by Julia London
He was content just to watch her, his happiness derived purely from hers. He loved the way she smiled, the way she seemed to shimmer beneath the lights. He loved how men and women alike looked at her, wondering who she was, admiring her dress, her lean, tall form. And he loved, he absolutely loved the way she looked at him.
It was a look that he remembered well, a look that used to make him feel like the most adored man on the planet, and tonight, it put him over the moon. He would have been content to just stand back and watch her, but he couldn’t—he knew too many people. Cameron introduced him around, and Michael found himself at the center of three women’s attention. He did what he always did in that case—he flirted and charmed. But he kept one eye on Leah the whole time, counting off the minutes when they could leave the reception and he might have her all to himself.
After a couple of hours of hobnobbing with stars, he couldn’t wait any longer. He tossed aside the phone number one female producer had given him under the guise of exploring some stunt options for her next project and made his way to Leah. “Are you hungry?” he whispered into her ear.
“Famished,” she whispered back. He took her hand in his, led her from that room of admirers, a few of which, he noticed, gazed at her all the way to the door.
They dined at L’Orangerie, a French restaurant renowned around L.A. for its sophistication and romantic atmosphere.
They were seated at a table nestled between two huge vases filled with fresh flowers. Michael recognized the quality of the table linens, as well as the china and silver—he’d seen something comparable in a Middle Eastern prince’s palace once. At the center of the table was a box of fresh-cut roses, their scent still strong.
Leah seemed to be mesmerized by the place—she kept looking around, touching the silver, the flowers, and the silky linen table cloth, admiring the nineteenth-century French paintings that adorned the walls, and the woman playing a soothing tune on the grand piano.
The first of many waiters appeared and handed Michael a wine list that resembled the L.A. phone book. He ordered a very expensive Châteauneuf-du-Pape wine for them and loved the way Leah’s face lit up as he did so.
“You remembered,” she said.
“Of course I remembered.” He’d given up trying to forget her long ago.
They perused the menu, settling on a tasting menu, which included a foie gras crème brûlée as an appetizer, Swiss chard ravioli, and filets of John Dory, among other things.
They chatted about the premiere through the first course, and then their talk turned to the reception.
“Ewan McGregor is so nice,” Leah gushed. “He spoke to me like we were old friends.”
“Did you meet Vincent Vittorio?” Michael asked, having worked on The Dane with him—not to mention his disaster of a wedding.
“I did,” Leah said wrinkling her nose a little. “He’s really short.”
“Yes, he is,” Michael said with a laugh.
“I think he’s about boob-level, and I had the distinct impression that he likes it like that.”
Michael laughed. If there was one guy in this town who loved women more than him, it was probably Vince Vittorio.
“And I met the producer and Mr. Cameron, and they were so nice.” She glanced up at him through thick lashes. “Especially after I told them I was there with you. You know what the producer said then?”
“No, what?”
“That he would love to have a look at me for a part in an upcoming film, so I gave him my card. Michael—” She suddenly leaned forward, her eyes blazing with excitement. “Can you believe it?” she whispered. “I’ve been trying to get film roles for five years, and all I had to do was go to a premiere. And mention your name.” She sat back and laughed at that. “If I’d known that was all it took, I would have . . .” She paused, thought the better of what she would say, and waved her hand. “You know what I mean,” she said cheerfully.
Unfortunately, he did.
But she remained bubbly, and he loved it. Every dish she tasted she said was divine, every sip of wine was heavenly. By the time the waiter had cleared their plates, Leah had talked herself nearly to death and proclaimed herself stuffed. And she had a delightful glow of having drunk a little wine.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked him pointedly as he gazed at her.
“You really want to know?”
Her eyes narrowed with suspicion, and she leaned forward as her fingers drummed lightly on the stem of her wine glass. “Yes,” she said. “I really want to know.”
Now it was Michael’s turn to lean forward. He took her hand from the wine glass and held it in his. “Remember the night we went to the opera?”
“Yes. I’ll never forget those box seats,” she said with a wink.
“Is that all you remember? Or do you maybe remember what happened at home afterward?” he asked, one corner of his mouth turning up at the thought of it.
Leah glanced around the tables near them before whispering, “How could I forget that? It was fabulous.”
“Well that’s what I was thinking about. Only this time, I think I’d tie you up,” he said, looking at the top of her blond head, “and lick you down,” he murmured, his gaze sliding languidly to the revealing décolletage of her gown.
“Michael,” she said. “We’re friends, remember?”
“We had a great sex life, didn’t we, baby?”
She sighed with a bit of exasperation, but then cheerfully acknowledged, “We did.”
“You’re squirming,” he noted, squeezing her hand affectionately.
“Hey, we all have our memories.”
“So what do you remember?”
She smiled wickedly. “I remember how you always liked me to put my tongue in a particular place—”
With a laugh, Michael broke her gaze and looked away a moment. When he glanced at her again, she raised a brow and smiled knowingly. “Now who is squirming?”
He grinned. “Leah . . . would you like to see my place?” he asked.
“No,” she said instantly. “Well . . .” Her gaze didn’t waver, but she was clearly debating it behind those blue orbs. And after several moments of what was obviously an internal debate, a lovely smile spread across her lips. “Yes. I would like to see your place.”
He could not have been more elated if he had just been handed a wad of cash and a Porsche. “Great. Let’s blow this place.”
“Wait, are you kidding?” she exclaimed. “Before the soufflé with Grand Marnier? I don’t think so, pal,” she said, and withdrew her hand from his, picked up her wine, and leaned back, watching him smugly, with clearly no intention of going anywhere until she had dined on every last morsel. That was his girl—never one to pass up good food or good wine or good sex.
“I’ll ask for a doggie bag,” he said, and although it was obvious Leah thought he was kidding, he was not. He couldn’t get the check or the Grand Marnier soufflé out of the head waiter fast enough, but by the time he had finally invested a full $600 in L’Orangerie, he had what he wanted. He helped Leah up then walked closely beside her out of the restaurant, very aware of the many male heads swiveling around to have a look.
Leah, however, seemed oblivious.
In the limousine, she took the gold box with the soufflé from him. “I’ll hold that,” she said briskly.
“You don’t trust me?”
She laughed. “Clearly you haven’t heard a word I’ve said in the last two weeks,” she said, tucking the box on the other side of her body. “I don’t trust you in the least.”
“Yeah, well, we’re going to change all that.”
“Don’t be so sure. And don’t get any grand ideas, Mikey. We’re just checking out your place. We’re friends,” she said again.
He smiled, settled back. Maybe she didn’t trust him, and maybe she thought they could pretend to be just friends, but there was one little detail she had forgotten—Michael knew how to make her come.
Chapter Seventeen
>
HE didn’t tell her that he lived in one of those ornate downtown loft complexes, where fabulously wealthy and famous people now lived. It was the sort of place built around what was supposed to look like an Italian piazza, and had better furniture in the lobby than most middle-class homes across America.
And Michael certainly didn’t tell her that he owned a loft on the top floor with its own private terrace, overlooking the L.A. skyline and the Hollywood Hills.
“Wow,” she said when the elevator opened onto his living room. It was enormous, like a house without walls. Big floor-to-ceiling glass windows formed two walls, and sheer drapes lifted with the night breeze. The room still had the look of the warehouse from which it had been converted—exposed ventilation in the ceiling, four big columns, and scored concrete floors. There were no walls between the kitchen and the living area, and the only evidence of a bedroom or bathroom was a single door at one end of the room.
In the middle of the enormous living area was a thick shag rug, buttery leather couch and chairs, and a distressed coffee table topped with several books and magazines.
“Great place,” Leah said as she walked into the room. “Great rug,” she added, looking down at her feet. “I don’t think this one came from the Discount Barn.”
Michael laughed as he shrugged out of his jacket. “It came from Turkey. A friend owed me a favor.”
She could only imagine what sorts of favors people owed an ex-CIA operative. Best not to think about it at all—those sorts of questions only led to more questions. Leah walked to one of the windows, pushed aside the sheer drape, and looked out at the skyline. “I guess you guys do pretty well in the stunt business,” she said. “This is prime real estate.” Real estate that made her bungalow in Venice Beach look like a shack.
“We do well,” he said. “But I’ve also invested wisely.”
Another couple of questions popped into her head. Where he’d gotten the money to invest. What did he invest in, and did it have anything to do with his former line of work? Just the usual sorts of things one thought of when standing in James Bond’s very expensive and very chic loft apartment.
“Would you like a drink?” he asked from somewhere behind her.
Leah ran her fingers down the sheer drape. “I’d love one.” What in the hell was she doing here? Curiosity to see how he lived, okay, she’d admit to that. But there was an unspoken expectation, and no matter how much she pretended they were only friends, she was skating out onto some extremely thin ice.
It was a foolish thing to have done, and she would blame the wine . . . but there was something else, wasn’t there? He looked so damn good, so sexy, and in spite of her deep misgivings, she was having a bit of a problem—she couldn’t stop thinking about sex in his presence. Raw, hot, and very ambitious sex.
She really missed that.
She really missed him.
She really missed being loved, although technically, she wasn’t being loved at the time, or he never would have left her, but there she went again, trying to sort out what happened five years ago, letting it mess up an otherwise perfect evening.
Michael touched her shoulder, bringing her back to the here and now. She turned around, and he handed her a cognac. “I don’t have any cigars,” he said with a smile. “But I hope you can still enjoy it.” He was referring to a night they had spent in Boston. He’d had to go for business—what business, she wondered—and she’d accompanied him for a chance to see the Red Sox play. After a particularly lusty romp between the sheets, they had sipped cognac and smoked cigars. Sort of. Neither one of them was a smoker, but it had seemed like decadent fun.
She smiled and lifted the glass to her lips. “I think I can manage,” she said, and tasted it. It was smooth and rich—an excellent vintage, she assumed. Michael turned and walked back to the small bar. His tuxedo fit like a glove, she couldn’t help noticing. There was that thought of sex again, only this time, it wasn’t just an idea that sprung into her head, it was a jolt to her groin.
Maybe she could get over the past and start over, fresh, just like he’d said. Maybe he really meant all the things he’d said. Maybe he really regretted what happened. Maybe, this time, it could be even better. And besides, she’d suffered through a sexual dry spell recently, and he was an excellent lover. Sex didn’t mean forever. It didn’t mean she was naive or going to make the same mistake again. It just meant . . . sex.
Leah abruptly followed Michael, tossing her evening bag onto the couch. “What did you do with the soufflé?” she asked, looking around.
“I put it away,” he said and picked up his snifter, strolled toward her.
“We could have a taste of it with our cognac.”
“No,” he said with a shake of his head. “Don’t think so.”
“Why not?” she asked as he reached her.
“Because . . .” He leaned his head toward hers and breathed her in. A little shiver of anticipation shot down Leah’s spine. “You have to earn it,” he murmured as he moved around behind her, slowly circling her. It was a little joke between them, something he used to say when he wanted to be decadent with her body.
She smiled, turned her head away from him to better feel his breath on her neck. “What exactly do I have to do to earn it?”
He brushed his lips against her ear. “You have to come.”
If that’s all it took, he should just touch her, because she was fairly certain if he kept this up, she could come standing. “That’s not on the agenda, remember?”
“Isn’t it?” he asked low as he put aside his snifter and touched her shoulder with the palm of his hand, slowly caressing her bare arm down to her hand. And up again. And then he was standing in front of her, his eyes gone so dark they were almost black, his smile soft and terribly enticing.
“What do you think, baby?” he asked, taking the snifter of cognac from her hand and putting it aside, too.
“I think you’re nuts?”
He shook his head. “I’m not. Neither are you. So tell me,” he said, his eyes dark, his hand moving softly from her shoulder to her neck. “Tell me you want me to make you come,” he whispered as he touched his lips to her neck.
Oh God, she did. She really, honestly did. The ground felt like it was melting away beneath her feet, and she clutched his arm, let her head drop back, and against all common sense, she whispered, “I want you to make me come.”
He made a guttural sound deep in his throat and slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her into his body as he lowered his mouth to kiss her. Leah’s heart began to pound in her chest as his lips moved from her mouth to her neck, then her earlobe, and across her jaw to her mouth again. But then he abruptly spun her around and pushed her up against one of the columns, pressing his body against hers, as his tongue dipped hungrily into her mouth.
Her heart leaped to her throat as his hands flit down her arms to her hips and up again, reaching her breasts. But then he lifted his head, braced his arms on either side of her head. That lock of black hair had fallen over his eye, and he smiled roguishly, just like a man who knew he was in control and on the verge of having fabulous sex.
This would go his way—he would do what he wanted to her, and something about that sent another shiver of delight through Leah.
Michael’s gaze roamed her figure, lingering on her neckline. He touched her collarbone with the back of his hand. “I’ve thought about making love to you for years,” he said, his voice low. His hand dipped to her cleavage, from where he drew a line up to her neck again. “I’ve thought about all of the ways I would touch you.”
Leah sucked in a breath.
“I’ve thought of where I would touch you. If I would use my hands,” he said, his fingers flicking over her breast, “or my mouth,” he said as his hand dipped down to the apex of her legs, “or my cock.”
This was going to be good. This was going to be so good that she could hardly contain herself, and she bit her lower lip to keep from trembling like some blasted
recluse who hadn’t had anything but mediocre sex in five years—okay, so she hadn’t—and would, at that moment, kill the doorman if that’s what it took to have fabulous sex.
“I’ve thought of how you would respond,” he added, reaching for his tie and pulling it free of its knot. “Especially if you were my captive audience.”
“Oh, Jesus,” she whispered. She felt damp, intoxicated, her body turning to mush, and he’d really done nothing more than talk. The effect was so overpowering that she pressed her hand against the column behind her for support.
Michael knew her too well, though, and he knew that she had jelly knees. He laughed a low, dangerously seductive laugh that sent an electric charge through her. “Would you like that, baby?” he asked, and pressed the palm of his hand against her cheek.
“Yes,” she said instantly, unabashedly. She wanted to be his captive audience. She wanted to be his captive audience right now.
Michael wasn’t laughing as he pulled the tie free of his neck and held it up for her to see. “Give me your hand.”
She did it without question, holding it up to him. He tied the black silk tie around her wrist, made a knot, kissed her palm, then stepped back and pulled her away from the column. “I am going to make you scream.” He dropped her hand and stood back. “Undress.”
Leah hesitated only a moment, then slowly turned and presented her back to him to unzip. When he had lowered the zipper, he pushed the dress from her shoulders, down to her elbows, then dropped his hands. “Turn around.”
She turned, pushed the turquoise sheath from her body, stepped out of it, and handed it to him. He tossed it onto the couch behind him without a glance, watching her, his gaze taking in her lacy bra, the thong bikini panties she was wearing, the high heels. Her only other accessory was the black silk tie dangling from her wrist.