A
famous and infamous restaurant. She inhaled the sumptuous
air. Delicious dishes composed an ever-changing menu. She was escorted to a
private alcove off the terrace. The individual dining rooms catered to the needs
of couples for complete privacy. Notoriously decadent.
The
waiter knocked. Then there was a lag time before entering. She had heard Wyatt
clearly say to enter, but here they stood in the corridor with the waiter
glancing at the floor.
Marissa
peered at the waiter, “Excuse me. I thought I heard Mr. Herndon say to
enter.”
She
could have sworn the man was counting down as his head bobbed. The waiter opened
the door and hung back.
Wyatt’s
gaze connected with hers, sending an intense flash of giddy excitement through
her body. He stood, making her knees dissolve into sand. The shock of her
desire, a cutting awareness, pulled at her. The lancing expression in his
eyes—unbraided lust—was practically tangible within the confined
space.
The
waiter asked if they were ready for dinner. A second time. “Yes, I believe we
are,” Wyatt responded.
She
smiled at the tone of his voice. Then the door closed, leaving them alone in a
room that contained a sofa and fully laid table.
“You
look lovely. I’m so happy you found me. I didn’t know there were compartments. I
wondered if you’d think I had planned something scandalous.”
“No, the
restaurant serves an excellent cuisine. Cozy is part of the charm. I see you’re
enjoying the evening view of the sea. Soon you’ll own part of the
view.”
“That
depends upon you. Doesn’t it?” He nodded and came forward. “It’s beautiful at
this time. If you come here, you can see the constellation Orion.”
She
crossed to the terrace to stand next to him. Wyatt came up close to her, the
nearness of him made her hypersensitive to her surroundings. “Where?” God, she
wanted to relax against him. Instead, she followed his pointing finger, gazing
upward into the night sky.
“That
star shining brighter than the rest is Betelgeuse. The armpit of the
hunter.”
His
words and expression had her skin tightening. She had to stop this longing or it
would be too late. She answered leaning away, but still she trembled. “Yes. The
red one.”
“Precisely. Easy to find on a night like this. Come inside. It’s
chilly out here.” The pressure from his hand steered her back inside the room
that appeared smaller than before.
Marissa
sniffed the ocean breeze as well as a floral aroma, and the scent of a cigar he
must have lit at some point. An open bottle of wine stood ready to pour. A dozen
blood-red roses adorned the table. Not ordinary roses but voluptuous blossoms in
full bloom.
“The
roses are remarkable. Perfect,” she murmured.
“I was
informed they’re ours to take. Consider them as belonging to you,” he
said.
She
refocused on Wyatt, a powerful man in front of her. And a mistake. His eyes were
bluer than she remembered, or it was the effect of crimson-colored walls of the
room. He gazed at her and drew her to him, his hand covering hers.
She
fought his wordless command but whatever he silently asserted overpowered her.
“Thank you for meeting me tonight.”
Marissa
flinched uncontrollably, slamming on the brakes of her self-control. “Please
Wyatt. This is the last stepping stone and I’m eager to share the property
reports.”
“I
understand. Then let’s proceed.” He released her but not before her willpower
floundered. Caught in the middle of a battle to heed caution or ride on the
waves of passion, she remembered to take a seat. She passed by him, so close
their arms brushed, and a blaze of heat broke free from a point between her
shoulder blades.
He wore
a white dress shirt that clung to buff torso, open four buttons from the collar,
and displaying a patch of near-black hair on his chest. His muscular shoulders
spread before her face. She glanced down his dark slacks, hugging his lean hips.
When he moved, even in the evening light, the, outlines of his muscular thighs
tempted her. This time she didn’t look away from the space below his belt. She
licked her lips hungrily and flexed her toes. Then she stumbled.
“Are you
alright?” His fingers encircled her upper arm. Off-balanced, she caught hold of
his arm, clutching a rock-hard bicep.
He came
at her from the side, closed the distance. All she had to do was stop and turn.
She might as well have been clutching a frayed electrical cord. Amped energy
released and passed between their bodies. If she didn’t let go—move away—she’d
be a product of spontaneous combustion.
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