EIGHT
LUKE SAT AT THE HOTEL bar, nursing his thirty year old single malt Glenfiddich and wondering what the hell he was doing. He’d barely paid attention during the day’s endless meetings. All he’d been able to think about was Claire and the way he left her.
Last night he purposefully stayed at his office until he was sure she’d be asleep. He’d debated sleeping on the sofa at the office but he couldn’t resist spending a few hours in bed with her, even if she wasn’t awake for it. He’d left before she woke, pausing for a moment to watch her soft, even breathing. Her auburn hair lay in a sexy tangle across his pillow, and her face looked sweet and so young in sleep. He’d had to physically force himself to walk away from her. What the hell was the matter with him?
He tossed back the last of his drink and motioned to the bartender for another. He glanced at his phone, hoping she’d texted him, but of the dozen messages he’d had while he was locked away in meetings, none of them were from her. He wasn’t sure why he expected one. He hadn’t sent any to her.
He slid the phone into his pocket and turned back to the bar. As he picked up his drink, he felt a woman’s hand rest lightly on his shoulder and he had a ridiculous surge of hope that Claire had found him. He knew before he turned around that it wasn’t. The perfume was all wrong.
“Luke Masters, what in the world are you doing drinking alone?”
He shifted around on his stool and looked into the blue eyes of a truly stunning brunette. She had an equally stunning body, displayed to its best advantage in some kind of blue wrap dress. He knew from personal experience that she had expensive taste and a sexual appetite to rival his own.
“Gretchen,” he said, taking her hand and brushing a kiss over the back of her knuckles. “Join me and I won’t be alone.”
“I’d love to. You’d know I would, but I’m meeting a friend for drinks. But,” she said, smiling wickedly from under her inky black lashes. “I can make sure I’m free later for dinner, and…” She let the rest of her sentence trail off so he could fill in the blanks himself.
“I’ll get us a table. La Maison at nine?” He saw her eyes widen at the name. He knew she’d love that he could get them a table on a moment’s notice when everyone else waited months. Gretchen was a power slut. She’d always gotten off on it when he’d shown his. He almost felt sorry for the poor bastard she’d be leaving high and dry to spend the night with him. Almost. But looking into her shrewd blue eyes, he had a feeling she might be exactly what he needed to put some emotional space between him and his electrical contractor. “Where are you staying? I’ll send a car.”
“I’m at the Star.” She leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek, the scent of her unfamiliar perfume enveloping him in an expensive tropical cloud.
He watched her over the rim of his glass as she walked away putting a little extra sway into her heart shaped ass. He pulled the phone out of his coat pocket to let his PA know he’d need a table at la Maison and a car. Yes, Gretchen might be exactly what he needed.
BY THE TIME Luke walked into the restaurant, Gretchen was already seated at the table waiting for him.
“I’m sorry. I got tied up,” he said. A last minute phone call from Tokyo had taken more of his attention than he’d expected. “Have you been waiting long?” He leaned over to kiss her cheek, inhaling the rich, spicy scent she wore.
“Not so long that you can’t make it up to me,” she said, shifting her body at the perfect angle to put her gorgeous tits on display.
Luke knew she did it on purpose, and she knew he did. There were no unrealistic expectations with Gretchen. They both knew exactly where they stood with each other. He’d make sure she got her power rush, throw an obscene amount of money her way and in exchange, she’d let him use her body any way he wanted. Gretchen was calculating, opportunistic and perverted enough to be worth the trouble. Nothing like his Claire, who gave him all of herself because she wanted to, not in payment for something he’d done.
Fuck. Thoughts like that were not going to help his cause. If he wasn’t careful he’d end up cock blocking himself.
He shook himself free of his thoughts in time to see Gretchen watching him appraisingly.
“It will be my pleasure, I’m sure,” he said, backtracking to where their conversation had left off.
“Mine, too.” She licked her red lacquered lips and smiled at him, reaching for her menu.
As if on cue, the waiter appeared beside the table. Luke ordered a bottle of Bollinger Blanc de Noir and saw Gretchen’s perfectly sculpted brow arch in approval. He glanced at his own menu but he had no idea what he wanted. He could have anything he wanted and he couldn’t make up his fucking mind.
The waiter came back with the bottle of Bollinger and opened it with a barely noticeable pop before offering it to Luke and waiting for his approval. Luke nodded, barely tasting the thousand dollar champagne, and the waiter served Gretchen before filling his glass.
“To close friends,” she said, raising her glass.
Luke drank in toast, but he was pretty sure the only close they’d ever been was naked, and it had nothing to do with friendship.
By the time the waiter reappeared, he was no closer to knowing what he wanted. He listened as Gretchen ordered a fruit de mer dish and then proceeded to special order away all the sauces and anything remotely resembling a carbohydrate and change the way the dish was cooked from sautéed to “something that doesn’t add any fat.”
“You know that’s just a plate of steamed seafood with no butter, right?” Luke asked.
“Darling,” she said, running both hands down the sides of her thin, toned body. “This doesn’t just happen.”
Luke felt the corner of his mouth turn up in spite of himself. The waiter, obviously used to dealing with crazy rich people, simply stood with a pleasant expression on his face waiting for Luke to place his order.
“I’ll have the Bluefin special with whatever first course the chef recommends. Paired with the sommelier’s recommendations please.” Eric had always said the restaurant was pretentious as hell but he had grudging respect for the chef. Since he couldn’t make up his own damn mind, Luke figured it was better to let the chef do what he was good at.
They ate, or rather Luke did. Gretchen moved the food around on her plate. The tuna was exceptional, and Luke tried not to let himself think of how much Claire would enjoy it, or wonder if she’d forgotten to eat because she was wearing herself out at the house she was flipping.
