“Daphne, what are you doing?” Gib stood, one hand on the passenger door of his sporty silver convertible, looking at her as if she’d lost her mind.
“Brutally cold tonight. Didn’t want you to bother getting out.” She slid into a soft leather seat. And moaned. They were heated. Did she even need sex with Gib after the bliss of a heated car seat? The answer came to her before the door shut. Two seconds of being that close to him flared her lust back to full flame.
“Damn it, Daphne, this is supposed to be a date. A first date. You have to let me treat you as such. That means I knock on your door, I pull out your chair and I help you off with your coat.” He sounded grumpy. Put out.
Attempting an air of solemnity to pacify him, she said, “Duly noted.”
“Are we bloody well doing this for real or aren’t we?”
She looked around at the inside of a car in which she’d never sat before. It was Gib’s dating Excalibur. He refused to use his car except when pursuing a woman. Never used it to bring home bags of groceries, or to drive to the movies when the thermometer dipped below freezing, or even to pick up friends from O’Hare on their rare visits. He swore he only used it on dates, and only when close to sealing the deal.
Just to be sure, she asked, “Is this a rental?”
“Of course not.” Gib smoothly manipulated the gear shift and they sped down the street. God. It had been ages since she’d been in a stick-shift car. Watching his big hands caress the padded knob made her press her legs together in anticipation. Far safer to look out the window. Most homes still had candles in the window left over from the holidays. A few bare-limbed trees sported strings of white lights.
“Then I guess we really are doing this, if you’re finally letting me in your famous bootymobile.”
He sighed, as if insulted. “She has a name. This is Moll Davis.”
Daphne bit back a giggle. He named his car. Did he name other, more intimate things? “Seriously? Wasn’t she one of the most famous mistresses in history?”
“Maybe not in all of history. Certainly in England’s history. Good old King Charles II warmed her sheets for years. Beneath her flashy exterior, that woman not-so-secretly held all the power in the land. Just like my baby here.” He stroked the steering wheel with both hands.
God, would he touch her like that? A bolt of desire shot through her. And was she actually jealous of a car? “I’m beginning to feel like I should get out and leave you two alone.”
He whisked his head sideways to smile at her. Quick and fast like a flashbulb going off, it blinded her with its brightness. “She’s game for a threesome.”
Gib excelled at sexual repartee. A few times she’d even been his wingman, and watched him toss it out with the ease of a fly fisherman casting in a deep river. Having it wholly focused on her, though, took her breath away. But Daphne reminded herself that tonight was her one shot. She needed to go for it. Commit one hundred and ten percent to the idea that she actually belonged next to the handsomest man in the city.
Laying her hand on top of his, she channeled her inner Marilyn Monroe and purred, “Maybe I want you all to myself.”
Once more, Gib turned to look at her. This time he flat-out stared, mouth slightly open, lips curling up. Then he swore and jerked the car to the right. He’d almost missed making the turn onto Michigan Avenue. “You’re right. We really are doing this. Daphne Lovell, welcome to your date. It is on.”
About time. “Like I said, the car alone made that clear. But as I understand your parameters of use, warming my seat on her cushions goes hand in hand with an expectation that you’ll be warming my seat tonight.”
“Generally, yes. If a woman gets in Moll Davis, she ends up in my bed. Simple as that.”
“Not so simple. We agreed tonight would be a test. To see if we can really morph from friends to—”
Gib cut her off. “Lovers?”
She bit her tongue. Counted to ten before answering so the word yes didn’t fall off her tongue. “No. There’s no question we could do that. The burning question is whether or not we should. If our friendship would survive. So we give dating a try tonight. But without any sex to complicate the equation.” Although she was hoping for more kisses. Whatever groping he could accomplish without removing any of her clothes. And knowing Gib, that could be quite a bit.
“I took calculus. I can handle complicated equations.”
“Be serious.”
Another, more labored sigh. “Of course I don’t expect you to fall into bed with me tonight. We’re starting a relationship, not a one-night stand. But you’re a beautiful woman. Which means I will flirt with you relentlessly. Take it as a compliment. And I’ll take your ban on the bedroom as a challenge.”
A challenge, huh? Daphne honestly couldn’t say who she wanted to win that one. Gib cut the engine as the valet opened Daphne’s door. A chill ran through her that had nothing to do with the icy wind whipping off the lake. This was it. The moment she’d dreamed of for years. Gib would be suave and charming and sexy. And hers.
With a hand at the small of her back, Gib ushered her forward. She stopped after two steps. Looked up. And up and up at the iconic black Xs that crisscrossed their way up one hundred floors. “We’re at the John Hancock Center?”
He pushed her back into motion. “Nothing but the best for you, and the Signature Room on the ninety-fifth floor has the best view in the city.”
Even though she’d lived in Chicago her whole life, Daphne had never been to the famous restaurant. Her mom promised they’d celebrate her high school graduation there. By the time it rolled around four years after her death, Daphne didn’t have the heart to remind her father. But she had told Gib the story in December, when they’d strolled past while Christmas shopping. It touched her deeply that he remembered. That he’d try to fix that unfulfilled promise.
While they waited for the elevator, Daphne unwound her scarf. Gib stopped her. “Let me.” He gathered it, hand over hand, oh so slowly. The periwinkle mohair tickled the back of her neck. She shivered. Gib stuffed the scarf in her pocket. Then he unbuttoned her full-length coat. As the elevator doors opened, she turned away to let him slide it off her shoulders. Daphne leaned against the rail at the back of the car, legs crossed at the ankle. Gib gaped.
As well he should. Sex might be currently off the table, but she still wanted him thinking about it the whole time. A black lace dress hugged tight to her curves. The sheer lining kept her decent, but barely. It gave the illusion of lots of bare skin. Aided by the plunging V-neck that hid almost nothing. Thanks to the patient ministrations of Adele and Wendy at the salon, her hair hung in loose curls over one shoulder.
Finally, he said, “I don’t know what to say. The elevator ride is only thirty-nine seconds long—”
“Thanks for the trivia.”
“—and I don’t think I could come up with the words to describe how beautiful you are if I had thirty-nine hours.”
Just that quickly, the lingering chill from outside vanished. His words warmed her from the inside out. Still, she tried to play it cool. So he wouldn’t realize she was ready to throw caution to the wind and do him between floors thirty and sixty. “And thanks for the compliment.”
He shrugged out of his coat. This time it was Daphne’s tongue that almost rolled out of her mouth. Gib wore suits like a uniform. They were also a particular obsession of his. So six out of every seven times she saw him, Gib wore a suit. But tonight, he’d kicked it up a notch.
The black wool had obviously been tailored specifically to draw attention to the breadth of his chest, the width of this shoulders, the long line of his legs. Even in her four-inch-high platform pumps, Gib still topped her by at least four inches. Black tie with some sort of matte shine to it. Contrasting white pocket square. Onyx-and-silver cuff links glinting at his wrists. He was the living embodiment of the word debonair.
A high-pitched ping announced their arrival. Gib gestured for her to go ahead. Thanks to her day of pamperin
g and primping, she already felt like Cinderella. Entering the restaurant was akin to entering the ball. The rows of tables were lined with snazzily dressed couples. Black-rimmed chargers popped against the white linens. But what really popped was the view. On three sides, the bright lights of skyscraper upon skyscraper reflected the grandeur of the city. Straight out sat the dark lake, like a black sheet beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.
“Good to see you as always, your lordship.” The maître d’ slid his hand into Gib’s, smooth as an eel. A waif of a girl whisked away both coats.
Gib held a finger up to his lips. “Frank, I told you to quit calling me that.”
“Ah, but the ladies like it. Am I right?” He nodded at Daphne with a smarmy grin.
“Not so much.” She knew that Gib never talked about his title. Or his family, or how he felt about being nobility. It didn’t matter to her if he was seventy-sixth in line to the throne of England or the illegitimate son of a…prostitute. Blood didn’t matter. Character did. Although if she did ever think about his title and baronial holdings or whatever they were, the only way it made her feel was nervous. And she was nervous enough tonight.
“Your usual table’s ready, Mister Moore.” A wink indicating Frank would humor Gib, just this once, with dropping his title. Pretentious jerk. “Best seat in the house.”
Daphne would’ve stuttered to a stop without Gib’s hand at her back, guiding her to the wall of windows. The usual table? Gib came here often enough to have a regular table? Had to be with his ever-changing stream of women. This wasn’t a business lunch type of restaurant. So he hadn’t remembered her mother’s promise. Hadn’t put special thought into choosing a restaurant that would have special meaning just for her. Daphne felt as though she’d just been dropped onto an assembly line. Would the entire date be formulaic?
Wait. Better talk herself off the corner of Crazy Street and Jealous Avenue. The Signature Room, no matter how often he came, was nevertheless one of the most romantic restaurants in the city. Gib ran through women the way a frat house ran through kegs of beer at homecoming. It’d be hard to find a restaurant in all of Chicagoland where he hadn’t taken another woman.
So she sat down without comment after he pulled out her chair. A stunning bouquet of a dozen roses caught her eye. One side of the petals were snow-white, and the other…well…rose-red. A quick glance confirmed that their table was the only one so decorated. “Fire and ice roses?” she murmured.
The right corner of his lips curved up. “A mere token in honor of your beauty. Despite the frost outside, I’m afire inside every time I look at you.”
Another twinge of disappointment. Sure, fire and ice roses were a step up from the unexceptional red. But his delivery sounded as well-rehearsed as a third-grade class reciting the pledge of allegiance. “That is one of the worst lines I’ve ever heard. In the summer, do you switch to circus roses? You know, the ones that are yellow like the sun on the outside?”
If she didn’t know Gib so well, Daphne would’ve missed the minuscule twitch in his eyelid. The same tell that gave him away whenever he tried to bluster his way through a fake word in Scrabble.
“No.” He captured her hand, stroking his thumb slowly over the side of her with a touch that raised a solid layer of goose bumps over her entire body. “Not everyone has your vast knowledge of flowers. Roses might not be original, but they are romantic. And I aim to romance you tonight.”
For every ten yards he lost, he managed to regain enough ground for her to grant another first down. Who was she kidding? If he kept touching her like that for another five minutes, she’d clamp one of the damn roses between her teeth and dance a strip-tease tango on the table for him. “Sorry. But come on, Gib, give me a little credit. I won’t fall for your lines. Don’t bother trying to snow me.”
“Fair enough.” A waiter set down a waist-high silver bucket on a footed stand. The ice in it crunched as he swirled the champagne bottle up and out. Then another flourish with a whisk of the napkin across the cork.
“Dom Pérignon. Your favorite 1996 vintage, sir.”
Huh. Gib’s favorite. Not something he picked out especially for her. Another automatic—and therefore meaningless—gesture. For a man with such a reputation of smoothness with the ladies, it surprised her. Given how their date was going so far, she’d categorize Gib as knowing very little about women and how to please them.
“Alain. You remembered.” Gib flashed a warm smile. “Daphne, this man’s the best waiter in town. A year from now he’ll remember what you wore tonight.”
A bob of his shiny, bald head. “If you’ll permit me, miss, I’ll remember the way you look tonight for the rest of my life.”
“Thank you,” she said.
Gib’s smile morphed into outrage. “That’s obviously a line. You’re not going to call him out on it?”
“The man’s pouring me champagne. Why would I do anything to make him stop?”
“So you can be bribed?”
“By the right man. For the right reasons.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He lifted his glass as Alain stepped back soundlessly. “To the breathtaking Daphne—” Gib paused and arched one jet-black brow, “—and the hope I’ll get the chance to steal your breath away later.”
Daphne’s back teeth ground together. Another line. She’d bet a week’s worth of profit on it. “One step at a time.” A quick sip of the champagne sent her spinning into doubt again. Dom Pérignon came by its prestigious reputation honestly. It tasted like golden fairy dust dancing across her taste buds. Maybe Gib really had ordered it for them because it was quite simply the best. Oh, and maybe she should stop analyzing every second of this date and just enjoy it.
“What do you think of the view?” Gib twisted in his chair to point at the spectacular cityscape. “We’re facing south, which I think is the best at night. North’s a bunch of condos, and east is the lake, but with a south view, we can see most of the city.”
Like he was reading from a freaking script. “Mmm-hmm. Nice.” Daphne dutifully stared out the window while she took another slow sip. Listened to something with strings piped over the sound system. The couple behind her murmuring in Italian to each other. And wondered how much of this dinner she and her best friend would spend in awkward silence.
Gib slammed his glass onto the table. Or tried to. It landed on top of his silverware with a sharp clank. “Look, I’ll be honest. I’m not entirely sure what to say to you.”
So she hadn’t been the only one to notice the utter weirdness. “About what?”
“Exactly.” He trailed his fingers down the back of her hand. Chills skated up Daphne’s arm, then tingled down her torso to the vee between her legs.
“Is that code? ’Cause I don’t have a clue as to where you’re going with this.”
“We already know each other inside and out.” Gib drilled his index finger against the table. “I know what you had for lunch three days ago.”
They shared a weakness for sandwiches. The bigger and messier, the better. “I had to let you know about that new deli. You love a well-made Reuben as much as I do.”
“Quite so. But we already share the little stuff—and the big stuff. To my point, you know I fired one of the fourth-floor housekeepers yesterday.”
Finally. A real conversation. “Because you called me all worked up. In a lather. Spouting the same did-I-just-consign-her-to-a-life-of-homelessness-and-prostitution crap you do every time you fire someone. As though you’re a superhero. As if you’re single-handedly responsible for keeping all of Chicago gainfully employed. If I recall, once I talked you off that ledge, you promised you wouldn’t feel guilty anymore.”
“You actually said I could mope through the weekend, but would have to shake it off by Monday. Don’t rush me.”
Awww, his big marshmallow of a heart was showing. She turned her hand over to interlace their fingers. “Gib, a guest walked into her room to discover the maid taking a bubble bath. You had no choice
but to fire Elena. As I’ve already told you at least twenty times.”
“Exactly my point. We’ve already shared all the big stuff. Yet this is supposed to be a new beginning.”
“I get it.” Daphne flip-flopped for the umpteenth time. Sounded like he wanted to make an effort with her. Plus, they were back to talking normally, with the added bonus of full-body goose bumps every time he touched her. “If we can’t start from the beginning, where do we start?”
“I suppose we could try to follow a standard date outline.”
“Your inner anal corporate executive is showing. A date outline? Do you even have one, or do you just count to ten and then unclasp their bra?”
He tsked. “Don’t be insulting. I count to twenty. I like to take my time. Touch and taste and explore until talking’s no longer an option. Until the need to be naked is as powerful as the need to breathe. Until the anticipation spreads across you in an undulating wave of heat.”
Glass halfway to her lips, Daphne paused. Swallowed hard. Found it amazing her bra hadn’t unclasped itself at his words. “Duly noted.”
Their waiter came by with menus. While he recited the specials, Daphne drained her glass. Then drained her water glass. A man who used the word undulate to describe sex had to be really, really good at it. If practice truly made perfect, Gib should be a freaking black belt in sex. She couldn’t wait to put him through his paces.
Once the waiter left, Gib cleared his throat. “Let’s see—usual topics for a first date. You’re from Chicago, I’m from England. Moving on.”
“How about college? I mean, I know you went to Cambridge, and I’ve heard some of your stories about your cricket team, but there must be more.”
“All right. Saying you went to Cambridge is too broad, like if you’re from the United States, instead of Illinois. I went to King’s College. Founded in 1441. Boasting such famous alumni as Salman Rushdie, the economist John Maynard Keynes, Robert Walpole, the first Prime Minister of Great Britain, and yours truly.”
Friends To Lovers (Aisle Bound Book 3) Page 16