I blush hard. “I’d love to continue this conversation—”
She laughs. “Sure you would.”
“—but I need to finish getting ready.”
“Okay, okay, I won’t hold you up. But I want details as soon as you wake up in the morning. That is, if you don’t wake up in someone else’s bed.” She chuckles slyly. “In that case I’ll totally understand if I don’t see you for a few days.”
I snort. “Believe me, that won’t be happening.”
“Don’t be too sure of that. You might have a hard time prying yourself away from that yummylicious specimen.”
I’m both relieved and panicked when my phone pings with a text alerting me that the driver has arrived. “I gotta go, Zoe.”
“Is he there?”
“Yes. I mean, no—it’s his driver.” I let out a shaky breath, willing my heart to stop racing. It’s not too late to back out. I can just tell the driver that I’m not feeling well and send him on his way.
“Have a good time,” Zoe purrs. “And tell that sexy hottie I said hello.”
“Uh-huh.”
Zoe laughs. “See you later, girl. And don’t forget—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” I end the call and check my reflection one last time, then grab my clutch purse and head for the front door.
Out in the parking lot, a driver in a crisp black suit stands by a shiny black Bentley Mulsanne idling at the curb.
“Miss Sartori?”
I nod.
“I’m Bruno, Mr. Malone’s driver.” He pulls out his ID to show me.
I move closer to inspect the card. Satisfied that the photo matches his face, I smile and shake his hand. “Nice to meet you, Bruno.”
“Pleasure’s all mine.” He smiles and opens the back door for me.
I slide into the plush leather seat, feeling pampered in a way I’ve never felt before. And that’s before I see the bottle of champagne chilling in an ice bucket in the center console.
The driver climbs behind the wheel. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
“Sure,” I say, hoping to calm my out-of-control nerves.
He expertly uncorks the bottle, fills a glass and hands it to me.
“Thank you.” I sit back and take a sip, enjoying the tiny champagne bubbles gliding down my throat as the driver starts the car and pulls off.
Reyes lives half an hour from downtown in Orange County. The posh suburb he now calls home is populated by several other pro athletes, business moguls and famous entertainers.
We pass their expensive mansions with secluded driveways, following a picturesque country road before coming to an entrance guarded by wrought iron gates. When the driver thumbs a button on the steering wheel, the gates roll smoothly open.
As we head up a winding drive and over a steep rise, my face is practically pressed up against the window.
Reyes’s new abode is a Mediterranean-style villa with a red tile roof, arched windows and upper balconies. It’s surrounded by tall shade trees and impeccably manicured grounds. Flowers bloom everywhere, and there’s a detached garage that can hold at least ten cars.
We follow the curving drive and pull to a stop in front of the sprawling white stucco house. I pick my jaw up off my lap as the driver climbs out and opens the back door for me.
Gripping my purse, I get out slowly and thank him for the ride.
He smiles at me. “Enjoy your evening, Miss Sartori.”
“Thank you.” I turn and start up the broad stone steps, butterflies rioting in my stomach. A light breeze carrying the scent of roses teases my hair and caresses my cheeks.
I barely reach the front door before it’s opened by Reyes. He’s wearing a black shirt open at the collar and slim black slacks that hug his strong thighs.
My knees go weak. “Um. Hey.”
“Hey, yourself.” His voice is a rasp of warm smoke that sends heat curling through my belly.
He slowly looks me over, taking in the strapless sundress that clings to my curves and stops midthigh.
“Wow,” he murmurs appreciatively. “Very, very nice.”
“Thank you.” My voice is barely a whisper.
He steps back and opens the door wider. “Come in.”
I swallow thickly and brush past him, entering a dramatic foyer that’s big enough to accommodate an art exhibit. An ultramodern silver and crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling, and a curved double staircase rises to the second story.
With gleaming hardwood floors and high-end furnishings, the place looks like something out of an interior design magazine.
As I look around in amazement, my gaze is drawn to a large oil painting prominently showcased on the wall.
I wander closer to study the shadowy silhouettes of a tall man and a small boy walking through a vineyard under a dusky morning sky.
“You and Grandpa Nicolau.” I look to Reyes for confirmation.
He nods. “He painted that for me before he died two years ago.”
Sympathy stirs in my chest. “My mom told me about his passing. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. He enjoyed a rich, fulfilling life surrounded by people who loved him.”
I smile fondly, admiring his grandfather’s beautiful artwork. “I remember his captivating stories. He was such a passionate historian. Every time he visited Santa Fe, he would tell us about the early Spanish explorers who came to New Mexico in search of the legendary cities of gold. He never romanticized anything. I remember him speaking critically about the realities of Spanish colonization.”
“He did. Always.” Reyes gazes at me almost tenderly. “He would appreciate knowing that you remember his history lessons.”
“Of course I remember. He had a way of telling stories that made you hang on his every word.” I gaze up at the tall silhouette in the painting. “He always said a true warrior knew when to make his peace and surrender gracefully.”
“And that’s exactly what he did,” Reyes says quietly.
We share a poignant smile.
I want to kiss him, and I just got there. I’m in serious trouble.
“I just started dinner,” he says, rolling up his sleeves to reveal muscular forearms dusted with black hair. “Keep me company while I finish.”
I nod and follow him through the foyer to a chef’s kitchen that’s bigger than my entire apartment.
“Can I get you something to drink?” he offers. “A glass of wine?”
“Water’s fine for now,” I say distractedly as I look around. “I had champagne in the car. Nice touch, by the way.”
He grins at me over his shoulder.
The massive kitchen boasts black marble counters, windowed cabinets, a butler’s pantry and top-of-the-line stainless steel appliances. A row of glass doors frames a sprawling backyard. There’s a large stone terrace built to replicate an Italian villa’s terrace. It has an outdoor kitchen and stylish furniture, inviting guests to dine outside while enjoying views of the gorgeously landscaped garden, rock-edged pool and waterfall, tennis court and guest cottage.
I can’t help feeling awestruck.
“Reyes,” I half whisper. “Your house . . . it’s amazing.”
“Thanks,” he says. “I’ll give you a tour after dinner. I’m still getting settled in, so don’t be surprised by all the empty rooms upstairs.”
I laugh. “I’m sure it takes longer than the short time you’ve been here to furnish a house this size. But what happened to the furniture at your previous place?”
“Sold it with the house. The buyer begged and pleaded, and I couldn’t say no.” He appears beside me with a glass of water.
“Thank you.” I accept the drink, trying not to shiver when our hands brush. “So what’re you making for dinner?”
“Seared lamb chops with citrus fennel salad.”
“Mmm. Sounds delicious.”
“It is,” he promises with a wink.
I smile as he turns and crosses to the huge center island. It has a range and grill with st
ainless steel pans hanging from an overhead rack.
He grabs a sauté pan and sets it on a burner. A bowl of seasoned lamb chops marinates on the counter next to a pile of chopped garlic on a cutting board. There’s a wonderful aroma wafting from the double ovens.
I take a seat at the island and silence my phone so it won’t be pinging sports alerts all night. After tucking it away, I set my purse on the bar stool beside me and cross my legs.
“Do you need help with anything?” I ask Reyes.
“Nah. Just relax and keep me company.” He wipes his hands on a dishtowel, staring at the curve of my thighs as heat flashes straight to my core.
Trying to ignore my body’s reaction, I raise an eyebrow at him. “Are you gonna ogle me or finish dinner?”
He grins. “Why not both?”
When I narrow my eyes, he laughs wickedly.
Sipping my water, I watch as he drizzles some olive oil in the pan and turns on the burner with a poof of flame.
“Why’d you have to go out of town?” I ask conversationally.
“Had to tie up some loose ends back in Baltimore.”
I can’t help wondering if one of those loose ends involved saying goodbye to a lover. I forcefully shove the unsettling thought from my mind.
“So what did your old teammates think about you leaving them for less-than-greener pastures? And I’m not talking about the nicety-nice stuff you told us at the press conference. How did they really feel about your defection?”
He slants me an amused look.
I grin. “Off the record.”
He chuckles, rubbing his bearded jaw. “They were surprised.”
“Surprised? Or pissed off?”
“A little of both,” he admits. “One or two may have accused me of deserting the team, and several others expressed their disappointment. But in the end, everyone respected my decision enough to offer their support.”
“That must’ve been really hard. I mean, they were all looking forward to a Super Bowl three-peat.”
“Which is still doable.”
“Maybe,” I say dubiously. “But it’s gonna be extremely hard without their star quarterback leading the charge.”
“I disagree,” he says. “Those guys are pretty talented. Last I checked, it takes a team effort to get to the Super Bowl. You should know that, being a knowledgeable sports authority.”
I give him an indulgent smile. “Your modesty is endearing, Reyes. But we both know the Ravens won’t be three-peating without you.”
“Guess we’ll have to wait and see.” He places the lamb chops in the sizzling pan. The scent of garlic and rosemary fills the air, making my mouth water.
Casually he says, “You seem pretty close with your coworkers—the ones you introduced me to that night.”
“Will and Troy? Yeah, they’re cool.” I sip some water. “Will covers the NBA and Troy covers baseball.”
Reyes sends me a sideways glance. “Have they ever expressed an interest in you?”
I laugh wryly. “I know where this is going, and the answer is no. We’re colleagues. As hard as it is to believe, they respect me as a professional and nothing more.”
“That’s not hard to believe. You’re a very talented writer, Emerson. You know the business like the back of your hand, no one can dispute that. But I’m sure those guys aren’t immune to the fact that you’re a gorgeous, sexy woman. That dress you’re wearing . . .” He trails off, his eyes sliding down my body.
Heat curls through me, settling low in my stomach.
“Let’s just say I hope you don’t dress this way for work,” he drawls.
“Of course not,” I mumble. “It’s not exactly office attire.”
“Good. For my eyes only.”
His possessive words send a sharp little tingle through my veins. Wanting to needle him, I say, “You’ve obviously never watched Team Ticker.”
“I have,” he says evenly.
I stare at the nerve jumping in his jaw. “And?”
He pokes at a lamb chop. “Let’s just say your wardrobe director should be . . . reassigned.”
I bite my lip to suppress a laugh. “You don’t like the way the network dresses me?”
He slants me a surly look, releasing my bubble of laughter.
He watches me for a long moment, his lips curving at the corners. “Thanks, by the way.”
“For what?”
“Wearing your hair down tonight. I appreciate it.”
I sober at once, blushing. “I didn’t do it for you.”
His eyes gleam like he knows better.
“When did you learn to cook?” I ask abruptly, changing the subject. “You never paid much attention during your mom’s tortilla lessons.”
“Yes, I did.”
“No, you didn’t. You were too busy throwing flour at me and making silly faces behind your mom’s back.”
When he grins at me, I see a flash of the boy he’d once been, and my heart squeezes.
I gesture to the sizzling lamb chops. “So when did you develop these awesome culinary skills?”
One broad shoulder lifts. “Living on your own kinda forces you to learn to cook—unless you want to starve.”
I snort. “As if you’d ever starve. You’re a multimillionaire, Reyes. Do you honestly expect me to believe you don’t have a personal chef?”
He chuckles. “I have a housekeeper who comes three times a week to clean, and she usually insists on fixing me dinner before I get home. Other than that, I do my own cooking. I enjoy it.”
I grin. “So you’re not a helpless bachelor. I’m impressed.”
“Are you?” His mouth quirks into a half smile. “Something tells me that’s not an easy feat.”
“What? Impressing me?” I watch as he flips the lamb chops over. They have a beautiful golden brown crust that makes me drool.
“You know I’m not hard to please,” I say with a grin. “You could have made pigs in a blanket for all I care. I can eat anything. But I definitely appreciate what’s on the menu. Can’t wait to sink my teeth into one of those juicy bad boys.”
Reyes slides me a look from under his lashes and murmurs something I can’t decipher. Something that would probably make me blush to the roots of my hair.
I finish my water then set the glass down. “So how’d you get my address? Or do I even have to ask?”
His lips twitch. “Your mother gave it to me when you first moved to Piedmont Bay. She wanted me to get in touch with you whenever I came to town.”
I shake my head, cheeks burning. “Unbelievable.”
“What?”
“You and my mother. Your friendship. It’s ridiculous.”
His eyes glint at me. “Just because you stopped finding me irresistible doesn’t mean other women have to.”
“I never stopped finding you irresistible,” I retort without thinking.
He stares at me, the air fizzing and crackling between us. “That goes both ways.”
His words send a thrill ricocheting through my body. I stare back at him until, feeling my throat run dry, I get up to pour myself more water.
I feel his eyes on me as I close the refrigerator. When I turn around, he glances away to transfer the perfectly seared chops to a serving plate.
Leaning back against the massive fridge, I watch as he drizzles more olive oil in the pan. While it heats up, he grabs a pot holder and crosses to the gleaming double ovens. He opens the top door and pulls out a pan, his muscles flexing with every movement underneath his shirt.
I bite my lip. I’ve never been so turned on watching a guy cook. He has to be the sexiest chef I’ve ever seen.
“Yum,” I hear myself purr.
When he looks at me, I quickly shift my gaze to the pan of crab-stuffed mushrooms. “I meant those. They look yummy.”
“They are.” He carries the pan to the center island and sets it on the counter, then adds two more lamb chops to the shimmering oil.
I have an insane urge to go up behin
d him, wrap my arms around his waist and kiss the back of his neck where his hair curls against his skin.
When he glances over at me, I set my glass down and then hop onto the counter beside him.
His eyes flicker with pleasure. He obviously likes having me close.
As I stare at him, he selects a stuffed mushroom cap from the pan and gently blows on it, then slides it into my mouth.
“Mmm,” I moan, savoring the buttery, garlicky morsel. “That’s delicious.”
He licks his fingertips, watching my mouth. “So are you.”
The low, husky words have my pussy clenching with need. Swallowing thickly, I cross my legs and tug at the hem of my short dress.
Reyes lets his eyes roam down my legs and up again before returning his attention to the lamb chops, deftly turning them over. They look just as perfect as the first batch.
“Has Braxton contacted you?”
The question catches me off guard. “Your cousin?”
Reyes smirks. “Know any other Braxtons?”
I frown. “No, he hasn’t contacted me. Why would he?”
“Because he’s interested in you.”
“How do you know?”
Reyes looks at me as if the answer should be obvious.
I lean back on my hands, studying his face. “What’s up with you two, anyway?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why all the animosity, even after all these years?”
He shrugs. “We’re continuing a tradition started by our fathers. They didn’t get along, so it’s our familial duty to do the same.”
I laugh. “Seriously though, Reyes. Isn’t it time to bury the hatchet and try to be friends?”
He slides me a look of wry amusement. “I didn’t know you’d added ‘relationship counselor’ to your list of many talents.”
I shrug. “I just think life’s too short to hold grudges, that’s all.”
He removes the seared chops, then tosses chopped garlic and rosemary into the sizzling pan. When the garlic turns color, he deglazes the pan with a splash of white wine, stirring in juices from the lamb.
As he reduces the wine to a sauce, I wait for him to respond to my comment.
“To be honest with you, I don’t have anything against Braxton—apart from the fact that he’s an entitled, pompous jackass. My grudge, as you call it, has very little to do with Braxton. And I think you know that. But let’s not ruin the evening with unpleasant talk.”
Get Over You (Dare Me Book 1) Page 10
