Page 11 of The Kiss that Captured a Billionaire
He was already in over his head.
The table filled slowly—course by course—until it became a miniature feast laid out between them. Theo watched, equal parts fascinated and amused, as the woman with sapphire eyes devoured everything in front of her with unapologetic hunger.
She didn’t bother with daintiness. She ate—moaning with pleasure as she sampled the olives, the chicken skewers, the crusty bread dipped in warm herbed oil.
When the truffle flatbread arrived, she murmured something reverent that made his body react as if he’d been sucker-punched in the gut.
He leaned back in the booth, sipping a deep red Syrah, watching her with growing intrigue.
She hadn’t given him her last name. He wasn’t even sure she had given him her first. He wouldn’t put it past her to have made it up.
She hadn’t given him much of anything, actually.
Every time he turned a question on her, she redirected it. Cleverly. Effortlessly. With that crooked smile that curled like ribbon around his spine.
“So,” he tried again, leaning an elbow on the edge of the booth, “what’s a woman like you doing alone in a club like this?”
She paused mid-bite of chicken and stared at him. “I wasn’t alone. I came with a group. Granted, they aren’t my favorite group. One of them thought a first hello came with butt privileges, and we separated from there.”
“If he is still here, I will be happy to have Rhys escort him out,” he vowed.
She laughed and shook her head. “Poor Rhys. What did he ever do to you?”
A laugh burst from his chest before he could stop it. “I’m pretty sure Rhys’s butt would be safe.”
She smiled and shrugged. “Honestly… the person I was supposed to meet was called into work and forgot to tell me until it was too late. I was biding my time as the unofficial table guardian for the sacred drinks of Clarissa the Glitter Queen and Rod the Human Sponge until I could make a strategic escape without damaging my real friend’s relationship with said duo.”
He nodded, intrigued. “You’re loyal.”
“No, I’m an idiot for agreeing in the first place,” she deadpanned. “There’s a difference.”
He laughed again—and didn’t miss the way her eyes sparkled when she made him do it.
By the time the tiramisu arrived—delicate layers of espresso-soaked sponge and mascarpone—he realized something unsettling.
She’d flipped the entire script on him.
He had been answering the questions.
Not generic small talk. Not safe, curated soundbites.
Real things.
Stories from his family home on Syros. His grandfather’s old boat. The time he and Alexandros hotwired a Vespa to get to the local market and ended up being chased by wild goats. His first job in military intelligence. His decision to create the firm.
He’d told her things he had shared with fewer than a handful of people—none of them women.
He was in the middle of recounting how he broke his arm as a teen trying to impress a girl who would later become his first lover, when it hit him.
Hard.
He sat back, his gaze narrowing.
She was good.
Too good.
A flicker of suspicion crept in. Was she a journalist? Paparazzi? Some kind of plant?
