“Fair enough.” I gestured to the waiter who acknowledged me and headed toward our table. “What can I get you to drink?”
“Ah, beer is fine.”
I ordered a beer for him and a glass of wine for me. Leaning back in my chair, I gave the menu a cursory glance, but as I’d already perused it several times while waiting for Devon, I already knew what I wanted.
“I’ve never been here before. Have you?”
Devon lifted his head, those dark, decadent eyes of his boring into mine. He had this way of coming across as intense, even though I don’t think he intended to. I fidgeted in my seat, fairly certain he could see my heart beating at a million miles an hour.
“I haven’t, no.” He bent his head once more, releasing me from his penetrating gaze.
“I watched the staff bring the food past while I was waiting for you. The steak looks good, if that’s what you’re into.” When Devon kept his eyes averted and didn’t reply, a thought popped into my head. “Oh no. You’re a vegetarian, aren’t you? Or vegan? I guess I should have asked before I booked. Maybe we can go somewhere else.” I glanced around the restaurant. I was rambling, but I couldn’t stop myself. I was usually so in control, adept at leading conversations, asking open-ended questions, letting the subject matter do all the work. With Devon, I found myself doing the complete opposite—and I looked like a dick in the process.
“Reilley.”
My focus shifted back to him. He was smiling, wider than I’d ever seen him smile. Wow. One simple smile changed his whole face.
“Yeah?” I asked, heat rushing to my cheeks. What the hell was happening to me? I wasn’t a blusher, nor was I a bumbling idiot, but today, I seemed to be doing a stellar impression of both.
His big hand covered mine, and he applied the briefest of pressure. “Relax.”
A spark of energy passed between where our hands joined. I knew he’d felt it, too, because he quickly withdrew, as if just by touching me, he’d received an electric shock.
“I’m not a vegetarian, so stop worrying.”
The waiter chose that moment to return with our drinks. Devon ordered a ribeye steak with all the trimmings. I opted for the salmon with a side order of veggies. I would have loved the seafood linguine, but pasta, like a juicy burger, wasn’t a good date meal. Sure, this wasn’t a date per se, but a girl could dream. Anyway, I planned to hit my guest with a charm offensive he’d find difficult to resist.
Doin’ great so far, Riles.
Don’t you hate that voice? The one that whispered negative thoughts in your ear, stripping back your confidence until all you wanted to do was run and hide?
“Tell me about yourself,” I said.
Devon took a long pull on his beer, straight from the bottle. I didn’t know why I found that so goddamn sexy, but as I inched my gaze down the column of his throat, watching his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed, I had to cross my legs to relieve the ache in my core.
He set the beer on the table but didn’t let go of the bottle. My attention switched to his hands. Devon had been blessed with manly hands. Rough skin, short nails which, from the looks of them, he trimmed rather than bit, the odd scar here and there. They were the sort of hands that enjoyed control. My mind drifted back to the gutter, and my brain decided it’d be a whole lotta fun to flash an image of me and Devon writhing on crisp, white sheets, those rugged hands of his touching every single part of me, his fingers burrowing inside me, bringing me to a crashing climax with virtually no effort.
Great. Now I was flushed for a completely different reason.
“Come on, Reilley,” Devon said, jerking me back to the present. “You’ve read my Wiki page, right? What else is there to know?”
He was fucking with me. I knew it, and not only because of the slight upward trajectory of his full, too-kissable lips, but the twinkle in his eyes, too. I decided to have a little fun of my own.
I leaned back and folded my arms. “Hmm, let’s see. Devon Gray. Australian, born in Melbourne. Thirty-four. Only son of Darah and Michael Gray. One sibling. Diane, who is married to Joe Evans. They have two kids. Devon is unmarried with no offspring.” I gave him an exaggerated wink. “That we’re aware of.”
Devon rolled his eyes, but he didn’t stop me from continuing.
“Devon grew up obsessed with cars, although driving wasn’t his passion. He graduated from Melbourne School of Engineering with a first-class honors degree. Always destined for greater things, Devon spent a short stint in Formula Three before his supreme engineering prowess came to the attention of one of the smaller teams in Formula One. Five years later, Jack Nash, CEO of Nash Racing, coaxed Devon over to his team where, for the last seven years, Devon has been the chief engineer at the Formula One giant. He currently resides in London, England.”
I rested my elbows on the table and tucked my hands underneath my chin. “How’d I do?”
Devon mirrored my posture, his eyes leaving burn marks on my skin. His tongue made a brief appearance, dampening his lips. My insides turned over.
God, I want to suck on that tongue.
“Sounds like enough material to draft a four hundred page novel to me, Reilley. Looks as though you’ve already got everything you need for your biography.”
Frustrated, I huffed. See, here was the thing. The stuff I’d just parroted pretty much covered all the information in the public domain. There were little snippets here and there, but apart from Devon missing a few races about four years ago—rumored to be the result of extreme exhaustion after pushing himself too hard—it was all the same banal shit. I knew Devon’s life was more interesting than that. When a man like him, who rejected the limelight despite the glamor of his field of work, had such a sketchy Wiki page, well, it fired up my interest, sent it sky-high. I’d bet his head was like the inside of gossip central, and I was determined to mine that information.
“Why’d you come here tonight?” I asked, switching tack.
He stroked his chin thoughtfully, the dark scruff of a man who hadn’t shaved since earlier that morning showing through. I suppressed a shiver. All that rough stubble would feel fucking awesome between my thighs.
Focus, Reilley.
“I’m not one to turn down a free dinner.”
I gave a curt laugh. “Bullshit.”
Devon hit me with that rare smile once more. It had the same effect on me as a punch to the gut. All the air whooshed from my lungs. It was a good thing I was sitting down because I felt very lightheaded all of a sudden. This guy was gonna be the death of me, literally.
“Let me ask you this. Why me? I am the dullest person you will ever meet. Just ask my family. No one is going to want to read a book about me.”
He’d avoided giving me a truthful answer about why he’d bothered to turn up tonight, but I decided to let it slide. I’d come back to that some other time. “I disagree. Formula One is a hotbed of glamor, gossip, behind-the-scenes shenanigans. It’s full of double-crossing, deals struck behind closed doors, hustles, and scams. And yes, I know there are hundreds of books out there that tell the same story over and over. Except I don’t want that story, I want your story. You were pulled into that world at a very young age, and you’ve reached the pinnacle of your profession. You’ve seen and done it all. Plus, you’re not like the others. You’re different. There’s nothing dull about you, Devon Gray, at least not to me. You’re the most fascinating man I’ve ever met.”
I was playing to his ego, even though I wasn’t sure he even had one. But when I saw the flare in his eyes, the slight movement in his body, a spike of excitement rushed through me. He was interested. For the first time, I dared to hope I might have pried apart Devon’s iron will.
And then, just like that, the shutters came down.
“It’s not going to happen, Reilley. Even if I was the kind of man who got off on the publicity, the fame, the selfdom of having a book written all about little old me, I’m never going to share the kind of details you’re looking for
. Titillation doesn’t, and never will, interest me.”
I shook my head. “Have you ever read one of my books?”
“No. I prefer crime thrillers.”
I snorted, irritated. Not at his choice of genre. I loved reading a fast-paced thriller like millions of others. No, it was because he knew nothing about my books yet was prepared to discard me anyway.
“Then you’re doing me a disservice. Sure, I like to mix in the odd tidbit of gossip here and there, but I write serious biographies. Before you judge me, I suggest you put down the latest Michael Connolly and pick up a book of mine. And if you want a recommendation, I’d suggest the novel I wrote on Marchant Boulland. I think you’ll find it very enlightening.”
Devon twisted his lips to one side. “Hmm, not a fan of Connolly,” he said, completely ignoring my comment about my own work. “I prefer Nesbo or Baldacci.”
I suppressed the urge to cough out a “Whatever”. Instead, I smiled and went for, “I’ll be sure to make a note on my Christmas list.”
Those eyes sparked once more, and this time I noticed more than teasing. I saw interest.
Maybe.
Jesus, this man was so confusing. He gave so little away that it felt like I was constantly balancing on shaky ground. At any minute I could take a wrong step, the earth beneath me would shift, and I’d fall flat on my face.
“The steak, sir.”
I jumped. I didn’t even notice the waiter standing by our table holding our plates of food. I leaned back, giving him room to put down my salmon. It smelled—and looked—amazing, but sparring with Devon had stolen my appetite. I was clearly alone in that because he dived in while I pushed green beans around my plate.
“Not hungry?” he finally asked when he was about halfway through his rare ribeye.
“I struggle to eat when I’m pissed off.”
His forehead wrinkled in surprise. “Pissed off about what?”
I decided to let him have it. “You. I’m pissed off because you won’t even give me a chance. You agreed to this dinner for some unknown reason because you certainly won’t tell me, and I, stupidly, dared to hope it might mean you’d at least take my offer seriously. That you’d take me seriously.” I laughed, meaning it to come out sarcastically, but instead it sounded bitter. “Clearly I was wrong, given that you seem to be of the opinion I write some sort of trashy shit that’ll end up serialized in a woman’s magazine to be pored over by old ladies waiting for their blue-rinse and shampoo and set.”
For the entire duration of my rant, Devon chewed a piece of steak, his stubbled jaw moving rhythmically, his body language relaxed and untroubled, his expression calm and smooth. I had to suppress an urge to punch him, although I’d be surprised if even violence got a reaction. He was just so… so… so fucking controlled. I wanted to split that control wide open, to set free the lion inside, and to have him devour me.
He swallowed, picked up his beer, took a long drink, and placed it back on the table. “Do women still have shampoo and sets? I thought that had died back in the eighties.”
A rash of irritation bubbled up within me, spilling out with an, “Argh! You are an… an… infuriating man.” I threw my napkin on top of my salmon, reached into my purse, and tossed some money on the table. I pushed back my chair and got to my feet. “Enjoy your free dinner, Devon. Have a nice life.”
I didn’t get far before strong fingers captured my wrist. “Hold on there, little lady. Sit down.”
His tone brooked no argument: firm, uncompromising, demanding I obey. Except I wasn’t the obeying kind. I did what I wanted, when I wanted, and I rebelled against being dictated to, hence my annoyance at Simon for giving me a stupid two-week deadline to convince the pigheaded man in front of me to get on board with the plan. Therefore, it was with a fair chunk of surprise that I found myself doing exactly what he wanted.
My ass hit the chair.
Instead of talking, though, Devon began eating again. My arms came across my chest, in full-on defensive mode. When he remained silent, I huffed.
“Well, I’m sitting, as requested. Now’s the time for you to convince me to stay sitting.”
He pointed with his knife to my barely touched plate of food. “Eat.”
I stiffened my spine. “No.”
He shrugged. “Your choice.”
We sat in silence, me fuming, him, well, stuffing his face. He finished, put his knife and fork together on the plate, no doubt like his mama taught him, wiped his mouth with the napkin, and set it down on the table. Only then did his eyes meet mine, and he said four words I never thought I’d hear come out of his mouth.
“I’ll think about it.”
Devon
I hadn’t expected Reilley to still be at the restaurant, especially considering I’d turned up almost an hour late. Charlotte had had a bad night, coming down with a chest infection, a regular occurrence for someone with her type of physical injuries.
Charlotte’s sister, Caroline, had swept in and tried to usurp control, sitting with Charlotte, holding her hand, mopping her drenched brow. As usual, she’d seized the opportunity to remind me of my culpability for Charlotte’s condition. If I hadn’t taken her climbing that day, Caroline would still have her sister.
Yeah, darlin’, tell me something I don’t already fucking know. I’d done my best to shoulder the responsibility, to ensure Charlotte had access to the best care affordable, killing myself to cover the bills. What else did Caroline expect from me? I had nothing else to give.
I prayed this latest attack of illness didn’t morph into something more serious. In the months following her accident, Charlotte had suffered numerous bouts of pneumonia, and there had been times the doctors didn’t think she would make it.
I’ll think about it.
My promise to Reilley popped into my head. What an idiotic thing to say. I had no intention of thinking about it because I wasn’t doing it. And by saying what I had, I’d kicked off a chain reaction that would simply fire Reilley up even more. She was already the most strong-willed, resolute, tenacious woman I’d ever met, and now I’d given her hope that I’d take part in her stupid book, I was screwed. Like a dog with a bone, she was going to bite down and never let go.
She had made one fair comment, though. I’d pegged her as a salacious writer, one who would only be interested in stories she could create soundbites from, the type used for the front cover meant to encourage readers to pick up the book.
And that was why I’d made a detour to a bookstore on the way home.
The biography and autobiography section was on the third floor. I headed on up. The books were organized by author, and after a couple of minutes searching, I found Reilley’s name. Wow, for someone so young, she’d written a lot of books. I counted eight, which, considering the research that must be required when writing about someone else’s life, was hellishly impressive, and that was assuming this store carried her entire back catalogue.
How old was Reilley anyway? I took out my phone and typed her name into Google. I discovered she was twenty-nine, born in Wisconsin in the US, and now lived in Chicago.
I found myself clicking on images. There were a lot, but there was one of Reilley with a guy that caught my attention. They were standing on top of a mountain, a green valley in the background. Her arms were wrapped around his waist, and she was gazing up at him with something akin to adoration. She looked happy.
Surprisingly, I was not.
I didn’t like the burning feeling swirling through my gut, nor the heavy sensation across my chest. Oh, come on! I was not jealous of that guy Reilley was snuggling into. I didn’t even like Reilley Bennett. She was too in-your-face, too full-on for my taste. I preferred women similar to myself. Quiet, restrained, introspective. Reilley and I were complete opposites.
Though, if my antipathy toward her was true, why did it bother me that I’d hurt her feelings when dissing her work? Why did I wince every time my memory conjured up her aggrieved expression? I didn’t know the
answers to these questions, and I was hardly going to find them standing in a bookstore this late at night.
I lifted out the book she’d recommended and took it to the checkout. Five minutes later, I was back in my car driving to my parents’ house. I’d every intention of going straight to sleep, but instead, I started to read.
Four hours passed, and I couldn’t stay awake any longer. I fell asleep with the open book still in my lap.
When I woke the next morning, rather than get out of bed, shower, eat breakfast, and take my mother to the market like I’d promised, I carried on where I’d left off with Reilley’s book. I kept expecting Mum to knock and ask me to get the hell out of bed, but she didn’t. Just as well, because the biography on Marchant Boulland was a fascinating read. It took me another two hours to finish, but by the time I had, I realized I owed Reilley an apology. Not only was she a hugely talented writer, but the way she’d dealt with some of Marchant’s less salubrious moments was both tasteful and compassionate.
I quickly showered, dressed, and jogged downstairs, anticipating my mother sitting at the kitchen table, arms crossed, a look of admonishment on her face. Instead, I found a note.
Gone shopping. Don’t feel bad. You need your rest.
God bless my mother. She really was one of the most selfless people in the world, at least in my world. After Charlotte’s accident, I don’t know what I would have done if she hadn’t been by my side, propping me up when I couldn’t bear the weight of the shame.
I snatched a bite to eat then headed out to the mall. I needed a few things before flying to Bahrain that I could only get here. I also wanted to pick up some bits and pieces for Charlotte, especially considering how long it would be until I could get back to see her. Helen was great and would buy anything I forgot, but it was my duty to take care of everything Charlotte might need.
The mall was busy, though not overly so, and I managed to grab everything within an hour. Shopping wasn’t exactly my favorite thing to do—show me a guy who did like trawling around the mall—and I felt relieved when I could finally head for the exit.
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