“I don’t doubt that,” he murmurs, closer now. “But you shouldn’t have to.”
It shouldn’t sound like a promise, but somehow it does.
He’s sitting there in his tailored suit, tie loose, shirt collar open just enough to show the strong line of his throat. His eyes sweep over me once—slowly, deliberately—before meeting mine.
“Are you done now, Counselor?” he asks, mouth curving into that sinful, knowing smirk that makes my stomach twist in ways I don’t like to think about.
“Almost,” I manage. “But don’t you have some intimate dinner planned already or something?”
“Dinner yes. The level of intimacy depends entirely on the lady,” he says, voice darkly amused.
And I hate that a part of me wants him to mean it.
This man is danger wrapped in silk.
A storm wearing a tailored suit.
And I know I should tell him to get out of my car. I should insist and then drive away.
But instead, I take one last slow breath of the night air and tell myself a lie I almost believe—that I’m not already in trouble.
Chapter Three-Cecilia
The restaurant Atlas picks is one of those hushed, dimly lit Manhattan temples of excess where the cheapest wine costs as much as a semester at Rutgers.
The kind of place where men make deals that rewrite economies—or destroy them.
I should feel at home.
After all, I was raised in boardrooms and black cars.
But tonight? I feel different, and I’m not sure I like it.
He’s sitting across from me, impossibly poised.
The waiter just poured our wine, and Atlas swirls his glass like a man with nowhere to be and nothing to prove.
His deep, husky voice seems to wrap around the whole room every time he speaks.
“So, tell me, Miss Batiste?—”
“Oh, come on now. You’re still doing that?”
“Doing what?”
“Calling me that. I mean, you punched a guy for me tonight. I think we’re up to the part where we can use first names now,” I tell him.
He grins. Like one of those sexy, full on wicked grins all those sexy dukes on Bridgerton like to give their Victorian era misses.
Yes, I’m a fan.
And yes, I swear I feel a tremble go right through me at the sexy as hell smile.
“Alright. Then tell me, Cecilia, are you always this hard to impress?” he asks, eyes glinting like caramel struck by flame.
“Depends on who’s trying,” I reply, spearing a bite of perfectly poached lobster with my fork. “Usually, I prefer my dinner companions to be less, uh, TMZ headline material.”
He chuckles. “Ah, so you’ve read the headlines?”
