Page 18 of The One Who Got Away

“Wait.”

The air between us was slick with desire, and I licked my lips. My pussy clenched because I could taste it. Even after all this time, the energy between us was as undeniable as ever.

“Have dinner with me.”

I looked down at his hand and he slackened his grip, then reluctantly let go. I’d never tell him that I didn’t really want him to let go.

I never wanted him to let go again.

I steeled my nerves, fighting a losing battle. I was overwhelmed by the urge to ride him down to the floor. “Is that a request or a command?”

His gray eyes stormed. “What do you think?”

I wasn’t thinking to be honest, because I gave him the slightest smile and started down the hall. I threw my surrender over my shoulder.

“I guess you know my answer, then.”

Chapter Six

I should have said no.

Not just no.

Hell no.

It got pretty hard to say much of anything but ‘What the-’ when I strolled out of the office, and there was a chauffeur awkwardly standing beside my Neon.

Half annoyed and bone-tired after spending most of the afternoon tied up in bureaucratic BS with the administration at several schools on the list, I was actually looking forward to some wining and dining. Looking forward to some fancy dinner at some fancy restaurant that I definitely couldn’t afford where all I’d hear was ‘Yes!’ and ‘Right away, Miss!’

I’d never been confronted with so much resistance in my past work in the nonprofit sector, and right out of the gate to boot. I wanted to cut through the crap, plow through the obstacles, and get to what mattered—helping the kids at their institution. Every person I’d encountered from the moment I picked up the phone and perched my fingers over my keyboard was content to make me jump through every hoop imaginable just to step my pinky toe in the building. One of the principals only budged, slightly, after asking if Lincoln Carraway would be at the presentation and I begrudgingly said it was a possibility.

My plan had been to bow out at five, rush home and shower, iron my one nice black dress, and wait for Lincoln to call me with a destination. He’d texted me to confirm that morning and I’d almost changed my mind, but I forced out a ‘Kk’ before I lost my nerve. It’s just dinner, I’d told myself. Not a new beginning. And not sex.

Lincoln had other plans.

The chauffeur beside my car looked just like the ones in the movies. He wore a crisp and professional black suit. Average build. Standing at his station with his legs slightly spread, his hands locked in front like he was waiting for further commands. I knew he worked for Lincoln and posed me no threat, but I still hesitated a few feet from him, clutching my briefcase.

“Who are you?”

He didn’t show any surprise at my accusatory tone or any indignation that I asked a question I probably already knew the answer to.

“I’m Phillip Green.” He slipped a hand into his lapel and brandished a slender white card. He extended it to me with a kind, unassuming smile. “I work for Mr. Carraway. I was instructed to pick you up from work in preparation for this evening.”

My mouth twitched into a frown. “This evening? You’re taking me to dinner? Now?”

“No, Miss Wilkes,” he said smoothly. “I’m taking you to The Homestead Hotel and Spa.”

“Say what?” I sputtered. I locked my knees and crossed my arms. “Look, you seem like you’re on the up and up with your suit and your business card, but I’m not gonna get in a car with a strange man and go to some strange hotel-”

“I totally understand, Miss Wilkes. If you would excuse me a moment?”

My mouth hung open, the rest of my protests and frustrations put on pause. Phillip brought his hand to his ear and gave me another polite smile. “Mr. Carraway? I have Miss Catherine Wilkes here and I believe she needs more assurances before we begin the trip.” He paused and nodded once. “Yes sir.”

Not even a second later, my briefcase started vibrating. Blushing and flustered, I propped it on the hood of my car and fished out my phone. I didn’t even bother looking at the number. I knew it was the one from earlier. Lincoln’s number. I still hadn’t saved him in my contacts.

“What is this?” I barked, skipping right past the niceties.

“Phillip is my chauffeur,” Lincoln said slowly, like he was explaining something obvious like addition and subtraction to someone that shouldn’t need an explanation. “He’s taking you to The Homestead Hotel and Spa, unless you’re backing out of our date?”

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