Page 36 of Keeping The Virgin

Chapter 12

We’re only pretendingto be a couple, but when Cage tells me he’s taking me out that night to dinner and then the opening of an art gallery, it all seems too real.

For this dress rehearsal for the dinner with Igor Vasiliev, I show Cage a black-lace, tea-length cocktail dress and high-heeled sandals from my closet. He approves. He tells me that he’d like to see what I select for the actual dinner and that I’ll be having a hair and makeup specialist come here to shine me up that evening.

But tonight I’m on my own, so I get dressed with great care, styling my hair so it trails over one shoulder, doing my best with my makeup.

It’s as if I’m going on a first date with a guy, breathless and eager, even though this is only business.

I stuff a little handbag with my necessaries and wait for Cage in the ornate entry. When he emerges from the hallway, he slows his steps.

We look at each other—I, taking in every detail of him in his dark suit; he, lavishing me with a gaze so approving and famished that my pulse trembles.

“Did I ace lesson one?” I ask.

“Straight As.”

“So I look like I could actually be your girlfriend.”

“You look…”

As he trails off with that sensual fire in his gaze, I remember what he said last night about how gorgeous I am. The fact that he doesn’t say it now feels even more powerful, as if there’s no word for me.

Maybe he is right, and I need to start looking at myself in a different way.

He opens the door and escorts me into the elevator. We’re joined by other people on the way down, and every time one of them glances at me and smiles, I feel Cage’s approval as well as a possessive hum that never stops filling the space between us.

After a ride in his limo, where he has champagne waiting for us, we’re dropped off at what Cage calls a neo-bistro on the Lower East Side. The moment we enter the restaurant, the exclusivity of the blushing lights and high-backed booths strikes me as being very intimate. I see a pair of big box-office movie stars in one corner, and they acknowledge Cage. Everyone else merely stares—and not only at him.

I already had a glass of champagne to settle my nerves, so I’m rather giddy at this new feeling of empowerment. I feel people staring at me…at us, and I have to keep telling myself that this is just an act.

The maître d’ leaves us with menus, and as soon as our waiter reports to us, Cage orders a fine wine. As he interacts with the waiter, I inspect everything around us, wanting to be observant. It’s just that I’m so happy to be here, so stoked about the possibility of getting Cage this huge deal with Igor Vasiliev. I’m going to do everything I can to see that it happens.

I’m in the process of picking up the cool salt- and peppershakers that look like fancy wooden chess pieces when the waiter leaves.

Cage is staring at me.

“What?” I ask, showing him the shakers. “Aren’t these great?”

“Lesson two,” he says evenly, “is not to act as if you’ve never been out to dinner before when we dine with Mr. Vasiliev.”

I put the shakers down. It was a tiny faux pas, but I understand. Mr. Vasiliev might think I just found my way out of a barn if I don’t act more sophisticated.

“I’ve got it,” I say.

With a stoic expression, Cage studies the menu. I know how much this upcoming dinner means to him, how stressed he is about it, so I let his mood slide. I’ll just have to pay more attention to what I’m doing.

I am sophisticated, classy, and experienced, I tell myself as I look over the small plates on the menu—gourmet oysters, exotic cheeses, succulent clams, different versions of beef tartare, then tarts and custards for dessert…

I concentrate on lesson three: Cage’s girlfriend would let him do the ordering.

When the waiter returns with our wine, I lay down my menu. Our server pours a splash of red in Cage’s glass, then at his signal, mine, too. I focus on swirling the liquid in my glass to assess the quality—it’s something I learned online before I got dressed for tonight—and Cage smiles slightly at me.

Nailed that lesson, thank you.

I sip the wine and swirl it in my mouth, then give Cage a brief nod. He allows the waiter to fill our glasses, and then the server takes our order from Cage and disappears again.

“I passed,” I say.

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