Page 16 of Taking The Virgin

“Red,” he says, wrapping his fingers around my wrist to stop me. “Don’t worry aboutit.”

Desire zings over my skin at the contact. But even more surprisingly, it looks like he doesn’t care that I’ve defiled hissuit.

Is this really the same man who seemed so disturbed by my clothing on his floor and the mess I made last night?

His phone rings, and as we sit there with his fingers still cuffing my wrist, neither of us moves. I see chaos in his fathomless gaze, and I have no idea what it means. I only know that I’m feeling the same raging confusion in my gut. And in my crazy heart.

After the fourth ring, he lets go of me then stands up. “You’re free to order more cocktails and some food. You haven’t eatenyet.”

Before I can tell him that I had a big breakfast, he answers his phone. “Yes?”

Then he saunters toward the passageway, and I sit back in myseat.

My flesh tingles from where he touched me, and I trace my fingers over the invisible band of pressure I still feel. The tingles spread over the rest of me, and from then on, as Owen stays in the back of the jet, I try to solve the puzzle of thisman.

As well as the puzzle of what I’m feeling forhim.

Whenever the attendant checks on me, I don’t order food or drinks. It isn’t until we’ve landed and she opens the jet door that I realize maybe I’ll never see Owen again. The drool had to have been the last straw for him, and he was only hiding his anger and disgust that I soiled his lovelysuit.

I’m truly a hot mess, but was I ever anythingelse?

The attendant brings my bag and coat, which I stuff into it because of the mild air. She’s bidding me goodbye when Owen finally does appear.

My blood thickens in my veins, chugging through me as I meet hisgaze.

“You didn’t order anything to eat,” he says. “I’m not about to send you on your way before you get some nourishment.”

Who is he, supernanny? “I’ll be fine, but thank you anyway.”

The attendant has left us alone again, and I start to leave thejet.

“Juliet,” hesays.

He called me by my name, and it’s enough to stop me from going anywhere. When I glance back at him, he has his hands folded behind his back. He looks like a boss, and I imagine him in an operating room or his corporate offices, running everything, keeping those around him inline.

“I’d like you to have a meal with me before we part company,” hesays.

His formality doesn’t surprise me, but his invitation suredoes.

And, god help me, I can’t say no tohim.

* * *

He takes me to a beautiful,exclusive seafood restaurant on a Biscayne Bay dock. The afternoon sun shimmers on the water beside the silver high rises across the way. Palm trees sway in the breeze as he orders more expensive champagne, plus ceviche and then an entrée of crab-stuffed lobster.

In spite of what he told me yesterday about not wanting to know anything about me, he makes the smallest of small talk, asking me questions he would know the answer to if he’d actually read my Highest Bidder profile.

He seems particularly focused on my days studying art in college and my career aspirations. I refrain from telling him that any and all jobs are on hold until I can get my personal life together, because I have the feeling he doesn’t want to know that much about me. But he’s back to being the more relaxed version of the Owen Gregory—the guy he was before things ended on such an odd note last night.

After our meal, we take a walk along the beach, saltiness riding on the air, the waves a dull roar, the sand nearly empty of tourists at this time ofyear.

The champagne and the nice meal have made me rather brave, so as we saunter along, I risk saying, “I did a bit of research onyou.”

“And what did you find?” He hasn’t loosened his silver silk tie this entire time, and his jacket is still buttoned and neat. He’s almost unreal, and I can tell that the few other people who walk past us think so, as well. They look at him as I do—as if he’s a magnetic, imposing, gorgeous specimen who’s just stepped out from an article about titans of industry.

“What did I find out about you besides the obvious?” I shrug. “I saw that you won early admission to Harvard when you were only seventeen. You almost make me feel likea…”

I search for words, almost landing on slacker.

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