“Think about something crappy, St. Clair.” He dropped his head, the chilly water flowing over the back of his neck. “Think about…”
The article. The New York Times article written by M.E. Elderkin. Guaranteed to dampen his mood.
His chest tightened. Yeah, that did it. Nothing like thinking about the time your whole sordid life became public reading matter to kill an erection.
With a ragged sigh, he lifted his face and stood motionless as the cold water washed away his tension. He was having dinner with Mila. He was seeing her again. Everything was good.
Fifteen minutes later, dressed in a charcoal-gray suit and his favorite Captain America T-shirt, he headed downstairs to the living room. Why the hell was his gut full of nerves? Anyone would think he was a nervous teenager waiting for his prom date to arrive.
He dragged his hands through his wet hair. “Let’s get you dinner, Reap.”
Reaper barked and bolted down the stairs to the kitchen.
The doorbell chimed just as Thomas began his descent.
He froze, heart smashing into his throat.
“Goddamn it, St. Clair.” He turned and walked to the door. Opened it.
Mila regarded him from the other side, and every fiber, every molecule in his body, turned to molten need.
Had he thought he was a nervous teenager before? More like a horny one.
Gone were her black-rimmed glasses and ponytail of yesterday. Now she wore fine, frameless glasses that highlighted how beautiful her eyes were. Her hair cascaded over her bare shoulders in a thick auburn curtain that skimmed her breasts. A flowing black dress kissed her dips and curves, its deep V neckline emphasizing the fullness of her breasts, and a killer split starting halfway down her right outer thigh teasing a hint of her creamy, smooth flesh. Her lips glistened with a pale pink gloss he wanted to kiss off.
Christ, she was beautiful.
“Like the shirt,” she said.
He swallowed, his mouth dry. “Thanks.”
She didn’t move.
He swallowed again, incapable of doing anything else but look at her.
One dark red eyebrow arched. “You could ask me in, if you like?”
“I was just about to feed Reaper.”
A tiny smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “You could do that as well. I can wait out here, if you like?”
“I don’t like.”
“No?”
“What I’d like is to kiss you. Can I do that?”
She frowned and then forced out a shaky laugh. “Depends. Am I on the clock or off it right now?”
“Off.”
Her lips parted. “Do you think that’s a wise id—”
He snaked his arm around her waist and yanked her to him, crushing her lips with his.
She kissed him back, her tongue seeking out his, her hands cupping his face.
Holy crap, she kissed him back.
And then Reaper was bounding and leaping at their feet, yapping with excitement, and she pulled away, a shaky laugh falling from her.
“Hi, boy,” she said, squatting down to pat him.
Thomas pulled a steadying breath, watching his dog do his best to lick her face, her hand.
“Let’s get him fed so we can get to the restaurant.”
She raised her face to him, fingers scratching at Reaper’s ears. “Hungry?”
He sucked in another breath and plunged his hands into his suit pants. “Oh, Mila, you have no fucking idea.”
Slowly straightening, she met his gaze. “Oh, St. Clair, I think I do.”
He reached for her, but she stepped backward. “I’ll wait here. Go feed your dog.”
He’d never filled Reaper’s bowl with kibble so quickly.
…
“This is where we’re eating?”
Thomas pulled to a halt outside the unassuming building in Greenwich Village, his grin stretching wide. “You have a problem with eating in the dark?”
Casting the restaurant front a curious look from inside the Maserati, Mila frowned. “I tend to prefer to see what I’m eating. And who I’m eating it with.”
He chuckled beside her. Damn, she really wished his laugh wouldn’t make her girly parts flutter. It was a serious inconvenience. As was the fact that the second she saw him or heard his voice, all her previous pep talks to herself about kissing him anymore went right out the window.
“Where’s your sense of adventure?”
She turned in the seat and fixed him in a steady stare. “I pretended to be someone else the first time we went to dinner, remember? My sense of adventure is fine and dandy, thank you.”
Mirth twinkled in his eyes, and he leaned toward her a little. “Prove it. Kiss me. Right now.”
She opened the door and climbed out onto the sidewalk.
From inside the Maserati, Thomas chuckled again.
“Mr. St. Clair.” The approaching valet smiled at him.
A strange disappointment washed through her. So it wasn’t the first time he’d been here? Bet his date the last time had been infinitely leggier.
Tossing the valet his keys, Thomas grinned. “I’ve got your word? Not a scratch?”
Mila bit back her laugh. “A Return of the Jedi quote? Impressive.”
He gasped, gaping at her as he joined her on the sidewalk. “Doth my ears deceive me? Are you a Star Wars fan? Did I create you in my dreams or did the writing gods hear my prayers?”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re not as charming as you think you are, St. Clair.”
He smoothed his palm over the small of her back, sending a warm tickle of excitement deep into the junction of her thighs. “Yes, I am.”
They walked into the restaurant, and once again, Mila couldn’t believe the surreal life of a celebrity.
“Welcome, Mr. St. Clair.” The maître d met him just inside the door. “We’re honored to have you this evening and have reserved the best seats for you. We hope your first dining experience with us will not be your last.”
A stupid rush of warm relief flowed through her. So he hadn’t brought a date here before?
This is not a date, Mila. This is…work.
Except he’d said she was off the clock, so if it wasn’t work, what was it?
Her pulse quickened.
Was this a date?
A waiter appeared at the maître d’s side before she could contemplate the answer.
“This way, sir.” The waiter beamed at Mila. “Ma’am.”
She blanched. “Oh God, don’t call me that.”
Thomas laughed, slid his hand up her spine to the back of her neck. “Christ, woman, I could get addicted to you.”
She shot him an askew look. “Don’t do that, either.”
Stupid heart. Why was it pounding so hard at the notion?
They walked through a curtain entryway into the dining area of the restaurant. More than one person already seated at the long bench-like rows of tables whispered Thomas’s name, excitement on their faces. The low murmur followed them through the room as they made their way to their place at one of the tables.
The waiter pulled an ornate chair out and smiled at Mila. “Ma—”
He snapped his mouth shut when she arched an eyebrow at him.
Thomas chuckled, sliding his hand down her back before moving to his seat on the other side of the table. He sat before the waiter could help, picking up the pristine white napkin and giving it a flap, his gaze holding hers. “Ready?”
She lowered herself into her seat, placed her own napkin on her lap, and reached for the glass of ice water already waiting for her.
It was hard not to turn and look at the curious stares they were getting. Hard not to turn and tell those watching Thomas’s every move to mind their own business. It wasn’t like he was a movie star, and this was New York. Famous people dined out in New York every day.
But how many famous people radiated such a mesmerizing, magnetic energy? How many have the ability to destroy all your determined plans to en
d the charade you’re caught up in with just a single—
“Mila?”
Blinking, Mila jerked herself out of the unsettling thought. Heat flooded her cheeks, and she took a sip of water. “Sorry?”
Thomas reached from his own glass, watching her. “I asked you what’s your favorite movie.”
“That’s a weird conversation starter for dinner.”
He grinned. “Not when the purpose of tonight is to learn everything I can about you. I have a list of questions. Would you like to see them?” He put down his water and slipped his hand inside his jacket.
“No, no, no.” She rolled her eyes. “And I’m not letting you learn everything you can about me. That’s not in our non-existent contract.”
“Your favorite movie is a secret?”
She snorted out a sigh. “You will laugh.”
He shook his head and drew a cross over his heart, expression solemn.
Damn it, why did he keep making her want to smile? Why didn’t he make her want to grit her teeth and get angry with his ego and self-absorbed nature? “My favorite movie is Toy Story.”
He narrowed his eyes, as if digesting her confession.
“Followed by Shaun of the Dead.”
What the hell? In for a penny and all.
His eyes narrowed some more. “I prefer the existential angst of Toy Story 3, myself. But if you’re going zombie movies, you can’t get any better than Shaun of the Dead.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Would you like to meet Simon Pegg?”
“Do you know him?”
He slumped back in his chair, expression one of melodramatic dismay. “No. But I suspect, with a few calls we could—”
“Attention, ladies and gentlemen.” The maître d now stood at the head of the table, smiling at everyone in the room. “The most incredible sensory dining experience of your life is about to begin. We ask you at this time to place your blindfolds over your eyes and prepare yourself for what is to begin.”
Mila drew in a steady breath. She didn’t normally enjoy something as whimsical as this. If Josie or any of her fellow teachers had suggested eating at a place like this, she would have scoffed and declined.
So why was the thought of eating food she couldn’t see, in a room full of strangers she also couldn’t see, with a man she wanted to dislike, making her lips curl?
Laughter danced in Thomas’s eyes as he picked up his blindfold and slid it over his head. “Ready?”
She licked her lips. Nodded.
His nostrils flared. “Perhaps we could skip dinner and go home and—”
“Put your blindfold on, St. Clair.”
He put his blindfold on.
A white flash detonated farther down the table. She shot the photographer a quick look, frowning as he lowered his phone.
“Don’t do that again.”
He nodded at her order, smile apologetic.
Thomas chuckled, teeth flashing in the restaurant’s muted light. “So my muse and my protector? I don’t know which one turns me on the most.”
Mila removed her glasses and put her blindfold on. Looking at him, at his grin, his relaxed charm was too goddamn dangerous for her sanity.
“So what’s your favorite book?”
Thomas’s voice caressed her ears, and she imagined his face. Around her, the sounds of the other diners seemed to grow clearer, but it was Thomas’s voice her brain focused on. Deep, smooth, with a faint touch of a Brooklyn twang. Huh. She hadn’t noticed that before.
“Pride and Prejudice,” she answered. The delicious aroma of food filled her breath, making her mouth salivate. The chink and ting of china and silverware moving about danced on the air. Soft piano music joined in. Their fellow diners’ murmurs did the same.
And yet sitting in the chair, blind to everything, all Mila concentrated on was Thomas—she couldn’t see him, but he was there. So very there. Asking her questions. Finding out about her. Discovering who she was.
The very thing she was meant to do with him all those years ago.
A cold lick of guilt traced up her spine, and she squeezed her eyes shut beneath the blindfold.
Work. This was a work dinner. She had a job to do. Keep his writing mojo switched on so he could finish his book ASAP. Once that was done, she was out of his life. She had to be.
After she bought the laptops for her students, of course.
God, why did she keep forgetting about that?
“My favorite quote from Pride and Prejudice?” His voice tickled her senses again. “‘It’s been many years since I had such an exemplary vegetable.’”
Before she could stop herself, she laughed.
And then a gentle hand pressed to her shoulder. “Your first course,” a strange female voice said to her right.
“Wonder how exemplary the vegetables are on my plate?” Thomas asked. Mila’s breath caught as his feet brushed hers beneath the table. Barely a touch, but it sent a ripple of something tight and hot through her.
She searched the table for her knife and fork.
“Okay,” Thomas said, clearly around a mouthful of food. “That wasn’t a vegetable. That was the most delicious pork I’ve tasted in my life.”
Blind, she found her meal with her knife and fork and stabbed at it. Raised her fork to her lips.
Closed her lips around it.
Her senses went into overdrive. The smell, the texture, the heat…deprived of seeing what she was eating, the rest of her senses took charge. Pork, cherries, balsamic vinegar…
“Oh my God,” she exclaimed, as the delicious assault on her taste buds continued. “This is amazing. We should do more things blindfolded.”
The second the words were out of her mouth, she knew they were a mistake.
A mistake? Or flirting on a level she’d never participated in before?
“Okay,” Thomas answered.
Mila’s tummy clenched.
There was no mistaking the tone in his voice. Her senses didn’t need to be hyper-aware to recognize it.
Desire.
Goddamn it, what the hell was she doing? And how the hell was she going to survive it?
Chapter Thirteen
He watched Mila as the night progressed—after they’d finished their meals and their blindfolds had been removed, that was—watched her slowly transform into a different woman. She laughed more, stopped trying to cover her amazing cleavage with distracted tugs on the neckline of her dress. Stopped frowning.
By the time they were walking to his car, her eyes shone with a happiness so infectious, so beautiful, he wanted to freaking dance.
Instead, he walked beside her on the sidewalk, the evening air heavy and humid, the sounds of New York barely registering, and talked about Reaper. About rescuing him from a dog shelter on the verge of closing down. Of his failed attempts to teach him how to commando crawl, and Reaper’s success at learning where all his socks were kept.
He told her about the time Reaper crept into his neighbor’s apartment one Thanksgiving and stole not only a turkey drumstick, but a Barbie doll.
Neither the drumstick nor the Barbie ever saw their original homes again, although Thomas did buy this neighbor’s little niece a truckload of Barbies to replace the one Reaper had become enamored with.
She laughed, nudged him with her shoulder, and then before he knew what was going on, took his hand in hers.
He froze, stare dropping to their hands.
She did the same, before extracting her fingers. “I’m sorry.”
He shook his head. “Don’t be.”
That was the last word either said. The drive back to his brownstone was silent.
And now here they were at his front door.
“Will you come in?” She was going to say no. He could tell. It was in her eyes. The tension in her body. “To say good night to Reap?”
She frowned, looking at the closed door. “You can’t always use your dog as a means to getting what you want, St. Clair.”
“I know. But
I can try.”
Her frown deepened. “You have work to do. A deadline to meet.”
“You’re a hard task-mistress.”
A soft chuckle fell from her lips. “That’s what you’re paying me for. To get your book written.”
“It is. And to inspire me.”
“A muse has to inspire.”
He dragged in a slow breath. What was going on? In her head? Between them now? Something had changed, during dinner, after it. When she’d taken his hand…
“Please come in? I won’t throw you against the wall and make wild, passionate, crazy love to you. I promise.”
Her eyes fluttered closed. Her frown turned frustrated.
Fuck. He’d messed it up. “I’m sorry. I was just trying to get you to laugh again.”
“I have to go.” Her words tore at him. Fuck. He’d messed it up and she was leaving again.
He swallowed. “Okay.”
She stared up at him, eyes searching his and then she turned.
He let out a sigh, opened his door, and stepped inside.
“St. Clair?”
At her voice, he turned. She stood on the other side of the threshold. “Do you like me? The person you’ve just had dinner with?”
“I do, Mila.” His heart thumped faster. “I like her a lot.”
She stepped across the threshold, so close her heat radiated into his body. “In that case, is there any chance we could do that wild, passionate, crazy sex thing you mentioned a second ago?” She licked her bottom lip. “The one against the—”
He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her silent. Worshipped her mouth. He didn’t restrain his hunger for her.
At her soft moan, he grabbed her ass and lifted her off the floor.
She wrapped her legs around him, her hands tangling in his hair. The heat of her sex pressed to his groin, to the engorged length of his imprisoned erection. He growled into her mouth and squeezed her butt, his head swimming, his blood burning at the softness of her buttocks filling his palms.
She moaned again, an impatient sound he was instantly addicted to. Hell, he wanted to hear her make that sound every day, wanted to be responsible for her making that sound every day.
Tearing his mouth from her, he pressed his forehead to hers, his breath shallow. “We are definitely off the official muse clock right now. It’s just you and me, an incredibly beautiful, sexy woman, and the man who wants her more than breath itself. So…is wild passionate sex really on the table?”
The Mistaken Billionaire (the Muse series) Page 12
