Page 4 of Ravens
“Starved,” he says slowly as his eyes shift down and then flick back up when he takes another sip.
Stepping away, I open my suitcase and pull out my heels.
He sets the glass down and begins putting his own shoes back on. I adjust the simple black dress, which is an appropriate length and doesn’t reveal too much cleavage, although the thin straps leave my shoulders bare. I’m supposed to be his “wife,” not a hooker . . . although there is a very good chance that in a couple of hours, I’m going to be acting like he paid for me with the way my heart is starting to race.
In this case, it wouldn’t be a bad thing. Perk of the job, really.
The sound of tsking breaks into my thoughts, and my attention moves to him to find his eyes on the shawl in my hand. “Now, why would you do that?”
I drop it robotically, which he follows with a sound of approval as he slides his jacket back on. This one is particular. It’s common, and it tends to indicate a high success rate, so I don’t let the bossiness bother me.
In the bathroom, I twist and secure my hair up with pins, before trying to do my makeup passably without taking toolong. I spritz some perfume sparingly and give myself a nod in the mirror.
The room door glides open as I come back out, and he holds up a gold band, sliding it onto my ring finger before guiding me out of the room.
The in-house restaurant looks busy, but we don’t have to wait for a table and are seated near an antique-looking fireplace. The hostess hands him the wine list and disappears.
“The Yanks are upping their game, it seems.” He rubs the back of my hand lightly with his thumb as he reads the menu. “Last time I was here, the woman was barely passable.”
That’s so fucking shallow, but I can’t say so. Arrogance is expected too. You need quite a bit of confidence to survive in our world. Still, as a woman, stupid remarks like that make me want to point a gun at him.
Instead, I smile and sigh. “I was going to say the same of the Brits. You’re the first passable one I’ve ever worked with.”
A grin pulls at the corner of his mouth, but he doesn’t look up. When the server comes over, he orders himself a whiskey, and me a pinot grigio without consulting me. The drinks come quickly, and he takes it upon himself to order my meal as well, before raising his glass in a toast.
“To making friends.”
“Or enemies.” I lift my glass and tip it toward his. “I prefer gin.”
“Yes, well”—he moves the whiskey slowly under his nose— “I prefer the tasteof wine.”
I roll my lips together as I fight off the urge to blush, but I don’t entirely succeed. This guy is smooth, and I hate that it’s effective. God, in any other situation cockiness like this would make me walk out, but that isn’t an option, and somehow it doesn’t grind on me quite as hard coming from him.
His gaze remains on me as he tests the whiskey and then makes a short, satisfied hum.
This isn’t even a flirtation at this point. He’s telling me exactly how this is going to go, or at least how he hopes it goes. There is somewhere I want it to go too, which would be an easier pill to swallow if he wasn’t so sure of himself. The last thing the guy who always gets the girl needs is to get another girl.
Am I petty enough to deny myself the pleasure, though?
Placing the short glass on the table, he leans back in his chair. “Whatever you’re thinking about me is right, I’m sure, but I’m also equally certain that you’re wrong about at leastonething.”
My composure doesn’t crack as I raise the wine to my lips. I’m trying not to give him anything to read on me, but this isn’t his first rodeo, and he probably says these things on a regular basis.
I’m sure I’m right about everything I’m thinking about him, just like I’m sure that I’m basic enough to fall for this shit. I swear my life is becoming a merry-go-round of “if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.”
Pushing his chair back, he excuses himself, pressing a soft kiss to my cheek that I coyly lean into as he passes. “You smell lovely, by the way. I’ll just be a moment.”
Then he disappears.
Even though I want to look over my shoulder and watch him go, I don’t. We’re wading into a little power struggle that I’m planning to lose. He knows it. I know it. The one thing I should promise myself is to at least make sure he briefs me on our objective before I lose my mind entirely, although it seems unlikely.
“Fuck’s sake,” I mutter to myself and signal the server, discreetly ordering a gin and soda.
A few minutes later, he settles back into his seat as I sip my gin.
“Tell me something real about yourself, dove.”
Humming and knowing a test when I see one, I tap my finger on the glass. “You first, sweetheart.”
