Her dress caught his attention again. It wasn’t her style at all. He’d almost commented, but then stopped himself. Was she doing all of this for him? Because that’s what she thought he’d like?
He lifted the bottle of wine. “Would you like some?”
Instead of answering, she took a fork and studied the feast in front of them. “Do you like mussels?”
“Yeah, they’re okay.”
She picked up a mussel with her fingers, and raised it to his mouth. “Taste this.”
He stared at the tender morsel of meat, but knew he was hungry for more than seafood. He closed his lips over her finger, his tongue lapping at the soft meat, slow and methodical. With a heavy-lidded gaze, he watched her, noting the way the pulse at her throat was pounding.
He was painfully hard, quickly liking the idea of leaving. His parents were completely preoccupied, laughing and chatting with Vivien and Theodore. Nothing out of the ordinary about that. Tonight, he didn’t care, though. He turned his attention back to Michelle.
His hands slid under the table, flirting with her thigh. He slid his fingers upward, letting her see exactly what he intended. She was biting her lips, her eyes half closed. And then her knee bumped against the table, and the silverware went clanking. She jerked her leg away, a dark flush appearing at the base of her throat.
And then the next course arrived.
He tried to eat, but his gaze kept drifting back to her. His hand would stray near hers, an accidental touch. Maybe their thighs brushed up against each other, but each time, he’d pull back. Patience, Sakuma. Patience.
“Connor, how is the restaurant doing?” his father asked, jerking Connor out of his fog.
“Good,” he responded.
Vivien wiped her mouth daintily. “Oh, you own a restaurant. I think that is wonderful—”
Juro coughed. “Ah, no, Connor is a sous chef, but we’re proud of you, son.” He winked.
Connor wanted to crawl under the table.
Instead, Michelle picked up his hand and traced her fingers against his palm. “You know, when you go into a restaurant, you trust yourself to these hands. You trust that when he inspects the food after it’s purchased, everything will be okay. When he cooks the food, you know you are going to leave and not suffer from food poisoning the following day. You know he’ll toss away bad food rather than risk bad service. When you work in a restaurant, there are a lot of people who work together to make sure that you completely enjoy your dining experience without ill health effects. No one ever thinks about that, do they? But that’s what Connor does.”
His jaw dropped open. Good thing he didn’t have any food in his mouth because he would have set it across the table. Where the hell had she learned all of that information from? She looked at him and smiled, a very confident grin. He felt something tugging at his heart.
That something was Michelle.
Chapter Eleven
They all went dancing at an old-fashioned place that his mom and dad frequented on their anniversary. There were round tables surrounding the dance floor and a full band played old cheesy music. High on the ceiling above them, a disco ball rotated around. If he’d been there with anyone else, Connor would have spent the evening cracking jokes about how lame it was.
Tonight, he wasn’t in the mood for jokes.
A little less than two hours left on his date with Michelle. A little less than two hours before he saw the princess safely home.
She was an excellent dancer—no surprise there. The way he figured, she did everything well. He twirled her around to the tune of some forgotten love song and pulled her in closer.
She snuggled against him. “I’m thinking you’re a really good actor.”
He smiled. “And I’m thinking you’re a really good smart-ass.”
“What’s Theodore doing?”
“Boring Vivien with his life story.”
“Really?” Her head jerked toward the small table, where Theodore and Vivien appeared to be having a wonderful time. “It’s working Connor. I told you it would.”
“Yes, you did. You just might be correct.”
“Oh, please. You know I was right. You’d be surprised about how many things I’m correct about. Like us, for instance. Admit it, Connor. We’re good together.”
He kissed her, long and lingering, his fingers grazing over the curve of her shoulder.
His possessive gaze trailed over her, noting the designer outfit, the discreet diamonds at her throat and her ears, the pinned-up hair, twisted and curly.
Each time he looked at his parents, his mother waved at him as if he’d never grown up. Well, she was wrong, and soon he would prove it. As if on cue, his cell phone rang. He walked Michelle off the floor and answered. “Sakuma here.”
“Connor, Tiny here. You wanted some extra hours, right?”
“Sure.”
“We could use you here tonight. The restaurant is packed and we are two people short. Can you come in?”
“I’ll be right in.” Connor hung up the phone and placed it back in his pocket.
“You have a cell phone?”
The way Michelle stared, he might have grown another pair of eyes instead.
“Doesn’t everyone?” He kissed her quickly. “Listen, I need to leave. Come outside, and we’ll take a cab home.”
“Leave?”
“Yes. Work beckons.”
“Work?” she repeated with a catch in her voice that had nothing to do with affection and everything to do with anger. Of all the people in the world, he figured Michelle would be the one to understand this. While watching her mouth tighten with displeasure, he realized he’d figured wrong.
“Are you doing this intentionally?”
“What?”
“Leaving me to go to work. Is this to teach me a lesson?”
Connor rubbed his forehead, trying to soothe the pounding throb that was beginning to hammer in his head. It didn’t help. “What are you talking about?”
“Why are you working so much?”
Well, it was about time she noticed. “Maybe it’s time I became more serious about life. Look at you; look at what you’ve accomplished. I’ve been telling myself that I was happy where I was, that I didn’t want any more out of life. Maybe I was wrong.”
Michelle went quiet. “Are you certain you’re okay?”
“Never better.” He kissed her once, and then again.
When she looked up at him, this time, he saw uncertainty reflected in her eyes. “I want to see you, Connor. Alone. This waiting is driving me crazy.”
She thought she was going crazy? His hard-on was becoming a permanent fixture in his life. But he wanted their first time to be special. Something elegant, breathtaking. Something she’d remember for a long, long time. She walked with him out the door.
“Soon, honey. Soon. I promise.”
Michelle held his arm. “Stay just a little bit longer.”
“I can’t. Look, I have a few hours off on Saturday. I’ll call you and we’ll do something then.”
“Make love?”
Just for that, he kissed her again, “Michelle, I’m shocked.” He tried to keep his tone light, but if he sounded like he was completely turned on, well, here it was.
Her cool eyes flashed at him. Damn, she looked good when she was angry. “I don’t want you shocked; I want you as aroused as I am.”
Like lightning, he had her pressed against the wall. Locked together from breast to thighs, he made sure she felt every tortured inch of him. “You don’t think I want you? You think I’ve been killing myself to keep from touching you.” He laughed. “Hell, I can’t even do that right.”
“You can’t be serious,” she said, sounding completely rational.
Her calm attitude did it. He didn’t answer. Instead, he took her mouth with more teeth and anger than finesse. He didn’t care. He tangled his hand in her hair and pulled until her mouth opened beneath his. Still, it wasn’t enough. Right now, anything short of full-body
possession wasn’t enough.
He dragged his lips where her dress skimmed her breast, sucked hard, marking her. Damn it, she was his. Her hands twisted on the front of his jacket, and he heard a whimper come from within her. Fear?
That stopped him. He lifted his head and stared; frustration and desire beat like a drum behind her eyes. Her lips were swollen were he’d kissed her, her eyes were more shut than open, and her prim little bra peeked out from beneath her not so prim dress.
Still, there was no hiding the victorious gleam in her eye. Somehow, that only made it worse.
“You did that on purpose,” he said.
With shaky hands, she fixed her dress. “Sure did, Sakuma. You sure you have to go?”
Satin sheets. Satin sheets. Satin sheets.
He didn’t answer, just tucked her into a cab and then took off for the train station. The long walk was just what he needed to cool off.
Soon, Michelle. Very soon.
Chapter Twelve
The weekend passed in one caffeine-induced blur for Connor, but by the time Monday morning arrived, he was feeling rather proud of himself. He had booked a suite at Moorpark Hotel for Saturday night, had a reservation for two at Aoki, and had arranged for two-dozen Japanese Magnolias to be delivered to her office on Friday.
Yes, everything was falling into place.
When the final reservation was confirmed, her called Michelle. The weekend would be a surprise. His gift to her. Hopefully, it’d be one she’d never forget. It was about time he lived up to his potential. He was a few months away from graduating. He needed to cut back on his work hours, but that meant money would be tighter. Oh well. Michelle would just have to understand. After thirty-seven years as Theodore Sakuma’s irresponsible older brother, Connor was ready to do something about it. Michelle would be proud.
It was 11:00 a.m. before he finally had a break. Preparing the kitchen for opening time was hard work, which was good. They were too busy getting the kitchen prepped for him to think about her. Making love to her. Sliding her oh-so-prim bra right off her shoulders and watching her eyes drift with pleasure. He looked at his hands, wishing they were a little softer, less calloused.
He stared out into the kitchen, wondering why he hadn’t become a computer programmer, or a financial mogul, or some other sort of mogul.
Because he liked to cook.
Damn it.
He liked Michelle just as much as he liked to cook. Considering the lone hour of sleep he’d finally gotten last night, he suspected he like Michelle more.
Michelle was steady and reliable.
He could be steady and reliable, too.
However, cookware didn’t have feelings.
Michelle did.
He picked up the phone. Steady and reliable—that’s who he was.
“Michelle Lewis’s office.”
“Michelle, please.”
“May I say who’s calling, please?”
“Connor Sakuma.”
“Oh.”
The person on the line drew the word out several syllables long. Disapproval in all of them. Then followed with one long, heavy sigh, just in case he missed it. “You’d think her boyfriend would know when she’s not feeling well considering this is the first sick day she’s taken since she’s worked here.”
“Sick?” She’d looked perfectly healthy when he last saw her. Sexy, vibrant, alive. In fact, he was getting a little hot just thinking about her physical well-being.
“Yes, Mr. Connor-Not-the-Doctor, she called this morning, coughing and sneezing, poor doll. Said she spent the night puking her guts out. You would think someone who professes to care for her would be sitting by her bedside, tucking in the covers. You would think someone who enjoys her companionship would be holding her head as she worships the porcelain goddess. You would think that the man she adores would be at her side with some soup, and not that pond scum that comes out of a can, either. Clearly some of the members of the stronger sex do not think at all. I bet Dr. Sakuma wouldn’t be so insensitive, Mr. Sakuma. Goodbye.”
Connor could only stare at the phone.
“Problem, Sakuma?”
He didn’t know she was sick. Hell. He was innocent here. “Hmm?”
He looked up, and there stood the executive chef, Tiny.
“Sakuma? Is everything okay? You look a little pale.”
Not everyone could get away with the nickname Tiny, but Willard Baker could. He was tough, could stand up to even the most impatient customers and critics, and he was just a few inches under seven feet, weighing at least three hundred pounds.
“I’m okay,” Connor mumbled.
Tiny gestured to the phone in Connor’s hand. “Uh, if you’re done there, then…”
Connor handed off the receiver. “Can you cover for me? I need to leave. It’s an emergency.”
Tiny scratched his head, looking doubtful. “Well, we are expecting several large parties tonight and we are already going to be short handed.”
“I’ll pull a double shift for anybody that can help. Michelle’s sick.”
“Who’s Michelle?”
“She’s my, my…” Connor gave up, not wanting to figure out that answer right now. “I need to be there,” was what he ended up with, sure of that one.
“Did you sign off on the prep check list?”
Connor nodded.
“Okay then. But be back by five p.m. Unfortunately, I can’t spare you for the dinner rush.” The executive chef grinned. “I still remember what it’s like after you first fall in love. I am calling home right now.”
In love? Yeah, sure. And where in the hell would be find homemade soup? “Thanks, Tiny. I’ll be back. You’re the best.”
Connor grabbed his keys and ran out of the office, the door slamming behind him.
* * * *
Michelle had nearly finished her first wall when she heard a knock at the door. She put down the paintbrush and studied her handiwork with a critical eye. Not bad for a novice.
Today she was the new Michelle. No more long nights pacing the floor because Connor Sakuma didn’t feel the need to call her and say hi.
“You can’t change all of them, honey.” Wasn’t that what Julia told her? No, she couldn’t change Connor, but she could change Michelle.
She waded through the drop cloth and made her way to the door. She definitely wasn’t expecting company. Might be someone from work, though. Maybe something urgent came up. She faked a cough as she neared the door.
“Yes?”
“Michelle. You all right?”
Connor. She looked at her painting clothes and wanted to cry. Pajama pants and a tank top. Not the best look. “What are you doing here?”
“Let me in and then you go lay back down. I’ll take care of you.”
Go lie down? What was that all about? Maybe he’d changed his mind. Maybe he was here to ravish her. Obediently, she opened the door after taking one last look at herself, and there he stood, panting. What was the emergency? Her heart started to lift. Maybe he needed to see her. Maybe that was the emergency.
“Connor? Is everything okay?”
He looked at her, the pajama pants, the tank top, the can of paint at her feet. “You’re painting?”
Well, he wasn’t dressed much better. Dark pants and a white shirt with what looked to be grease stains. And a wonderful smelling paper sack. He’d come straight from work. With food. “Are you okay?”
He strode into the apartment, rubbing his face. “I thought you were sick.”
And it all made sense. The worry, the out of breathless, the—oh my God, soup. He’d brought her soup. She struggled to find the chair under the drop cloths, couldn’t find it, and settled for leaning against the bulky blob in the middle of the room. If felt like a chair.
He looked around. “What are you doing?”
“I’m painting the apartment.” She held out a paintbrush. “You can help. Unless you’re going to leave now. After you’ve come all this way to give me…soup.�
�� She tried to stay cool, like she didn’t care that he had run out on their date and hadn’t called her once over the weekend. She really did, but the warm smell of soup was turning her into mush, and her voice softened right at the end.
“I’ll help.” He handed her the brown paper bag. “But only if you eat this first.”
How did he do it? She spent the weekend watching the Food Network and called her parents several times. Just to chat. Something she’d never done before. Anything to keep her mind off the phone. But no matter what she did, her thoughts always returned to Connor.
Everything between them was so new, so uncertain. She’d planned on seducing Connor, but he’d turned the tables on her—made her fall in love—and he probably had no idea. When he gazed at her, a thousand apologies in his eyes, she melted even more.
“Deal.”
He looked down and stared at her feet. Bare feet with yellow paint spots. Embarrassed, she curled her toes. It didn’t help. Finally, he raised his eyes to her face and waved halfheartedly at the walls. “It looks good.”
The walls were as yellow as yellow could be, and her vision tended to blur when she stared at them too long, but she’d done it. All by herself. Her apartment was forty-five percent completely covered in yellow. Not ivory, not tan, no off white, not mother-of-pearl. Sunshine yellow.
She started to fold her arms across her chest, then remembered she was holding her soup. Hot soup. She placed it on the kitchen table. “Yeah, I think so.”
Actually, she was beginning to rethink the color scheme, but wasn’t quite ready to admit that. She returned to the living room, and he looked down at her feet again. “You sure you need help?”
She shrugged defensively. “No, but you’re welcome to stay if you like.” She flicked back a strand of hair from her face. “If you have the time.”
“Yeah.”
“Well.” Michelle exhaled and his gaze rested on her chest. The room heated for a moment. “Would you like to eat first or just start painting?”
“Why don’t you eat?” he answered, still staring at her chest. Here they were. Alone in her apartment. He’d said, “soon…”
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