Page 36 of For Your Eyes Only

“I haven’t, but I’m starting to believe it.”

“You’d better. Now tell me how old you are.”

“Twenty-two.” It’s true, even though it’s not my birthday.

“Hm.” His lips press together, and I can’t read his expression.

“Too young or too old?”

“I’d say you’re just right, although you’re too young for that dress.”

“What does that mean?” I lift my chin defiantly.

He leans closer, tracing his finger from my chin to the line of my jaw. The clean citrus of his cologne fills my nose, and his voice drops to a slight growl. “It’s very motivational.”

His finger traces down to my neck, and heat rises in my core. My lips part, and I almost exhale a whimper. His eyes flicker down, and my breasts feel too full for the small cups holding them. I want him to touch me.

“Mr. Alexander?” A chipper female voice interrupts us, and that hand goes into the pocket of his suit pants as he turns away. “Right this way.”

We start to move, and I remember to breathe.

“Verymotivational,” he whispers close to my ear, again taking my hand and putting it in the crook of his arm as we follow the hostess to our table.

We take our seats in high-backed, satin-upholstered chairs, and Trip orders a bottle of red wine, a Barolo.

“I’ve never been in one of these restaurants.” We’re surrounded by velvet and satin, and linen menus with raised lettering in folders at each of our plates. “It’s so elegant.”

“It’s what the old guard demands, but don’t be intimidated. They’re just like you and me.”

“No they’re not.”Not like me, at least.

He leans back in his chair, lifting his hand to his chin as he studies me. His eyes simmer, and I shift in my seat.

Leaning forward, I tease him. “That’s a very naughty look, Mr. Alexander.”

“You have no idea.” His eyes flicker to my breasts pressing against my bodice, and I straighten in my chair.

“I think we should get to know each other better.” I slide the taupe dinner napkin across my lap, glancing down.

“That’s just what I had in mind.”

The waiter interrupts us with the wine service. A ruby-red vintage is uncorked and poured, sampled then served. Trip orders the swordfish for himself, and I have the Chilean sea bass, although I can’t imagine eating a bite. My stomach is full of those butterflies, and they’re swirling like I’m on fire, faster every time he gives me one of those sinful grins.

Fingering the base of my wine glass, I wonder if I can pick it up without my hand shaking. He takes a sip, and with his eyes diverted, I quickly do the same. Sharp, dry cherry is on my tongue with a hint of pepper.

“That’s nice.” I nod, placing it on the table.

“I’m glad you like it. Are you familiar with wine?”

“Not really. Barolo is Italian, though. I had it once at a ballet opening.” Shaking my head, I glance down causing a wavy lock of hair to slip over my shoulder. “My family could only ever afford Chianti.”

His eyes drift to my hair. “You straightened your curls.”

“It’s more formal this way.”

“It is elegant, but I prefer it wild.”

“Do you?”