Page 139 of Just One Look
Burning Cold
They were standing,saying goodbye to Nils and Candy. Luka kissed Candy’s cheek, she put her hands on his arms and smiled at him, and Elizabeth thought,You can’t have him. He’s mine,with a ferocity that shocked her. Nils kissed her own cheek with much less wow factor, and Nils and Candy headed out. But when she turned to follow them, she felt a hand around her wrist, tugging her back.
She backed up a step, looked over her shoulder, and asked, “What?”
“Let’s stay,” Luka said, without letting go.
“What? Why?” She turned, and still, he didn’t let go.
He said, “You’ve done the professional bit. The good-girl bit. You can drop it now. Sit down and have a drink.”
“Oh. All right.” Something was odd. The light in his eyes, maybe, or just the heat in them. She’d had a hard day, and then there’d been this almost-interview dinner, and now the script was being flipped once again. Wasn’t it? Maybe that was why her single glass of Chardonnay was swirling in her head like she could still taste all its creamy, lemony fruit, and her knees had gotten that shaky thing again. She slid back onto the banquette, and the skirt of her dress rode up, offering a flash of lace before she tugged it down.
He’d noticed, she could tell. He didn’t say anything, though, just sat down across from her and ordered a Scotch.
However sheer they were, he had to have noticed she was wearing stockings when she’d come out of the bedroom to find him waiting. He’d told her she was beautiful and kissed her cheek. He’d mentioned the dress, and he’d mentioned the perfume, but he hadn’t mentioned the stockings.
Maybe he didn’t like them. Not all men did, she’d heard.
Surelymostmen did, though. A man like Luka, who seemed to run on testosterone and adrenaline? Surely he did.
Now, he sat across from her in a Saturday-night-busy restaurant, the murmur of voices and clink of silverware around them, a waiter pouring wine for the neighboring table. And Luka’s hand on the white tablecloth while he didn’t say anything, and all he gave her was the sight of him. The tough face with its white scar down the cheekbone, more visible than ever since he’d shaved tonight. Looking good, taking care for her professional dinner, and maybe even, her insistent mind kept trying to suggest, for her. The thick, wavy dark hair with its touches of white at the temples that he would never, ever be coloring, because he had no need to announce his toughness and his virility. They were right there to see. The gold watch on his wrist with its chunky metal band, and his oversized hand.
It was as if he’d been made for this job. The breadth of his shoulders, the size of his arms. The rock-bottom grunt of a man who would never take the easy road. And that hand. The backs of his fingers were marked with more white scars, his palms were broad, and his knuckles were thick from years of workouts and collisions. She looked at his hand, and she wanted to trace those scars, to kiss those knuckles. Because he’d been made for the job, but the job had asked so much. And because there was more to him than the job. There was the man who’d held her today. Who’d gone to see her father with her, and had let her do the talking. Except at the end, when he’d defended her, like a man who knew. A man whounderstood.
The waiter delivered their drinks, and Luka twirled his Scotch on the table with that strong, clever hand and said, “You’ve only worn jewelry once when we’ve been out. The knot earrings, that first dinner. Do you not like it?”
“Oh,” she said. “No, I like it, at least some of it. I just don’t remember to wear it. Obviously, you can’t wear bracelets or rings in surgery, and as we know …”
“Surgery is your life,” he said. “Yeh. Got that.”
“Yes,” she said. “I’m sure you do by now. I seem to have talked about it enough times. What did you think of my little speech at the end there, though? Reassuring, probably. No chance I’ll become a stalker, no matter how good you are.” There. She’d mentioned it. It was out there.
He said, “Mm. Fortunate.” And didn’t smile.
She picked up her lemon drop martini, took a sip, and said, “That’s so good. I never do things like this. And, hey, I have three more days off. Imagine that. All I’m going to think about for the next three days is what I want to explore. Do you have time to explore a little with me?”
“I do,” he said, still not drinking his Scotch. “We could drive out to Piha and walk the remote places, maybe. Find a sea cave and go inside to listen to the surf. Take the ferry to Devonport and scramble over the rocks on the way up the beach to Takapuna, then have lunch at the café. We’ll find some ways to thrill you and relax you, no worries.” There was darkness in his eyes, though, and he still didn’t smile.
Something was different. Something was odd. And there it was. Her pulse, kicking right up. “Perfect,” she said, when she had to say something. “That sounds … great.” She hauled in another breath and took another sip of her drink, her lips closing over the crusted sugar on the rim of the martini glass. She’d refreshed her lipstick toward the end of dinner, and she was leaving raspberry-red lip prints on the glass like the kind of woman she’d never been.
He didn’t say anything, just waited, and eventually, she said, “You were right that three dresses were better. I don’t usually have nearly as many occasions to dress up. My job, and then my boyfriend—”
His hand closed over hers. It was so sudden, she nearly jumped. “Don’t,” he said. “Not tonight. Let’s not talk about your family, or my family, or rugby, or surgery, or anybody’s exes. Tonight, let’s let it just be us. You can tell me what you like, and what you love. What feels good, when you’re out there living your life, and what makes you glad you’re alive.” His fingers were moving over hers, tracing their length, before he shoved them slowly through hers. Holding her hand there, against that white tablecloth. “You don’t wear rings,” he said, “but you have beautiful hands. You care for your hands. What else do you care for?”
“When I spend money,” she somehow decided to say, “it’s on skincare and lingerie. That’s one thing that feels good, but you’ve probably already figured that out. Lingerie doesn’t take much time to buy, it’s my indulgence, and it’s my secret. It’s all the things.”
“Do you wear it at work?” The question wasn’t all that casual, and she was getting a Plus-10 intensity factor from him, too. Like he wanted to imagine it, maybe.
“Not the good stuff, I don’t,” she said. “Sorry, but surgeons dress in a locker room. It wouldn’t be a secret long. I often don’t wear it much at all, in fact. I just … have it. In … case. I open the drawer and re-fold it. I put fancy soap in there to scent it, so it’s something purely beautiful. I try it on, because when I try it on …”
“You get to be that woman,” he said. “The kind who wears beautiful lingerie, whoisbeautiful, and knows it. The kind who wears scent and leaves lipstick on the rim of her glass, and forgets herself and licks the sugar off just because it tastes so good.”
“Yes.” She took another sip, and he let go of her hand and watched her. All her erogenous zones were tingling, even though they shouldn’t be. Even though she should be satisfied. They’d just made love this morning. And the other night, too, when they’d started in the shower, then made it to the bed, at least she had, because it had been what he’d said. He’d stood up, and she hadn’t, and he’d used her body with an urgency that had made her shake. Like he needed her.
He did this all the time, though. He was good at sex, that was all.
He said, as if he knew, “That woman’s not a fantasy. She’s real. She’s you.”
