Page 43 of Dirty Little Secrets
My eyes darken. “I wouldn’t mention sex right now, Miss Jones. Otherwise, we might not evenmake itto dinner.”
“I’d heed your warning if I knew that wasn’t a complete lie.” She bats her taunting lashes at me. “With the lack of contract and all.” She takes a purposeful step forward and drags her sharp nail down the length of my silk tie, her balmy, sweet breath dizzying my senses as she whispers, “You look quite handsome this evening, Damon. Did you dress up just for me?”
My jaw clenches, and I push back the urge to bend her over right here and now. “We should get going, Miss Jones. Wouldn’t want to miss our reservation.” Inwardly grumbling, I hold out the bouquet. “These are for you.”
She frowns slightly at the persevered arrangement, six of the roses encased in 24-carat gold. “You got me flowers?” She traces the hard edges of the golden roses. “Is this a business dinner, Mr. Cavanaugh?” Her inquisitive gaze flicks upward. “Or a date?”
“Both.” I cast her a smug look, snaking my hand around her waist, and pulling her flush against me. She gasps before sinking into my touch. “First,” I dip my head, feathering soft kisses down the slope of her neck, “we will review the contract.” She tilts her head, silently beckoning me to keep going. “And then…” My hand slithers down her spine, palming her ass, as I rasp into her ear, “Then,the date can start.”
“Business first,” she breathes, flushed and eager.
“And pleasure second,” I add, pulling away and offering her my hand. “Shall we, Miss Jones?”
“Lead the way,” she whispers, tentatively allowing our fingers to interlock as if sealing her fate.
The scentof French cuisine permeates the air as we enter Chez Gustave. In the past, I was always a creature of habit. There were only a handful of restaurants that I’d frequent. But that was in the past. A past tainted by memories I’d rather not revisit. Or relive.
“Cavanaugh for two,” I state to the maître d', slightly offended he did not recognize me as soon as he saw my face. He searches the system for my reservation, and I sigh loudly, making sure he picks up on my displeasure. “Well?”
“One moment, sir,” he says, continuing to frown at the screen. “My apologies. Our system is glitching.”
“This is ridiculous,” I grumble. Emery giggles softly beside me. I snap my head at her. “What?”
“You’re not used to waiting often, are you?” she asks, the bells on the front door chiming as another party enters the foyer.
“I’ve neverhadto wait,” I grunt, glaring at the useless host. “Perhaps I should take my business elsewhere.”
Emery rolls her eyes. “Oh, relax, Damon. We’ve been in here for one minute.”
“One minute too long.”
“Harold!” A deep voice chirps from behind us, and my gut twists.
Are you fucking kidding me?
I tighten my hold on Emery’s hand as she twists her neck, surprised to see the man who ruined everything. Every goddamn thing.
“Oh…what a pleasant surprise. Good evening, little Emery. You look simply ravishing tonight. I almost didn’t recognize you.”
Swallowing the rising anger in the back of my throat, I turn toward Quinton.
He grins at me, arm slung over the shoulder of a dolled-up brunette. “What a coincidence, Cavanaugh. Two encounters in two nights.” He chuckles. “It’s like the universe can’t keep us apart.”
“Quinton.” I nod at him, keeping my expression neutral. Coincidence? Hardly. Nothing is ever a coincidence.
He sighs, dramatically rolling his eyes. “Always so formal, this one.” He glances at Emery, feigning a pout. “I’m starting to think he doesn’t like me.” Another sigh. “And we were oncesuchgood friends.”
A frown mars Emery’s brows. Friends? How absurd. We were never friends. We simply belonged to the same social circles, both personal and professional. But we were never anything other than acquaintances. Nothing more.Nothing.
“Your table is ready, Dr. Marquis,” the maître d' says, glancing over my shoulder as if I was invisible. He picks up two menus. “If you’d follow me.”
“And our table?” I ask through gritted teeth. “Also ready?”
The maître d' offers me an apologetic look. “It appears our system overbooked this evening. We’ll have to ask you two to wait. I’m sure it won't be long.”
My ego shrinks to the size of an atom. Overbooked? And yet Quinton Marquis can waltz right in? Javier’s warning of my waning significance wanders into my thoughts. I brought this on myself. Instead of rebuilding my brand, my name, my image, I hid. It’s my fault. It’s my fault that I’m standing here, waiting like a damn fool. I will never wait again.
“Hmm…” Quinton taps a finger against his lips, pompous in his theatrics. “I have a splendid idea. Why don’t you and little Emery join us for dinner?” He glances over at the host. “Could you arrange that, Harold?”
