He glanced over at me. I feigned interest in something outside.
“Do I sense a hint of . . . jealousy?” he asked.
Jealousy was not my thing. Bill and I didn’t play that game. He’d never cheat. Nor would I, because that would turn me into the person my mother had accused my father of being.
She’d met his client, Gina, accidentally. Months before the night that changed everything, my mom had gone by Dad’s office unannounced and found him in a meeting with a beautiful woman. That simple thing that had kicked off her final descent into madness. My dadhadeventually ended up with Gina, but only once my mom had tipped from the jealous wife she’d always been into a person I didn’t recognize in those following weeks. She’d started drinking more, maligning my father to me whenever he was at work, and twice that I knew of, she’d physically attacked him when he’d gotten home.
I stood on safe ground now with Bill. Entertaining anything with someone like David was a spiral I couldn’t afford to get anywhere near—because madness ran in my blood. One wrong step and I could get sucked into chaos I’d been trying to confine since thirteen years old.
“Maria’s a friend. I’m not a playboy, Olivia,” David continued. “But obviously, Idodate.”
I turned back to him. “You can call me Liv, you know. Everyone else does.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
The hair on the back of my neck prickled. That usually worked on Bill. “All right,” I said. “So you date beautiful, exotic women. I don’t see any reason why you wouldn’t.”
“It doesn’t need to be that way,” he said just over the hum of the Porsche’s powerful engine. “In fact, Iwantto be exclusive with the right woman. Very much. Is that something you wish to discuss further?”
My chest tightened. I let myself appreciate his profile while he drove. His strong nose—there was no better adjective for it—ended in an acute tip. Though smoothly shaven, I could see a shadow forming. He blinked long lashes and furrowed black eyebrows as he glided in and out of traffic. The crow’s feet around his eyes deepened. Defined muscles strained against a crisp shirt when he shifted gears. My hand twitched, desiring to reach over and feel his biceps.
His dating life was something Idesperatelywished to discuss, and not because of the article. I didn’t want to just know what he considered his perfect woman. I admitted to myself that I wanted tobeher, even if I couldn’t have him. How could I tell him that the first night at the theater, I’d wondered what it would be like to disappear into a dark corner with him? Or that I’d wondered what thoughts lulled him to sleep? I couldn’t. Nor how I worried that the closer he drew me in, the further I stood from Bill.
Or that I’d begun to question my marriage or if the reasons I’d chosen it were still enough.
David looked over at me, waiting for my answer.
“No,” I said quietly. “Let’s not discuss it.”
We rode in silence the rest of the way.
* * *
Once we’d parked, David strode ahead to the restaurant to hold the door open for me.
I walked in first, but the hostess looked right over my head with a megawatt smile. “Good afternoon, Mr. Dylan. Your usual table?”
I glanced back to find his eyes on me. He raised his chin. “Unless my lunch companion has a preference?”
I held up the notepad I’d brought to take notes for our interview. “I’m an observer today.The usualis exactly what I want to see. Pretend I’m not even here.”
He snorted. “Not likely.”
“Great! Right this way, David.” The hostess giggled. “Oops. I mean Mr. Dylan.”
I had to admire her effort, but her sleek ponytail, low-cut top, and smiling red lips didn’t seem to catch his attention.
Unless she’d already been hooked, flayed, and thrown back to sea? The thought both fanned the unwelcome ember of jealousy Maria had incited earlier, and—shamefully—made me grateful I wasn’t stupid or single enough to fall into bed with someone like David.
David lowered his voice as we crossed the restaurant. “This place is close to the site. We’re here a lot.”
As we settled into opposite sides of a booth, a short, flaxen-haired man approached. “Dylan,” he said in a strong, French accent.
I recognized him as the leering man David had introduced to the table on Saturday night.
“Arnaud, you remember Olivia Germaine,” David said. “She writes forChicago M.”
“Of course.” Arnaud held out his hand and bowed his head. “Hello again,mademoiselle.”
