Two for Dinner

by Rachel A. Smith

  So many curves. This woman possesses the type of body men dream about sinking into. But it isn’t her body that prevents me from running. Her complete lack of interest in me and my wealth keeps me standing over her a second longer than I should. Rebecca ensnared me with her nonchalance about my wealth, though, and I’m no fool. I won’t be making the same mistake again. It’s better she doesn’t know my name. I’ll be fucking Mr. Merman for now.

  I’ve stalled long enough. “See you later for dinner.”

  She flinches at the word dinner.

  Who is this woman? Walking away, I pull out my phone, typing in a quick search for Irene Gilliard before I get out of range. The top results show a bunch of obituary notices and a few social-media profile pictures, but all of them are of women over fifty. Fuck. Talk about being a goddamn hypocrite. I hate when women check me out on the internet.

  Turning off my phone, I slide into the car.

  My ever-loyal driver Michael looks at me in the rearview mirror. “Where to?”

  “The bungalow.”

  “But we haven’t completed all the repairs.”

  “It’s okay. The young lady paid to rent the house. She should have it.”

  In the six years Michael has been in my employ, I’ve never seen him look anything other than calm and relaxed. “Is there a problem?”

  “No.”

  “Michael, you suck at lying.”

  “There isn’t even running water out there.”

  “Stop worrying. It’ll be fine.” I last two minutes before I break the silence. “Did you pick up Miss Gilliard from the strip?”

  “I did.” Michael’s focus remains on the dirt road.

  “And?”

  He glances at me in the rearview mirror but says nothing. I drum my fingers on the side panel of the door.

  With a huge sigh, Michael relents. “After you left for your swim, I received the regular notification of a guest arriving.” His eyes don’t waver from the road. “I assumed she was a guest of yours.”

  Who the hell is Irene Gilliard? Few people can afford to simply hop on a flight to the Caribbean and rent a private island listed for seven or eight thousand a night on a whim.

  “Do you know anything about the Gilliards?”

  Michael frowns and then glances up in the rearview mirror. “The only Gilliard who comes to mind is Phillip Gilliard, a famous architect. His wife is some famous fashion designer, and I heard his daughter is a pretty successful graphic novel artist or author or something like that.”

  Irene used a sketchbook to cover her lovely chest earlier.

  “Like comic books?”

  Michael shrugs as the car stops at a path leading to the bungalow. Humidity smacks me in the chest as I exit the vehicle, but it isn’t only the climate that has me sweating. The image of Irene in her string bikini was hot and one I wasn’t about to forget anytime soon.

  Chapter 3

  Irene

  The guest shower is three times larger than what I’m used to. Even with my arms spread wide, I can’t rest my palms against the shower walls to help support me. The spray of water from the shower head hits my shoulders. Each water drop’s bite reminds me not only how red and tender they are from a day in the sun, but also that I’m not entirely numb.

  Screw Clayton.

  Screw Melissa, who had pretended to be my friend.

  Screw me. The prospect of my mom setting me up on blind dates all over again sends shivers down my spine despite the warm water cascading down my back.

  Three years with Clayton had meant no more nagging about grandbabies or disastrous setups with supposedly perfect men. I’d ignored all the signs and settled, pretending to be happy. All to avoid my mom’s lectures.

  The soothing effects of the water spiral with it down the drain. The next few months are going to be absolute hell. Moving out, if Clayton will even let me get my stuff. Avoiding the press. Finding a reasonably priced place in New York. Trusting people again. Dealing with my mom. Wrinkled and cold, I shut off the water. Surrounded by steam, my veins pump cold blood that chills my heart. Even the extra-large velvet-soft towel does nothing to remove the numbness that has seeped into my bones.

  Music floats in from the living room. I press my ear to the door but hear no sounds of chatter. Guess Mr. Merman hasn’t arrived yet. I pull a simple cotton slip dress over my head. The idea of bra straps rubbing against my crispy shoulders makes me fling the garment over the hook on the door. Screw it. I’m supposed to be on vacation alone. Since a hairbrush hadn’t made it into my suitcase in my haste to leave, I thread my fingers through my hair. My G-string sits next to my makeup bag. Screw the makeup, but I bend to slip my underwear on.

  I walk out into the marbled hall. Up ahead, Mr. Merman closes a door behind him. The room he gave up to give me privacy and space.

  “Good evening, Mr. Merman. You’re early.”

  He looks at his watch. “Am I?”

  How long was I in the shower? I went in at five. Skipping makeup and blow-drying my hair, I doubt I was in the bathroom longer than thirty minutes. “What time is it?”

  “Six-thirty.”

  Shit. Dinner was set for six. “Sorry to make you wait.”

  “It’s fine.” He winks and walks past. “It gave me a chance to do a little research on you. Except you don’t have much of a social-media presence.”

  He googled me? Argh. I’m not ready to hear what the press is calling me this time. “Really? You must suck at internet searches then.”

  He shrugs one shoulder in reply.

  Didn’t he see it splashed all over the internet? I ran, knowing Clayton would probably still show up at the church in the morning. Unless he pulled some strings or used some of his tech wizardry, there must have been something in the press about it. They’ve never failed to publish one of my humiliating life events before. “Now you have me curious. What dirt were you able to find?”

  He walks into the living area and scans the room. “You must have been drunk when you agreed to marry Clayton David Wesley Montgomery. He’s the type of guy my grandmother calls a scoundrel.” Finding the remote, he lowers the volume of the music.

  I wasn’t drunk. I certainly wasn’t in love. I don’t know what I was thinking when I agreed to marry Clayton. The all-too-knowing look on Mr. Merman’s face makes me say, “What if I told you we were madly in love?”

  “Then I’d call you a liar. There wasn’t a single photo of you hanging on Montgomery’s arm, nor have I seen you at any of the usual events.” He doesn’t hesitate in calling me out.

  After enduring years of being paraded in front of photographers at various grand openings, fashion shows, and publicity events my parents attended as I acted as their plus one after their divorce, I avoid public gatherings at all costs. Thankfully, that all ended when I entered my ungodly awkward teen years. Only I still dodge the paparazzi. Some ugly ducklings don’t transform into swans. “Do you know Clayton?”

  “Know him? Not exactly. He’s more like a business acquaintance I’ve been introduced to a few times. I don’t remember him ever mentioning a girlfriend or fiancée in any of our brief conversations.” His lips curve into a lopsided grin. “Maybe he was keeping you a secret.”

  Ouch. Why are his comments like a root canal, exposing nerves I’d rather they not? “Maybe it was me who wanted to keep our engagement low profile.”

  Thank the lord, Chef Eric appears. When he introduced himself earlier as Chef Eric and not just Eric, the name stuck in my head. He’ll forever be Chef Eric now. Just like the gorgeous man standing next to me will always be Mr. Merman, similar to a character from one of my books. I’m not sure I’m ready to discover the truth about the man who emerged from the sea. Real people are difficult and mean. Clayton’s actions prove I’m right.

  Chef Eric’s relaxed features disappear, replaced by a concerned frown as he looks at me. “Dinner will be served on the terrace.”

  “I’ll show Miss Gilliard to the table, Eric. We’ll meet you ou
t there.” Mr. Merman wings his arm out like he is about to escort me to a fancy dinner or event.

  I loop my arm through his. Warm and secure, he melts the ice in my veins, my body anything but numb. We walk outside, and I freeze at the sight of the elaborately set table. What is under the silver covers? Clayton always over-ordered. I prefer to skip the appetizer, salad, and soup courses. Sometimes I even pass on the main course to indulge in dessert.

  I step up to the table as Mr. Merman pulls out a chair for me. Over my shoulder, I see him check out my ass. The humid air has plastered my dress to my skin. With a wink, he pushes in my chair as I flop into the seat.

  Men don’t wink at me. But it’s the second time Mr. Merman has, and surprisingly, each time I’ve liked it. Conscious of how close he is and how he lingers, I pull the napkin down to my lap as moisture pools between my legs. Men gazing at me with pure desire isn’t the norm. Most give me brotherly smiles. And as Clayton had so kindly pointed out on more than one occasion—I’m not a ten on anybody’s scale.

  Mr. Merman frowns at the seat opposite me as if he doesn’t like the idea of being that far from me. The legs of the chair scrape over the brick pavers as he shifts slightly closer. “I see you got some sun today.”

  “Is that all you saw?”

  “Nope.” He arches an eyebrow. “Refresh my memory. You are allowed to ask questions, but I’m not?”

  “Yep. That’s what you agreed to this afternoon. No more questions. If you would like to take your dinner to go . . .”

  Michael, the driver now acting as our server, steps out from the shadows and removes the covers. I examine the mound on my plate. Fresh romaine lettuce piled high and topped with shrimp that have grill marks evenly across the surface—shrimp Caesar salad, my favorite. Mr. Merman’s plate is also loaded with a bed of greens, but instead of shrimp it’s covered in strips of medium-rare steak. At least the man knows how to order a steak. Clayton cringed at the sight of pink meat. Come to think about it, that probably explains why he never went down on me. Mr. Merman, on the other hand, eyes his meal like he can’t wait to dig in. Hmm . . . was the water god opposite me into oral?

  Geez, my overactive imagination is going to get me in trouble. Sleeping with a drop-dead gorgeous stranger is the last thing I should do or speculate about. But the image of his well-defined naked chest makes me wiggle in my chair, despite having recreated his perfect body half a dozen times already in my sketchbook. I pick up my fork and stab a piece of lettuce. Of course the owner of the island has to be a young, virile male.

  He stares as I stuff a layered bite into my mouth. It’s rude to chew and talk. But it’s also rude to stare. Not caring if there is lettuce between my teeth, I ask, “Is there something wrong with your meal?”

  “I ordered the shrimp.” He glances at my plate and his irises dilate slightly.

  Peeking down, I see my nipples are poking at the thin material of my dress. His apparent interest makes me bold and unapologetic. Swallowing the instinct to apologize, I ask, “Should we swap?”

  “Your choice.”

  I blink at him, surprised by his offer to let me choose. “I’m not fluttering my eyes at you to get my way. Shrimp Caesar is actually my favorite.”

  “It’s mine too.” He chuckles. “And only because you did flutter them at me, I’ll settle for steak.” He picks up his fork and dives in.

  I’m usually the accommodating one. The one who gives in first. “Are you sure? Or we could go halves?” The words slip out, catching his attention.

  Serious eyes bore into mine. “I do nothing halfway.”

  Oh, I bet he doesn’t. He’s probably an all-or-nothing kinda guy, exactly the type I need to stay away from. I’ll keep pretending he’s nonthreatening, even though he definitely rattles my resolve to remain uninvolved.

  Frames of a storyboard featuring Mr. Merman leading me into the ocean for an after-dinner skinny dip run through my mind. A giggle escapes as I picture his tight, naked tush.

  His empty fork freezes midway to his plate. “What is so amusing?”

  “Nothing.” If it had been Clayton sitting opposite me, I’d be enduring another lecture on not daydreaming or letting myself get caught up in what he called my silly stories. I lift a shrimp to my mouth but pause halfway. What would Mr. Merman’s response be if I remind him of his promise? With nothing to lose, I say, “Remember, you promised no questions.”

  His lips curve into a grin. “Did I really promise not to pry?”

  There he goes again, using words Americans stopped using centuries ago. He’s flirting with me. I’ve rarely been on the receiving end, and I’m terribly unskilled at reciprocating. I focus on the shrimp speared on the end of my fork, silently praying it makes it into my mouth instead of landing in my lap.

  Chapter 4

  Damien

  I stare at Irene, hoping she thinks I’m eyeing the shrimp and not her lush lips. Thank God she can’t see under the table. My napkin is fully tented. I haven’t had a boner like this since I was a teenager. Watching her eat is hilariously hypnotic. She grazes her teeth over her bottom lip as she carefully crafts each perfect bite. Lettuce, cheese, lettuce, and a square piece of shrimp. She holds her fork prongs down and then, at the very last moment, rotates the fork and slides it between her lips. I only eat to exist. Meals are for necessity, not for pleasure. But the way Irene wraps her mouth around her fork—fuck—eating might become my new hobby. No. Not eating. Watching this woman eat. Clayton is an idiot.

  Her lips curve into a cheeky grin. “Yep. I believe you did.”

  I blink. “Did what?”

  “Promised no questions.” She sets her fork down and leans forward. “Are you okay?”

  I focus on her pretty lips and refrain from checking out her cleavage. They are slightly parted, and I need to feel them on mine. “Perfectly fine,” I lie. “But I hardly find it fair you can ask questions, and I can’t.”

  Irene picks up her drink and leans back in her chair. “Hmm, you have a point. Okay. Ask away. Just no dumb first-date questions. Not that we’re on a date or anything.” Her cheeks glow pink, deepening the color on her already sunburned face.

  I wait for her to place the rim of her glass to her lips before I say, “You mean questions like—so how old are you, anyway?”

  Cool as a cucumber, she lowers her drink. “Are you asking, or reliving a moment?” She dismisses the question with a wave of her hand. “Wait, don’t tell me.”

  I wasn’t going to. I’m more interested in hearing what she has to say.

  “It’s your own fault, you know. If a girl has to ask you how old you are, it means you pick them too young.”

  Nearly choking on a piece of steak, I pound on my chest. “How old do you think I am?”

  She tilts her head to the left and then to the right before pursing her lips. Lips I crave to taste.

  “Hmm. Gauging by the number of lines on your forehead and around your eyes and lips, which I’m guessing aren’t from laughter, I’d say forty-two.”

  “Are you serious? Forty-two?”

  “Oh . . . you’re not?” She raises her napkin to her mouth, but not before I spot the smirk.

  “No. I’m thirty-four.” My attempt at donning a I’m not impressed look that’s extremely effective in the boardroom is ruined when the corners of my lips curve into a grin. “If we’re guessing ages based on wrinkles, you can’t be a day over nineteen.” At that, the pretty pink color in her cheeks disappears along with her smile. You don’t have to be a genius to figure out I said exactly the wrong thing. My attempt at flattery failed monumentally. A first for me.

  “How did you ever manage to accumulate enough money to purchase this island?” It wasn’t her dry, sarcastic tone that left a dent in my pride. It was the fact she’d hit a tender spot in my armory. There is no way for her to have known the island and the billion-dollar conglomerate were not amassed from my own hard work. A fact I’m not particularly proud of, but I am responsible for maintaining the legacy m
y grandpa built.

  “Flirt your way to the top?” Her words are filled with bitterness.

  Time for the truth. “I inherited it.” My tone is flat. Thinking and talking about my grandpa always makes me grouchy. I miss him nearly as much as my grandma does.

  Like a chameleon, her features transform from resentment to earnest sincerity. “Oh, I’m sorry.” There isn’t a dishonest bone in this woman’s body.

  To clarify, I add, “From my grandfather.” She might have expected it was my self-absorbed father who left me this little piece of heaven. Why I feel the need to open up to Irene baffles me. Still, I continue. “My grandpa knew my dad would level everything and build a hotel if he’d inherited it. It’s what he does.”

  A soft glint of understanding flickers on Irene’s face. “And so, Poseidon left you, Mr. Merman, a plot of land in the middle of his kingdom.”

  She’s a witty one. “Something like that.” Suddenly, talking about Grandpa isn’t so difficult. The funny thing is, he was a sailor who considered himself a bit like the king of the sea. If I’m Mr. Merman, then Irene is a siren—beautiful and dangerous, luring me in with her enchanting lips.

  Lost at what to say next, I pivot and ask, “So . . . what other questions am I supposed to avoid?”

  “Hmm . . .” She tilts her head back and forth again. Don’t look too closely, my siren. I avoid her gaze, afraid she might actually have some magical power to see right through my bullshit. I push my plate away as I lean forward, clasping my hands together and resting my forearms on the table. It’s my let’s make a deal pose—attack mode. I’d hate to crush Irene, but I prefer to be the one in control.

  “Can’t recall any first-date questions?” I wink at her. “Let me jog your memory since you probably haven’t been on a date in a while. I’ll share a few of my favorites I’ve been asked recently.”

  She pushes her plate to the side and rubs her hands together before mimicking my pose and murmuring, “Ooh, this should be good.”

  “Ready?” She nods. It takes every ounce of self-control I possess not to close the distance between us and kiss the shit out of her. I clear my throat and begin. “What is your go-to karaoke song?”