by Amelia Wilde
“Are you all right?” His voice is soft, eyes questioning.
“Yeah,” I say, too brightly, and then I muster up the courage to look him squarely in the eye a second time. I don’t know what this is between us, and my instinct is to hide everything, keep everything to myself like I always do, but it’s such strange and new territory that I think, for once, it might be best to give a little away. “I don’t normally ride in cars.”
He grins at me, a half-smile that has me wet again in spite of myself. “This isn’t your typical yellow cab.” Gideon glances around the interior as if he’s seeing it for the first time. “Unless the cab drivers have taken things to another level. In which case I should get something more impressive.”
“No, it’s definitely not that.” Every breath I take draws in a mixture of brand new car and the light scent of Gideon’s cologne. “This is definitely the nicest car I’ve ever been inside. It’s—” I shake my head. Telling him this would be too much, too soon. “It’s a long-standing aversion.”
“I see. Would you be more comfortable on the subway?” His eyes flick down to my shoes, which are far more reasonable than the stilettos I got trapped into wearing last weekend, though still heels.
I laugh out loud. “You, on the subway?” My heart is still in my throat, but when I focus on Gideon’s eyes, some of the tension goes out of my shoulders. “No. I’ll be all right.”
He nods, leaning back against the smooth leather seat. “I have something to confess.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know if I can wait for the food to come.”
I widen my eyes. “I don’t have any snacks in my purse.”
Again, that wicked grin. “I mean, I don’t know if I can wait for the food to come to get past the small-talk phase with you.”
“You don’t like small talk?”
“I thrive on small talk.” He leans closer, his green eyes glinting in the evening light streaming in through the car’s tinted windows. “I’m great at small talk. But with you, Kennedy Carlisle, I want to skip all of that. I’ve been waiting all week to talk to you.”
What is it about him that makes me want to come clean, that makes me want to shed all the layers of deflection that I normally use with strangers? Is it the hum between my legs, the way my hands ache to reach out and touch the smooth sides of his jawline? “What do you want to know?”
He takes in a breath. “I want to know what makes you stand so straight and tall, like you’re looking to ward off a threat from every angle.”
A burst of lightning runs through to my gut, because his words have struck a nerve. I want to deny it, deny that I spend my life looking for the next shoe to drop.
But I can’t.
And it’s too heavy to get into right now.
Gideon gives me an out. “But I think that’s maybe a conversation for dessert. In the meantime, I want to know what drove you to become a travel agent.”
I scoff, the pit of anxiety in my gut starting to dissolve. “I’m not only a travel agent.” Gideon raises both hands in the air in apology. “I’m an Executive Travel Coordinator. I plan and manage luxury vacations for my firm’s VIP clients.”
His eyes crinkle at the corners. “So you, Kennedy Carlisle, the woman who won’t even drink at a nightclub, spend your days planning exotic trips for people like me?”
“Not quite as high-profile as you.” He laughs. “But yes, that’s my job. It’s a pretty good one for a girl with an associate’s degree in business from North Country Community College and a follow-up in English from SUNY.”
“You’d rather plan vacations than take one?”
I shake my head. “I was thinking, on Monday, that I should take more vacations, not fewer of them. But those kinds of trips—those wouldn’t be my type.”
His voice drops to that liquid-sex tone that makes my spine buzz with the urge to sidle closer to him, then tilt my face up until our lips finally connect. “How do you know?”
“I know.”
Gideon scoffs. “You can’t make a decision like that based on planning.”
“Let me guess…you actually have to go to every one of these places before you know.”
He gives me an intoxicating grin, and right at that moment, even though I know I wouldn’t want to fly across half the planet to get to some tropical island where I’ll burn my skin to a crisp and get into a horrific accident under the guise of a so-called “parasailing adventure,” I’d get into a plane with him. My body practically demands it.
“You guessed right.”
A full-body shiver runs through me at the look blazing in his eyes, my breath catching in my throat. My nipples are pebbled against the fabric of my dress, and there’s no way they’re not showing through, but Gideon is so close that the rest of the world is falling away. It’s like he’s been moving in my direction since we pulled away from the curb, but it’s only hitting me now how much hotter he is in the evening’s golden light. His face is all chiseled lines, and I’m willing to bet that underneath his perfectly tailored clothes, his body well-cut.
I suck in a deep breath and my body bends toward him, leaning in, and I don’t know what the hell I’m doing—am I going to kiss him right now? Before we’ve had a single date? Before we’ve even stepped inside the restaurant?
The car goes over a pothole, and I fling one hand out to brace myself as the driver calls, “Sorry about that, Mr. Hawke.”
“It’s no problem, John.” Gideon gives me a long look as the car glides to a stop next to the curb. He smiles at me, his mouth quirked like he’s disappointed we’re here so quickly—I am, even if he isn’t—and runs a hand through his hair. “We’re here.”
12
Gideon
Damn the distance to the Pearl, an out-of-the-way place that the more civilized members of my crowd like to frequent because it’s known for a private atmosphere and a chef who’s criminally underpaid, even at prices that are out of reach for most New Yorkers. At least, so I’ve heard. This is the first time since that disaster of a relationship that I’m even considering staying in the city for more than a month, so it’s possible the general population has become quite a bit wealthier while I was gone.
She was going to kiss me. And I wouldn’t have blamed her. Sitting so close to her in that car, breathing in the clean, sweet scent of her, made me want to run my hands up her thighs, push her dress up to her waist, and plow myself into her to the hilt. I would have settled for that kiss. I would have settled for anything. And as much as Kennedy is fighting to stay on the safe side of whatever this is between us, I think she might have gone for it, too.
But I’m not going to ask John to drive us around while I do what I really want, which is to make her come so hard she forgets her name, let alone all about these strange fears and hesitations of hers, until all that’s left is the two of us.
So I discreetly adjust the thick bulge in the front of my pants while I’m coming around to her side of the car, and take a deep breath of the humid August air. I’ll ignore the inferno raging between us and settle in for what’s probably going to be the nicest dinner of Kennedy’s life.
For now.
She still has pink cheeks from that almost kiss when she takes my hand and steps out of the car, looking toward the building. It’s an elegant pre-war brownstone that looks like it should be an apartment, and a flicker of doubt crosses Kennedy’s face. “This is the restaurant?”
I let her hand drop to her side and slide my palm around the side of her waist, guiding her toward the door. She leans back, hesitating a little or pressing my hand more firmly onto the small of her back—I can’t tell which—and I lean down. “This is a highly exclusive dining establishment that caters to people…” I choose my words carefully, because I don’t want to come off like some asshole who’s obsessed with his money. “…people of means who like a little more privacy. It’s very intimate.”
She relaxes a little into my touch, a relieved smile spreading across
her full lips. “I take it there won’t be blaring house music and too many people crowded onto a dance floor.”
I raise my other hand to my ear, pausing in the middle of the sidewalk. “Not tonight, it sounds like.”
Kennedy laughs a little at my joke, and a warmth spreads through my chest and down my spine.
We’re steps away from the door when it swings open to reveal a host in a pristine tuxedo, and the last of the tension dissolves from Kennedy’s face. I’m not sure what she was imagining—some secret sex dungeon, maybe, or a reveal that I’m actually a serial killer—but now that it’s clear we’re actually going out to eat, some of her guard is coming down.
At least, I hope it is.
We’re seated at a back table near a window overlooking a garden in full bloom, and Kennedy takes a deep breath, her eyes wide while she admires the decor. Everything is understated, the cream color on the walls making a clean backdrop for the white linen tablecloths. In a place as dirty and overcrowded as New York City, this kind of color palate looks rich in a way that the restaurants pretending to be places like the Pearl never manage to match. Everything glimmers in the candlelight, and though all six of the other tables in the room are occupied, the conversation is hushed.
Kennedy straightens in her seat, beaming, and when she looks across the table at me, her eyes are glowing, delighted. “This place is amazing.”
I haven’t met many women who would prefer the Pearl over somewhere to see and be seen, but Kennedy is one of them. I got it right.
The waiter brings us freshly baked bread and pours our first glasses of wine, leaving behind small, simple menus printed in a flowing script.
“I can have him take the wine away, if you want.”
Kennedy considers it. “No. A wine like this must be delicious. It’s only at parties that I don’t drink. A good red, though…”
So she does have some flexibility to her rules.
Kennedy puts her menu down almost immediately. “Do you already know what you want?”
She bites her lip, grinning at me, and her gaze lingers on mine. “The petit filet. I love steak.”
“You won’t be disappointed.” I put down my own menu, and within seconds the waiter is back to take our orders.
When he’s gone, and we’re alone, Kennedy’s breasts rise and fall gently beneath the neckline of her dress. “The bread is already here. Is there anything else you wanted to know before the main entrees come?”
I look back into those eyes, shining in the candlelight, and tap my fingers against the tablecloth. I have a thousand questions for Kennedy. I want to know what her favorite color is. I want to know if any man has ever broken her heart. I land somewhere in the middle. “Why did you move to New York City?”
She nods a little, lips pressed together. “My sister wanted me to move here.”
“You have siblings?”
“One sister. Abby.” Her eyes drop down to the tablecloth for an instant, and then she meets my gaze again. “She’s two years younger than I am.”
“Are you close?”
Kennedy takes a deep breath. “We’re close, I’d say.”
“Does she live in the city?”
Kennedy shakes her head. Are there tears in her eyes? What the hell did I stumble on?
“Did I pick a bad topic?”
She raises a knuckle to the corners of her eyes, and when she smiles again, it’s as if nothing had ever happened. “Not...bad, exactly. I love my sister. But talking about her is maybe something we should do closer to dessert.” Kennedy draws in another staggered breath, shaking it off. “My turn. What makes you want to keep jet-setting all over the globe and throwing yourself off cliffs?”
Now she’s struck a nerve. “If I said I loved travel, would you believe me?”
She considers me with narrowed eyes. “No.”
I laugh at her serious expression. “You’d be right not to.” I lean in, dropping my voice. “The truth is that I love jumping off cliffs.”
Kennedy laughs behind her smile. “You’re not running away from anything?”
I give her my best grin. “Maybe we should discuss that closer to dessert.”
She sits back, lifting her wine glass from the table and taking a thoughtful sip. “Gideon Hawke has darkness in his past?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
Kennedy fixes me with a look so piercing that it cuts right to my core. “I think it all depends on how dark you mean.”
13
Kennedy
“How dark do you mean?” Gideon pauses with his wine glass halfway to his lips, and everything in me is begging for him to take that sip. I never thought I would think a man taking a drink of wine was hot, but I so want his lips to make contact with mine. For the moment, watching them as they meet his wine glass will have to do.
I lose my nerve then, and mostly because a new wave of heat is cascading down my shoulders and arms, thrilling down my spine, aimed straight at its destination: between my legs to land in my pussy. “You're right.” I redirect my gaze to the bread basket, choosing to pick up one of the delicate, still-steaming rolls, and tear it in half. “Toward dessert.”
“It's hard to tell what the safe topics are with you, Kennedy Carlisle.” His lips curve into a smile.
I laugh. “Why do you keep calling me that?”
“By your name?”
“By my full name.”
“Because you have one of those names that rolls off the tongue. Kennedy Carlisle.” Gideon rolls it around in his mouth one more time, the corners of his mouth turning up into a playful grin that makes me want to abandon every sense of decorum I've ever had, climb up onto the center of the table, and perch there on my knees while I lean down to finally, finally, taste his lips.
I can't think my way out of the sexual haze my mind falls victim to whenever I look at him. Over and over, I try telling myself that this, this whatever it is, is not permanent, that falling too deeply under Gideon's spell would mean giving in to risk, giving up all the walls of safety I've worked so hard to build for myself. He's a man who loves to do dangerous things, lives to do dangerous things. The thought echoes again and again through the hallways of my mind. Dangerous things are the monster hiding in the closet of my life. Risky decisions are my demons. I can't afford to let my desire get the better of me, cause me to forget, convince me to cave and make a dangerous, risky decision. Not after what happened with Abby.
I tremble a little, thinking of when I finally tell him that story, letting him learn about the darkest night of my life.
Better to wait until dessert.
Gideon breaks the moment of tension as I'm reaching my breaking point. I'm on the verge of blurting out my entire life story from that day until today when he cuts in.
“I have the perfect question.”
My shoulders relax. “What is it?”
“What's your favorite color?”
“In general, or right now?”
“Is there a difference?” He takes a sip of his wine—finally—his lips pressing neatly against the rim of the glass. There's a playful light in his eyes.
“How honest are we being with each other?” I cock my head to the side and look at him, half joking, half serious.
Gideon puts his wine glass back on the table and leans in, folding his hands over one another on the edge. “Do you remember what it felt like to dance with each other last weekend?”
How could I forget? It was raw, electric, intoxicating. “Yes.”
“That wasn't some show to—” He shakes his head. “I wasn't trying to lure you in by pretending to be someone I'm not.” His expression is solemn, serious. “I'm not the kind of man who holds back, who tells lies.” There's a flicker of disgust in his face when he says that last word, but he tries to cover it with a smile. “So I'm being honest with you.” He leans back into his seat. “Do you feel the same way?”
I take in a deep breath. “It's not that I lie. I want—” I swallow hard in order to get my
next words out, because this entire conversation is on an entirely different level than what I typically meet people. Leah might be the only one in years, aside from Abby, to talk to me this way. “It's not that I want to lie. It's that telling people about myself—especially like this—feels...” I can't find the right word to describe how it feels, and while I search to figure out what to say, I pop a bite of bread into my mouth. It's delicious, warm and buttery and light, and I can't help closing my eyes to savor it.
When I open them, Gideon is grinning at me. “I've never seen anyone make eating a roll so sexy.”
“My job here is done, then.” I rub my hands together like I'm dusting them off, and Gideon laughs. The sound centers me somehow, makes me feel like I'm standing on solid ground. “Sharing my life story seems like a risk, is all.”
“It's absolutely safe.” Gideon picks up the bread basket and holds it out to me. “Please, have some more.”
I give him a look. “It feels like an enormous risk to share so much of myself with another person. And with someone I barely know.”
Gideon puts down the basket and looks me in the eye. “But don't you want to know me? Part of you must trust me, otherwise you wouldn't be here.”
I press my lips together. It's true—I do trust him. I don't know why. I don't know if it's that my brain loves the sound of his voice, or it's the way he touched me when we danced, or the way he didn't press Leah to give him my phone number. “In general, my favorite color is purple. But right now...” That rakish smile, those perfect teeth. “Right now, my favorite color is the color of your eyes. There's something about candlelight that works magic for you.”
Gideon reaches across the table for my hand, catching it as I flutter my fingers uselessly near my salad fork. He stands, sliding around the table, and lifts my hand to his lips, pressing them lightly against the back of my knuckles. “You are captivating, Kennedy Carlisle.”