Page 75 of Sinful Escape

“It must be my lucky night then.”

I giggled. “Mine too.” A hot flush blazed up my neck at the way his eyes devoured me. I cleared my throat. “So, what do you do for a living, Oscar?”

He picked up his champagne glass, and when he twirled the stem between his fingers, I noted that, unlike Luca, Oscar’s hands didn’t look like he’d done a day of manual labor in his life. “I own a chain of hair salons. Oscar & Oskar. Have you heard of them?”

My heart skipped a beat. Not only had I heard of them, but I’d also visited one today. Thank goodness I had because otherwise, my unruly mop would’ve attracted his attention for all the wrong reasons. I applied restraint with my response. “I have, as a matter of fact.”

“Your hair was what attracted me to you.”

I reached up and patted my braid like it was a sleeping kitten. “It did?”

“Yes. Most women with red curly hair want to change the color and make it straight. It’s rare to find hair of such virgin quality.”

“Oh.” His words floored me. I had never thought of my hair as attractive. Not many days went by when I didn’t hate my hair for one reason or another. Too red. Too curly. Too messy. Too frizzy. Luscious locks were not my thing.

Oscar reached out, and I froze as he pinched a curl of my hair between his thumb and forefinger. His pupils widened. “De beaux cheveux.”

To hear him say my hair was beautiful made my heart sing. But the way he said it, with the words whispered off his tongue, had my insides positively purring. The intensity of this moment triggered all sorts of crazy thoughts dashing through my mind. My girly bits did a weird pirouette that had me squirming on my seat.

“Do you speak French?”

“Oh, ummm . . .” I held my fingers an inch apart. “A little.”

“Voulez-vous un autre verre de champagne?”

I smiled. “Oui, s'il vous plaît. I’d love another glass of champagne. Merci beaucoup.”

When he smiled at my response, I was dazzled by the transformation. His already stunning eyes lit up, his teeth were white and straight, and a gorgeous dimple punctuated his right cheek. James Bond just got a hell of a lot hotter.

Oscar held one finger in the air, and within five seconds a woman dressed in a teal and black tunic that fitted her voluptuous curves in all the right places arrived at our corner.

“Bonsoir, Mr. LeRoche. How may I help you?”

“A glass of Louis Roederer Cristal champagne for the lady, and I’ll have a negroni with Roku gin, s'il vous plaît.”

I’d never tried a negroni and after a silent two-second debate the new adventurous me leaped in. “Actually, may I please have a, ummm, negroni too. Merci beaucoup.”

He cocked his head. “Have you ever had one before?”

Sprung. I contemplated lying but decided against it. “No.”

“I love a woman who experiments.” His eyes captured mine, and the unmistakable twinkle suggested that he hoped my experimental phase would continue beyond my choice of alcoholic beverage.

An appropriate reply had me flustered. Why on earth a man like Oscar would choose me had me confused. I had no class. I certainly wasn’t beautiful.

Then it hit me. My boobs. Maybe Mother was right. For the first time in years, I’d shown off a hint of cleavage and James Bond had swooped in.

My fingers twitched with the burning urge to tug my zipper up to my chin as the angel and devil in my brain fought a mighty battle.

So what if he’s looking at my tits.

You are more than just giant melons, Daisy.

Stop it! Why can’t you show off your assets?

You are just like your mother.

Faaark. My heart thudded down to my belly.

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