Page 69 of Break the Ice
Rafe’s standing on the sidewalk when I make it down. He’s leaning against the passenger side of his Corvette with his muscly arms folded and a cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth. He’s dressed in all black, a lock of his chocolatey hair hanging over his brow. His liquid gold eyes find mine the second I appear on the street.
My heart stutters inside my chest.
The gleam in his gaze has struck me, stealing my ability to breathe.
It’s written in the shards of gold—he’s out for revenge.
But for what?
“Hello, Sugar,” he greets, flicking away his cigarette. He gives me a once over and pops open the door for me. “You look fucking gorgeous.”
I blink, my lashes fluttering. “Oh… uh, thank you. But what part of round three includes dinner?”
“Get in.”
He closes the door once I’ve slid into the passenger seat and walks around to the other side.
The Corvette roars as he grabs the wheel and hits the gas. I’ve barely had a chance to buckle my seatbelt.
“Where are we going?”
“Dinner.”
“Just dinner?”
Rafe casts me a sidelong grin. “How about you stop asking questions and play along? Rules for round three. You’re my whore tonight. Behave like my whore. Don’t ask questions. Do everything I ask you to do. If you thought the press lunch was embarrassing, we’re about to see just how far you’ll go to stay in the game.”
Nerves twist tighter in my stomach like tiny invisible screws. “I won’t do anything in public. If you think you’re going to?—”
“I don’t think, Sugar. I know. Here we are.”
The tires shriek as he swings a sudden left in the middle of the intersection and the Corvette spins to make it happen. Several drivers honk at us to express their dissatisfaction, but Rafe couldn’t care less—he slams on the brakes half a block later. We’ve come up on the avant-garde restaurant known as Gourmande.
My favorite spot in the city. Also one of the most upscale and expensive.
Rafe invents a parking space in the middle of a fire hydrant zone. The doorman in front of the glowing revolving doors yells at us about parking. A few other words follow, like “police” and “tow truck”.
Rafe turns to me. “Your favorite, right?”
“So what?”
“So my family owns this place,” he says flippantly. “I got us the best table in the house. Right under the skylight. Right in the middle.”
“What you’re telling me is to expect a trap.”
“You shouldn’t expect to be let off easy after all the shit you’ve pulled, Sugar. C’mon.” He hops out of the topless Corvette, skipping the door altogether. He grabs me by the wrist to drag me along.
The doorman that’s been shouting at him changes his tune the instant Rafe tosses a roll of cash and his car key fob into his hands. Suddenly, it’s “Yes, Mr. Golding” and “thank you, Mr. Golding.”
We’re seated exactly where Rafe said we would be—in the center of the huge circular dining room. The domed glass ceiling curves far above our heads. We’re surrounded on all sides by tables of dining guests and the fragrant aroma of the flavorful dishes Gourmande prepares.
Rafe pushes me into my chair at the table like he’s the perfect gentleman and not the devil in human male form. I’m under no illusion this is some romantic dinner date between the two of us. We’re venturing into yet another night of games.
Rafe had mentioned being his whore. He’d brought up my embarrassment during the media luncheon.
What could he possibly have planned for tonight?
I wish I could banish the nerves fluttering inside me, but I’m only human—I play it off as best as I can, neatly unfolding my dinner napkin and sipping from the sparkling water provided.
