skin the tiniest of flicks with his tongue.
Daisy snatched her hand out of his hold, folded it into a defensive fist, and cupped her other hand over it, cradling her fist to her chest like an injured bird.
Chris whistled slowly before pointedly retreating.
“Don’t do things like that,” Daisy hissed, and Mason shrugged, his expression maddeningly unperturbed.
“I just wanted a taste of the bread,” he explained, and she glared at him.
“There’s a basketful of the stuff right in front of you. I’m placing a moratorium on all the pretend PDA when we don’t have an audience. And while we’re at it, I want no more of that practice kissing either.”
His hand hovered above the breadbasket as he perused what was on offer, taking his time with his selection while he kept her waiting for his response. He finally chose a slice exactly like every other slice in the basket and methodically ripped it apart, dipping chunks into the provided assorted preserves.
“You want this all to look good when it comes to showtime, right?” he asked between bites.
“It’s making me uncomfortable,” she confessed without thinking. Her words stilled his hands, and he gazed at her for a long moment.
“I make you uncomfortable?”
“The situation does. And the touching . . . and stuff.” Her voice petered out, and she cleared her throat awkwardly. His eyes narrowed as he kept her pinned beneath his gaze for a moment longer.
“I’m a tactile guy. It’s natural for me to casually touch someone when I’m talking to them.”
“It is?”
No. It was complete bullshit. He didn’t go around sucking people’s fingers, or brushing his knuckles against their cheekbones . . . he wasn’t wired that way, but he could think of no other way to divert her from the fact that he was a touchy-feely fucker around her. And her alone. How could he explain that to her when he couldn’t make sense of it to himself?
“I’ll try to curb my natural instincts. But I can’t make any promises. It’s what you signed up for when you asked me to be your fake boyfriend.”
“Fake date. Not fake boyfriend. There’s a difference.”
“Other people won’t see it that way. If they’re not used to seeing you date, they’re going to assume that this is serious between us.”
“What makes you think they’re not used to seeing me date?”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that you’ve roped me into doing this for you?” Her teeth nibbled at her soft lower lip as she considered her words. Mason’s eyes dropped to that lip; her teeth were making little white crescents in the soft flesh, which almost immediately darkened into a deeper shade of red when the teeth moved on to a different location. It was distracting as hell, the tug and release of her teeth on that soft, juicy-looking lip. How was he supposed to concentrate on this conversation when she was doing that?
“Stop that!” Daisy jumped at the sudden harshness in Mason’s voice. Why did he look and sound so angry?
“What?”
He reached over and shockingly dragged his thumb down over her lower lip, tugging it from between her teeth and brushing the pad of his thumb over the sensitive surface.
“Stop biting your lip.”
“It’s a nervous habit.”
“I make you nervous?” His brows slammed together, making him look even scarier, and she shook her head.
“No. Yes . . . I mean, maybe a little.” He reached over again and his thumb gently rubbed back and forth across the surface of her bottom lip, one end to the other, and it felt . . . much too good. For a brief, crazy second she leaned in to his touch before sanity reasserted itself and she pulled her head back and out of reach.
She sucked her lip into her mouth, trying to rid herself of the residual sensation of his rough thumb so gently caressing her skin.
“Don’t do that again.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper, devoid of the commanding edge she’d hoped for.
“I can’t make any promises,” he muttered, and she sighed impatiently. He was just being difficult again. “I start having X-rated visions when you do that thing with your mouth.”
“Stop being a smart-ass, Mason. I’m serious.”
She thought he was kidding. She’d probably head for the hills if she knew that he was as serious as a heart attack right now. He forced a grin and shrugged.
“You’re getting a little too good at reading me.”
“You’re making it easy,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand.
Chris chose that moment to return, holding two plates of the most beautiful-looking food Daisy had ever seen.
“I present to you, my version of twice-baked goat’s cheese soufflé with an accompaniment of arugula, fig, and roasted almond salad.” He placed the plates in front of Daisy and then Mason with a flourish.
“It looks amazing and smells even better,” Daisy enthused, her mouth already watering as she stared down at the perfectly baked soufflé, next to a beautiful, fresh-looking salad, on a plate garnished with artistically sprinkled tiny purple and yellow flowers.
“Bianca,” he called to the sweet-faced young woman hovering behind him, and she shuffled forward to place a couple of flutes of brightly colored drinks in front of them. “Mimosas with my compliments. Enjoy.”
“Thanks, Chris. Looks good,” Mason said, and Daisy sent him a disbelieving look. His returning gaze was perplexed, and Daisy sighed. Men were seriously clueless sometimes.
“It looks more than merely good, Chris,” she corrected, and Mason made a sound that was somewhere between exasperation and laughter.
“You already said that,” he pointed out.
“One can never receive too much flattery,” Chris said calmly. “But I’ll leave you to enjoy the fruits of my labor. Bon appétit.”
He left with a flourish—she guessed he was the type of guy who added flourish and flare to everything he did—taking Bianca along with him.
“You could have asked him to join us,” Daisy admonished, picking up her fork and sending another admiring glance down at her plate. It was almost criminal to eat something so beautiful.
“He wouldn’t have,” Mason said, having no qualms about completely destroying the work of art on his plate. He had two huge bites down before she even had time to gently prod her quivering soufflé with her fork. “Besides, it’s bad form to just insert yourself into someone’s date.”
“Mason.”
“Yeah, yeah, not a date,” he said from behind a mouthful of salad. “Got it. Point is, Chris doesn’t know it, so bad form.”
Daisy took a small amount of the soufflé onto her fork and sighed when the rich, tart flavor burst across her taste buds. She couldn’t quite contain the tiny moan of appreciation that slipped out. Her eyes slid shut to fully appreciate the taste.
Fuck me! I’m in such deep shit here. Mason paused, his fork hovering halfway between the plate and his mouth. Did she have to look like she was having an orgasm? It was just a soufflé, damn it! It tasted eggy and cheesy and shouldn’t make anybody look like they were coming. He could damn well give her a real reason to look like that.
He shifted in his seat in an attempt to alleviate his discomfort. He and Spencer really had to go cruising for babes soon. This was getting tiresome.
“So, a few logistical issues to work out,” she said prosaically after a few more moany, breathy bites. “I’m driving to the Wild Coast; everybody else is heading there a day earlier, but I’ll be finishing up some last-minute stuff at the practice. It will be the first time the locum goes to Inkululeko, and I want to go over a few of the more serious ongoing cases with him. I’m not sure when you want to leave—”
“With you.” No question about that. She was the only reason he was going in the first place, and he for damned sure didn’t want to spend any more time with those bitches her sisters called friends than was absolutely necessary. “We can take turns driving. And just to be clear, we’re taking the BMW.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary.”
“Yes, it is. I’m not going to be stuck in that little toy car of yours for nearly seven hours.” She seemed to think it over before shrugging and nodding. There was a lull in the conversation as she made love to a slice of fig, and he diverted his gaze and guzzled down his entire mimosa in a single gulp.
“Anyway, I think the hotel may be fully booked already, but I’m looking in to reserving a room for you at a nearby lodge.”
“We’ll share.” She looked scandalized by his words, and he pretty much felt the way she looked, not sure where the hell the suggestion had come from.
“We will not.”
“Are you sharing with one of your sisters? Or maybe one of those other bitches?”
“No.”
“Great. I’ll take the sofa.”
“Mason, absolutely not.”
“And just to be clear, I’ll be paying for my half of the room.”
“No, you don’t have to. I asked you to do this; I’ll pay. But for a separate room. In a different hotel.”
“And how will that look? Like we’re platonic friends. And not even close platonic friends since I’ll be in a completely different hotel.”
“It’ll look like I’m not easy.”
“Nobody will think you’re easy. Two weeks from now we’ll be well past our third date. Everybody will assume we’re sleeping together anyway. And I’m paying for my half of the room. End of story.”
“Mason . . .”
“I won’t lay a finger on you, promise.” He considered that for a moment before amending, “Well, not unless you want me to.”
“I won’t want you to.” She looked pissed off now, which was disappointing because it meant that she was done eating. Which meant no more sex show. He supposed he should be grateful for that, considering what a state it was putting him in, but he couldn’t help but feel a tiny pang of loss.
“Daisy, in all seriousness, it’s your best move. It’ll shut them up for years,” he said, trying to inject some earnestness into his voice, even though he wasn’t entirely sure he had her best interests at heart.
“I’ll think about it,” Daisy conceded, even though she couldn’t believe she was actually considering the idea. Sharing a room with him for two nights didn’t seem like the sanest course of action.
“Great.” He speared a fig from her plate, having demolished his own meal in record time, and bit it in half, before offering the other half back to her.
“No,” she refused, while he held the fork less than an inch away from her mouth.
“Are you sure?” he asked, brushing the fig along the closed seam of her lips. She sighed and opened up, tugging the sweet fruit from the tines of the fork. The guy really seemed to have no concept of personal space or inappropriate public displays of, well, if not affection, then familiarity.
“So what kind of things do you knit?” The mundane question surprised her, and the genuinely interested expression on his face absolutely floored her.
“Easy stuff. Scarves and hats.”
“Guy I knew, Kyle Quincy, used to knit to pass the time.”
“Model?”
He grinned, stealing another fig off her plate and once again offering her half. She took it without thinking twice, too interested in his story to make a big deal out of it. “Soldier.”
“Seriously?” She couldn’t even begin to imagine some macho soldier-type hulking over a pair of knitting needles.
“Yep. Big bastard. He used to sit around knitting these dainty little baby things for his sister and later for his wife.”
“I’m not going to lie, I find that both bizarre and awesome.”
“Quincy was an awesome kind of guy.”
“Was?” She watched the open grin fade from his face to be replaced by shadows and turmoil.
“Yeah. He was KIA.” He fiddled with his fork and kept his eyes downcast. “Left behind his wife and two-month-old baby girl. Linzi.” A fleeting smile graced that mobile mouth. “We gave him hell over that name. I mean, who names a kid Linzi Quincy?”
“I’m sorry.”
He shook his head and met her eyes, the distant look on his face replaced by something warmer. “It was years ago. Shit, Linzi is probably around eleven or twelve now. Hard to believe. I haven’t thought about Quincy in years.”
Daisy didn’t believe that for a second. Something told her that he thought about his fallen brothers-in-arms every single day. “Well, if Quincy was knitting baby clothes, then he was probably a lot more skilled than I. That’s next-level knitting for someone who can barely finish a scarf.”
“I’m sure your baking is pretty damned awesome,” he said, and she shrugged.
“Nothing compared to Chris’s bread.” She was surprised by the sudden snap of impatience in his eyes.
“Why do you do that? You’re constantly selling yourself short, and it’s annoying as hell. Chris is a trained chef; it’s his job to make excellent food. But I’m pretty sure your baking is a thousand times better than his amateur veterinary skills.”
Mason was heartened by the shy smile that bloomed on Daisy’s lips and the slight glow of warmth in her cheeks.
“I’m sure it is too. His mediocre attempts at a routine vaccination would most likely pale in comparison to my zucchini-and-bacon bread.”
“Dear God,” he whispered in awe. “That’s an actual thing?”
“Yep.”
“How soon can you make one for me?”
“I’ll call you the next time I bake one,” she reassured.
“No, you’re baking one for me. You’re not giving me a slice from a bread that you just happened to bake.”
“I’ll consider it,” she teased. He enjoyed it when she felt comfortable enough to tease him; it gave her eyes a saucy, naughty glint that was about 20 percent charming and 80 percent cute.
“Consider this; I’ll be annoying and persistent as hell until I get my bread.”
“And that’s different from the usual you, how?”
“Bake that bread and you’ll never have to find out.”
She laughed, and he relished the way her face lit up and her eyes crinkled at the corners, those gorgeous plump lips opening to reveal her straight white teeth. She had a piece of arugula caught in her teeth, and Mason found even that adorable as hell, though he knew that she would be mortified to learn about it.
Daisy was genuinely sad to say good-bye to Chris an hour later. He had joined them at their table about half an hour before they left. Bringing coffee and rich chocolate cake to top off the perfectly decadent meal that Daisy knew she couldn’t afford to indulge in. Especially not a mere fortnight before squeezing herself into that sausage casing of a bridesmaid dress. She didn’t think she would ever be this comfortable and familiar with Christién Roche again. She might frequent his restaurant in the future without Mason, but she’d be just another customer.
Chris almost immediately dispelled that belief when he hugged her and said, “You come back any time, ma petite fleur. We will eat and drink and converse like the old friends we will soon become. Oui?”
“I’d like that so much,” she breathed, delighted by the invitation. And then even more delighted when—instead of the traditional double air kiss—he planted a great, smacking smooch right on her lips.
She was a little dazed when Mason led her back to the car and incoherent for the first five minutes of the drive home, barely registering anything Mason said. She only tuned back in when he pulled the car to the side of the road and turned off the engine.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“Oh, back with me again, are you?” His voice was steeped in sarcasm.
“I mean, the guy kissed me, Mason. Did you see that?”
“Yeah, I saw it. Didn’t impress me much.”
“Well, it wouldn’t; you’re not into him at all.”
“And you are?”
“He smells nice and his lips are soft and very . . .”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake . . .”
He wasn’t going to listen to her rhapsodize about Chris’s lips, for fuck’s sake. Sure, the guy had laid one on her but had kept his eyes on Mason the entire time, clearly hoping to get some kind of reaction from him. And if he had prolonged that kiss a second longer he would have gotten Mason’s reaction right in the teeth. Not cool, man.
Now, only wanting to shut Daisy up about Chris’s dreamy lips, Mason cupped a hand around the nape of her neck to tug her closer, using his thumb to tilt her jaw up and her face toward him. He grunted in satisfaction when he had her lips angled exactly right and planted his own mouth over hers. Screw Chris, she’d forget about his lips in . . .
Jesus, her mouth is soft. He sighed and leaned in closer; she tasted even better than he remembered. Tart, sweet, and savory all at once. His thumb was stroking idle patterns down her throat, and he lifted his free hand to cup the other side of her jaw, sweeping both thumbs down the soft skin of her throat and pausing at her pulse points to enjoy the crazy fluttering of her heart. His tongue demanded entry, and she opened for him, her own meeting his with delicate, shy flicks. He wanted more, needed more, craved more. He fucking deserved more.
His breathing was out of control, and he was embarrassed by the hungry, primitive sounds coming from him as he deepened the kiss, one hand going to the back of her head and grabbing a fistful of that gorgeous hair before tugging and exposing her pale throat to him. His mouth moved down over that delicately scented column, farther down to the hollow where her neck met her shoulder, and lower still to the gentle slope of her breast. She was making her own breathy sounds, the same sexy noises she made while she was eating. God, he had known that she would sound exactly like this when she was turned on.
His hand moved down, burrowing its way beneath her layers of clothes until flesh met flesh; he found the ripe curve of her breast and toyed with the laced edge of her bra, until he lost patience and fully cupped the sweet, soft mound. It filled his hand perfectly, the hard nipple burning into his palm like a hot little coal. He flexed his hand experimentally, catching the nipple into his contracting palm and was rewarded by the guttural sound of pleasure that caught in the back of her throat. She arched into him, and he lifted her breast, lowering his head toward it, desperate to get that sensitive peak into his mouth even through layers of clothes.
One of her hands was cupped around the back of his head, pulling him toward her, while the other clawed madly at his back. He could feel the scrape of her nails even through his thick shirt. He couldn’t get close enough, the seat belt restricting his range of movement, but before he could attempt to unfasten it, the sound of an air horn blaring as a truck shot by the car—close enough to rock it slightly—sent them both flying to their respective corners. Mason swore softly, and then put a little more effort into it, until the only sounds they could hear were the rain pattering on the roof, their heavy breathing, and Mason’s very prolific range of curse words.
Daisy had both hands pressed to her lips, her huge eyes—magnified by her askew glasses—peering at him owlishly over her fingertips.
He owed her an explanation. But what could he say after that performance? He had a huge erection—there was no hiding the thing from her—and he knew she was aware of it by the way she was very pointedly keeping her eyes on his face. So much for keeping her oblivious to his attraction to her.
He finally ran out of English swear words and launched into French, which was only fair since it was Chris’s fault that they were in this position.