by Vremont, Ann
Walt drew her tight to him, still holding her hand and pressing his palm against the small of her back. A lovers’ dance with no music. She could feel him molding into her curves, feel her nipples beading in response. Far from him making her forget her body, she was aware of every tingling inch of skin, every length of muscle pulled tight in anticipation of where he would touch or kiss her next.
He ran his hand up her back, spreading delicious shivers across her arms and chest. He stopped at the edges of her up do and stroked the wispy strands that refused to be restrained. “You may have ruined all of L.A. for me, Bryce, if I can’t keep seeing it with you,” he whispered.
Damn, he was dangerous.
“Your lips shouldn’t be trembling like you’re ready to cry, Brycie.”
He was so warm—his voice, his lips, the concerned olive green gaze. Each time they were this close, she could feel her anxiety and resolve melting.
“Kiss me then,” she said.
Walt took her mouth with a hard reverence. He swept Bryce up into the kiss. He held her tight around the waist while his other hand pressed against the base of her head, forcing her into a yielding position. His tongue parted her lips, stroking and teasing as if he were kneeling between her spread thighs. She gripped his shoulder to steady herself, the pale, soft silk of her hand a white flag of surrender.
He broke the kiss, his gaze stunned. “I promised to feed you the best Mexican dinner in L.A. tonight.”
Standing on tiptoe, she brushed her lips against his before gently nibbling at his ear. “You promised to fuck me, too,” she reminded him. “And you didn’t really specify in which order.”
“Food’s closer.”
There was no mistaking the heat or reluctance in his voice. The heat, she thought, because he wanted to take her. His need pressed hard against her stomach. But there was still a very good chance Mama Diaz hadn’t gotten tired of waiting at his apartment.
She nodded, letting more than just acquiescence flicker in her gaze.
Walt shut the Suburban’s door and guided Bryce into the restaurant, the touch of his hand light between her shoulder blades. The restaurant’s entryway seemed dark after their loitering in the parking lot, and she closed her eyes while he talked to the host. After the man said it would be a few more minutes before their table was ready, she felt Walt slide behind her, his mouth at her ear.
“Keep your eyes closed.” His fingertips pressed lightly at her shoulders and he turned.
Bryce turned with him, wondering why he seemed to steer her back toward the entrance. If he’d managed a surprise, she would have seen it when they walked in no matter how dark it was. All she’d seen were some velvet cushion chairs and…
A mirror.
“Open them.”
Bryce obeyed slowly. The first thing she saw was the reflection of their heads, his lips against her hair. His gaze was sultry, the same sexual heat pouring off him that had marked all their encounters this weekend. But something immense and tender lurked in his gaze, too—something that turned the time they’d spent locked to one another into more than pleasurable fucking.
“Stop looking at me,” he growled playfully.
She gave a slow, short shake of her head and mouthed her disobedience. No.
“Afraid?”
“I can’t help wanting to look at you,” she answered and then pouted. “And what do you mean, ‘afraid’?”
“Of having your world view changed?”
Relenting, she looked at her image in the mirror, expecting more of the same fuzzy rendering she’d seen all night. The urge to cry struck her hard and fast in the chest. Erato’s art, however subtle, was here. But the underlying canvas was still clearly her own. Her gaze moved over each element—recognizing how it was different and yet unchanged. Erato had pulled the honey-blonde hair back in a loose Regency bun that suggested a very planned, yet casual, disorder.
The makeup highlighted her pale features. The shadowing around the eyes was smoky and intense, emphasizing the bedroom quality of their hazel coloring. A spot of color flushed each cheek and her lips were a bruised cherry, though Bryce would have wagered that Walt was responsible for their current coloring.
The matching top and skirt were a medium teal with gray sequined embroidery. The English-cut bodice flattered her shoulders and gave an elegantly elongated impression of her neckline. The sleeves were georgette and flowed loose and diaphanous, their ends weighted with a double row of the gray sequins. The skirt narrowed until about two inches above her knees. From there, pleated georgette sectioned the last foot of fabric into an airy hankie-hem. The skirt’s graceful drop points danced around her ankles and the dark gray silk pumps.
“You look surprised,” Walt said. “Almost like you didn’t dress yourself.”
If you only knew! She suppressed a nervous smile. “Well…ah…the lighting’s different in my apartment.”
“I think the lighting’s been different in your head,” he said and kissed her temple. “But that’s changing, yes?”
They were quietly interrupted with the news that their table was ready. Instead of the host, a much older gentleman led them back to their table, his manner with Walt warm and familiar. Bryce could feel the curious looks he cast at her as they crossed the restaurant. When they reached the table, he moved to pull Bryce’s chair out, but Walt put his hand on the low-backed chair.
“Please, let me.”
The old man moved to the side, smiling at Bryce. Walt bent low, his strong arms on either side of her as he gripped the chair seat. He helped her slide the chair into place, his whole aura intimate and possessive. The man pulled the opposite chair out, waving Walt in. He, too, bent low and intimate, his words just barely reaching Bryce’s ears.
“Esta es la senorita?”
Walt flushed and the skin around his eyes crinkled as he struggled to manage a discreet grin. “Si.”
“Ah…you should have made your reservations directly with me!” He raised his hand, summoning a waiter to the table.
He whispered something in the waiter’s ear, and the younger man scurried off. A few seconds later, the lighting in their section dimmed. The waiter returned, carrying candles and a vase of Mexican lilies. When the candles were lit, he stepped back to the next table and waited. The old man took Bryce’s hand and bowed at the waist.
“Beautiful lady, I am Victor Chavez.” He kissed her hand and then motioned to the restaurant. “This little slice of sanity is mine.”
All but tongue tied, Bryce managed a blush and simple “Thank you”.
“Would you,” he started, his tone that of a humble admirer, “would you allow me to pick the meal and wine for the evening?”
“Yes, thank you.” She nodded, delighted. A week ago his attention would have sent her running from the room, or at least had her desperately wanting to.
Victor bowed again, beaming at Walt before he snapped his fingers and took the waiter with him.
“What did he mean by his question?” Bryce asked, leaning as close across the table as the candles would allow.
Walt chewed his bottom lip, the even top row of his teeth showing. He gave his head a little shake, surprising Bryce at his reluctance to answer.
“Oh, you’re not going to get away with a ‘no’.” She stretched her leg under the table. Sliding the tip of her gray silk pump under the hem of his pants leg, she rubbed just above his ankle.
“You’re not very good at torture, love.”
His olive green gaze was determined. Bryce arched one brow and withdrew her foot to a safe distance.
“No, put it back.”
He may have meant to command her, but there was too much want in his voice. She brought her foot even with his and teased him with a soft nudge. “What did he mean?”
Walt dropped his gaze. His hands fiddled with the cloth napkin. “It’s just that he asked a few months ago why I’d started dining alone. I guess he’s surprised to see me with a girl.”
She pulled he
r foot back again. “But he didn’t say ‘a’ girl, he said ‘the’ girl.”
Even with the low lights and flickering candles, Bryce could see that he was blushing.
“Yes, ‘the’ girl.”
That was the only admission she was going to get from him, she realized, and she gently slid her foot back under the hem of his pants. Walt placed his palms flat on the table and surreptitiously glanced at the length of the table cloth. It was long enough that the fabric hung an inch over the floor.
“Take off the pump.”
This time it was a command. She toed the shoe off and then returned to caressing the bottom swell of his calf. Yes, better. The contact and the look in his eyes made her wet. Her breasts were tight, swollen and sharp-tipped.
“I…uh…” She was at a loss for words and couldn’t have spoken had she found any.
“Yeah.” He reached across the table to hold her hand. His thumb lightly wrestled with hers. “Me, too.”
The things he was doing to her hand were driving her crazy. He slid his thick thumb back and forth against the tight webbing between her fingers. His light scratches against her palm promised a night both tender and rough. She felt as if Walt were fucking her in front of the entire restaurant.
He slowed but didn’t stop his caresses when Victor approached the table carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses. Victor set the glasses down, showing the label first to Walt and then to Bryce. It was, of course, from the senior Diaz’s vineyards.
“God’s own wine,” Victor said and started working the cork loose. He watched Bryce as he did so. “Did this young man tell you I’m his Padrino—his godfather?”
“I hadn’t yet,” Walt answered.
Victor’s expression was forgiving, his gaze dancing with the flicker of candlelight. “Well, lovers think of other things first, yes?”
The exchange nearly floored Bryce. It wasn’t merely a restaurant owner with whom Walt was friends, or even an old and dear friend he had told about “the girl”. It was his godfather! And Walt had told him long before this weekend and Percy’s appearance.
With the cork freed, Victor poured their wine and placed the bottle on the table. “I see there are things you need to talk about,” he said, bowing again at Bryce before he left the table.
“I think talking is the last thing on my mind,” Walt said with a soft laugh.
Bryce bit at the inside of her cheek. She certainly didn’t want to spoil Walt’s mood, but she needed to know something, particularly if their relationship was going to extend beyond one breathtaking weekend.
Taking control of his hand, she looked at him, her gaze gentle but probing. “It’s not quite the last thing on my mind,” she said, choosing her words with the utmost care. “Why were you upset that I figured out who your parents are?”
Chapter Fifteen
Walt let Bryce keep possession of his hand despite the sudden urge to pull back. He had hoped he could make her forget, make himself forget, that the “Wicked Witch of the West Coast” was his mother. He had no sense of how to answer her question. Even though he’d never been in love before, he’d never rushed to abandon any of his prior lovers. At least, not with the women he had chosen for himself.
“My parents’ marriage was arranged,” he explained. “Mother thinks it’s perfectly acceptable to arrange my marriage as well—and to block any relationships that might make her plans…obsolete.”
“Block?”
Walt took a deep breath before answering. “Well, she has a variety of tactics. Two women, Vivienne and Carita, she bribed with industry contacts—an agent for Vivienne and an exclusive acting coach for Carita.” He took another breath and shuffled through his past affairs. “One, Claire, she got into the MBA program at Stanford, with a scholarship. With another, she had the girl’s graduate application held up until she agreed not to see me anymore.”
Bryce’s expression was shocked, angry, sympathetic, and filled with a quarter dozen more emotions he couldn’t name. She gave him a comforting smile and squeezed his hand.
“Well, I’ve just got to turn a paper in tomorrow and my grad degree is done,” she said with a wink.
Did that mean she didn’t want things to go back to business-as-usual Monday morning? Walt tilted his head and studied her for a second before returning the squeeze. He couldn’t read her right now, and it was too much to hope that Artemesia’s behavior hadn’t solidified Bryce’s plans of limiting things to a weekend affair.
But she had admitted the possibility—even the desire—yesterday, hadn’t she? If he could convince her he was sincere, that he not only could, but truly did, find her beautiful, it wouldn’t have to end tomorrow. Artemesia’s calling her “livestock”, however, hadn’t helped.
Walt squeezed her hand again, a little harder than he meant to. “Sorry…I get a little tight where Mother’s concerned.”
The forgiving nod told him she understood. Then came, “What about Chelle?”
Chelle—“Rochelle” on her birth certificate—was still a festering wound. Not because he’d loved her, but because it showed the lengths to which his mother would go.
“Mother’s a devout Catholic,” he started, wishing Victor would arrive with the food and he could leave his answer to some day far off in the future. “So she says, anyway. She paid for Rochelle’s abortion.”
Bryce’s hand escaped his and she held it over her heart. Over my mark, he thought, fighting the need to reach across the table and take her hand back.
“Y-yours?”
Walt shrugged. “I’ve always used protection—until you.” He brought his hands together on the table and ran the edges of the cloth napkin through them. “Chelle said, one night, after a little too much alcohol, I didn’t. Only she decided to announce it when we were at dinner with my parents.”
Bryce reached across the table and took both his hands in hers. She looked on the verge of crying and he wondered why. Was it because he might have gotten another woman pregnant or because of what had happened to the baby?
“Mother was dropping sly hints about how different Rochelle’s background was, letting her know upper-middle class just wasn’t good enough for her son.”
Bryce released one of his hands and pushed a candle to the side. Reaching up, she cupped the curve of his jaw and ran the pad of her thumb across his bottom lip. The way she touched him, he knew she wouldn’t make him continue with the story if he didn’t want to. But telling her felt right; he wanted her to know how serious he’d been when they’d made love with chance their only protection against conceiving.
“She broke up with me the next day…told me a week later that she’d had an abortion.” He saw a little shudder pass over Bryce and she blinked once, slowly.
“But how do you know your mother would stoop so low?” Bryce asked.
“Mother bragged about it.” His voice roughened. “How it had taken her a hundred thousand to prove Rochelle was just white trash, but that it had been worth every penny.”
Bryce still cupped his face and he placed his hand over hers before continuing. “I was living in the L.A. compound when she told me. That was mid-December.”
And right before he moved into Bryce’s apartment building. He watched her expression, worried she’d think that he’d chosen her as a safe rebound. Hell, she was anything but safe. She owned him right now and didn’t even realize it. When her gaze only grew warmer, softer, he relaxed. Turning his head, he kissed her palm just as Victor and the waiter approached.
The waiter carried two bowls of Sopa di Ostiones. The smell of oysters fried in wine and floating in a mix of tomato, garlic, potatoes and carrots, reached him before the two men did. Bryce retreated to her side of the table, her expression a little nervous.
“Bryce has confessed, Padrino,” Walt teased, “that real food is virtually unknown to her.”
Bryce blushed and looked caught somewhere between relieved and embarrassed. “It’s just that, if it didn’t come from a can or a box, my mother
didn’t serve it and I kind of carried along with it. But this does smell delicious.”
Victor rested his hand on Bryce’s shoulder, leaning close to her. “For you, my dear, I will make whatever you want. I will send Filo out to find something in a can…but I think, once you taste my oyster soup, you will want to make it for your mother. Show her how it’s done, no?”
Bryce smiled, but Walt detected a wince beneath it. Sensing she had an even worse relationship with her parents than he had with his mother, Walt wanted to touch her, comfort her in whatever way she would let him. Instead, he watched her dip her soup spoon into the bowl. Whatever timidity she must have felt, she suppressed it and scooped up one of the larger pieces of oyster.
Victor watched with one hand to his mouth, and Walt guessed his godfather fought the urge to chew his nails until Bryce pronounced the dish a success or failure. She finished her spoonful. This time there was no wince hiding behind the relieved smile.
“This is good,” she said, looking up at Victor.
The old man grinned and wagged an indulgent finger at her. “Wait until you taste the calamari steaks!”
Bryce’s grin didn’t falter, but the instant Victor was out of earshot, she glanced at Walt. “That’s…uh…squid, right?”
Watching Bryce’s entire face pucker when she said “squid”, Walt chuckled. “Yes, but it’s just as good—his special brandy sauce is famous in three countries.”
She gathered another spoonful of soup, hesitating before she took it into her mouth. “Your godfather, right?”
Walt nodded.
“And you adore him?”
Another nod. Damn, she was cute like this, her pointed question more blatant than she probably realized. “You’ll love it,” he promised. “Padrino or not.”
