Page 11 of Heated
Cyrus’s gaze remains pinned on Richard for another taut, silent second; then it shifts to me. And for an insane moment, I have to bite the inside of my cheek to prevent myself from begging him to turn that piercing bright stare back to Dick.
“Everything okay?”
I nod. “Yes.” With a quick glance at my dinner companion, I add, “Now that dinner is just about over.”
“The hell it is,” Dick argues, and damn. When I call my client with an update on the evening, it’s going to really cost me not to be able to congratulate her on being rid of this guy. She dodged an asshole-shaped bullet. “We’re not fin—”
“Yes, you are.”
Again with that flat tone. And this time, Richard pauses, his thin lips snapping shut and his spine hitting the back of his chair. Maybehe’s finally shut up long enough to notice what I did the moment Cyrus spoke in that voice with the faint thread of menace weaving through it. Maybe Richard finally noticed the stark power and animal magnetism that Cyrus’s obviously expensive black slim-fitting suit couldn’t hide. No, if anything, its impeccable ... civility emphasized the perfectly contained male beast underneath.
It’s an intimidating sight.
It’s breathtaking.
And my fingers itch with the need to grab my Canon 90D and snap picture after picture of him, just trying to capture that almost visceral quality of his on film.
I jerk my way-too-fascinated and probably too-revealing gaze away from him. A snort stops just short of escaping. I can stop looking at him, but there’s not a damn thing I can do about the rave happening between my legs—lust thumping and throbbing so loud, so hot, it’s become its own soundtrack.
“Your dinner’s finished,” Cyrus says, that hooded unblinking stare fixed on Richard in a way that hasmyheart pounding. “Don’t bother asking for the check. I have it covered.”
“I can pay for my own meal,” Dick sputters ... even as he throws his cloth napkin to the table and shoves his chair back.
Smart man.
Or one with a strong sense of self-preservation.
After shooting to his feet, Richard fires one last glare in my direction, then stalks off, not stopping until he pushes through the restaurant doors. Only after he disappears through the double door does the tension leave my shoulders, and the tight, thorny knot in my belly slowly loosens, unfurling until I can breathe without drawing tiny painful pricks.
“Is this a habit for you?” Cyrus murmurs, and as he settles his tall wide-shouldered body into the seat Richard just vacated, a new tension infiltrates me.
One that has nothing to do with conflict and panic and everything to do with the intensity of those flame-blue eyes, that rudely carnal mouth, the power of his six-foot-plus frame ... and the oily guilt swirling inside me like week-old brown liquor.
If I possessed any doubts before now that he recognized me as the woman who delivered that Dear John letter on behalf of his girlfriend, then his question has torpedoed them. But nothing in his eyes or his voice betrays how he feels about my actions—about me.
And doesn’t that just have the tension drawing tighter?
If I didn’t already know he was an attorney, his ability to have me fighting not to fidget in the face of his inscrutability would be a flashing neon clue.
“Is what a habit for me?” I pick up my wineglass, buying time to ... to ... hell, I don’t know. Prevaricate? Apologize? Thank him?D, all of the above? “Disastrous dinners or getting told off by men over excellent steaks? The latter, no, not a habit of mine. The former? Well, that unfortunately happens more than I’d care to admit.”
“I think we both know that’s not what I’m referring to.” He cocks his head. “But now I’m all kinds of intrigued by the former. We can discuss that first, if you’d prefer.”
If I prefer? Uh, yes, let’s talk about Craig, my very first breakup over dinner, who wouldn’t stop weeping into his glazed salmon. I ended up having to go into his phone and call his mom to come pick him up. Explaining who I was had been fun. Or we could discuss the time Miriam crashed a local matchmaking event at a sushi bar to hand out our cards along with the dragon rolls. Rushing down there to talk the organizers out of having my sister arrested was a blast.
A pity I can’t disclose any of those occasions without betraying our clients’ confidentiality.
Yep. A real pity.
“No, I’m good.” Smiling, I pick up my wineglass again and down another gulp. His dark eyebrow arches, and the question in it is fair.I, too, am wondering if I’m about to become an alcoholic. At least for tonight. Sighing, I set the glass back down next to my plate with my half-eaten entrée. “Just so you know, I intend to pay for tonight’s dinner, so his whole outrage over you covering the check was fake.”
“I would ask what kind of fuckers you’ve been dating, but he wasn’t your date.” Any trace of amusement evaporates from his demeanor, and though his expression never changes, there is a palpable shift in him. In the atmosphere over our table. As if he’s capable of charging the particles in the air with just the force of his personality, his presence. “Which leads me to ask the same question he posed. Is this fun for you? Do you get a thrill out of delivering painful news just to get off on people’s reactions? Or are you the doormat friend who can’t say no, so friends use you to do their dirty work?”
“Neither,” I breathe.
Pain flares inside me, a flash fire that sears my chest. I don’t know why I’m surprised—or hurt—that he assumes the worst of me. He’s not the first—damn sure won’t be the last. And his opinion of me, of my company, shouldn’t matter—he doesn’t know me. Doesn’t understand why I do what I do. Hasn’t lived my life or traversed the loud, embattled footsteps of my childhood that have brought me here. So I don’t give a fuck if he judges me.
Only I do.
