‘Don’t mind me, darling,’ she purrs, pushing open one of the stall doors as she rubs her finger under her nose tellingly. ‘The white stuff always makes me talk to myself, too!’
I don’t bother discounting her assumption, and it’s clear that unless I want to get into a conversation with an elderly coke-head, I can’t stay in here any longer. But that doesn’t mean I’m going home with him.
I could leave now, I think as I stand at the threshold of the dining room. I already have my purse, and I don’t owe him anything.Except my share of dinner.But slinking away really isn’t my style. Maybe he’ll want to order dessert or coffee, and during that time, I could call a cab.
Yes! That sounds like a plan.
That looked like an expensive bottle of champagne. I hope I have the balance available on my credit card.
But as I make my way back to the table, Beckett is pulling one of those fancy black credit cards from his wallet.
‘Please let me know what my half of the bill is.’ I don’t sit but, rather, hover by the side of the table, a little like the waiter. He’s obviously waiting for his tip. Meanwhile, I’m waiting to make my escape.
Beckett scowls at me before signing the tiny slip with a flourish, exchanging what looks like a fifty-pound note for his card with the waiter.
Note to self: if my business goes bust, I could get a job in here. If I could ever find the place again.
‘Well!’ I exclaim all jolly-hockey sticks. ‘Here we are.’
‘Yes,’ he replies, standing himself now.
‘It was lovely to meet you. Again. Actually, it was weird but kind of pleasant, maybe?’ I can feel myself frowning. ‘But much better than when we met the first time. Well!’
As I babble my extraction plan, backing away from him, Beckett reaches out to touch my arm briefly. I wonder if it’s some high-born signal forlet’s not talk about such mundane thingswhen I realise he’s trying to stop me from falling over the chair behind me.
He smiles tightly in response to my apologetic mumbling, finding me an ordeal rather than charming. As I turn to walk forwards this time, I find his fingers curled around my elbow again as he leads me from the dining room. Does he think I’m a delicate flower of a girl? That he’d crush me? Whatever the reason, I have the overwhelming desire for that hand to hold me elsewhere else.Curved around my hip, bringing us closer.
Why I honestly can’t fathom. It could be the size of him next to me, a kind of evolutionary stirring.The biggest and the baddest make the best mates.
Or it could be as simple as a response to the subtle spice of his cologne, or it could be the champagne. But I don’t think so.
It’s more likely because I’m horny and that I sense a night with Beckett would be like nothing I’ve ever experienced. Surely, a man can’t be as contained and controlled as Beckett without becoming a deviant when the lights are off.
And I so want to find out. Which makes me a deviant, too.
Want turns to need as we reach the door, his forearm brushing my hip as he reaches for the handle. The bare touch raises a shimmer of fiery awareness across my skin. I find myself leaning into him, and I know that doesn’t go unnoticed.
It’s not like I’ve been in love with all the men I’ve slept with,I reason as I try to make sense of these feelings. That’s also not to say I’ve slept with a lot of men, or that I’ve been in love a bunch of times, but I usually like the men I screw, at least. Which is possibly the reason I haven’t had sex in a while.
But I find I don’t need a reason or an excuse right now. The sun is setting when we step out into the humid evening, its scarlet rays escaping through the swirls of dark clouds. His car is at the kerbside, the engine idling before the driver climbs out. I inhale as I turn, ready to speak when he cuts me off.
‘If you saywellagain, I’ll throttle you.’
‘That’s one way to end an evening, I suppose.’ I find myself smiling. There’s something about annoying him that calls to me; something that amuses the little devil sitting on my shoulder.
‘Get in the car,’ he mutters with an air of long suffering, but we both know where this evening will end. And those tingling nerve endings from before? In the close confines of the back seat, they increase tenfold. I don’t know where we’re going, but I imagine it’s either his place or a hotel. Or a dark warehouse somewhere far enough away from civilisation where the soon-to-be murder victim can’t be heard. The thought causes me to shiver and not in an entirely pleasant way.
‘Cold?’ His head turns my way, his question solicitous. I don’t even get to answer before the driver is adjusting the climate controls, the hum of it adapting immediately.
We might be sitting side by side, but we’re barely touching, so maybe Iamon the way to be murdered somewhere? I turn my ridiculous smile to the window and watch darkened snapshots of London blur by.
It’s barely ten minutes before the car pulls to a stop in front of a pair of automatic gates, and in this time, Beckett has spoken a total of one word. It could be that I’m just really bad at reading the signals. If he wanted to fuck me—really have me like he said at the dinner table—then wouldn’t he have at least made the tiniest of moves? A compliment or even a caress?
But nothing. Nada. Nope.
The man is keeping his cards close to his chest.
My gaze slides to him, though I don’t turn my head. Because if he likes to play games, I can play, too. I’ll play the I’m-far-too-sophisticated-to-be-concerned game.
