Page 112 of Big Daddy Christmas
Whoever she was, she didn’t know him. And that was enough for now.
“Here at the club, they know me as Master O.”
Amusement sparkled in the pale blue of her eyes—he could see the color clearly now as she slid onto a stool on the other side of the bar—and her smile deepened. “And how did you earn such a laudatory nickname?”
He returned her smile, keeping it light. Playful, in a way he was rarely ever able to be. “Ah, I could tell you, but a hands-on demonstration is so much more fun.”
Her brows rose, and for a second he was hit with the unsettling feeling he knew her. But he prided himself on never forgetting a face, and he knew damn well hers was a face no man would ever forget.
“I came for a glass of wine.”
Amused to be playing bartender, he stepped back, scanning the glasses set up neatly beneath the bar and selected the appropriate one. “White or red?”
“Red. Dry.”
Turning, he looked over the wine selections, and felt her appraising him with the same critical eye he was giving the bottles in front of him. Her gaze was heavy, heated with curiosity.
Hopefully she liked what she saw.
When he turned back with a bottle of the petite sirah he favored, she did that little eyebrow raise again, and again he had that flash of recognition, though he still couldn’t quite pin it down.
Perhaps she’d come to the club with Lottie before. It was possible that he’d only seen her in passing, not giving her much attention since she was with the woman who’d once sold him her virginity—even if he hadn’t actually followed through with his purchase. How awkward would that have been, asking Lottie for introductions, knowing what they knew about each other?
“I don’t think I’ve had this variety before,” she said as he poured the ruby liquid into her glass.
“It’s not as dry as a Cabernet, but I think you’ll enjoy it.”
“In my experience, men always think they know what a woman will enjoy. They’re very often wrong.”
He set the bottle off to the side, corking it again with one of the reusable stoppers Tara kept behind the bar. And when he met his mystery woman’s gaze again, he let the corner of his mouth lift in a knowing smirk. “I am not other men. But go ahead, tell me if I’m wrong.”
Eyes locked on him, she lifted the glass to her lips, while he sipped at his whiskey and pretended not to watch the way the slender column of her throat worked as she swallowed. The need to feel her beneath him, her pulse against his palm, fear and excitement in her eyes as he slid into her wet heat was like a living thing inside him.
Down, boy.
In silence they both drank, their gazes locked, heat pulsing through his veins as he waited for her verdict.
“Not bad,” she said at last, and he couldn’t help but laugh.
“High praise, indeed.”
“It is, from me.” She took another drink, but this time she sighed a bit. “Okay, it’s lovely. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
“Only if it’s the truth.”
Her head cocked to the side, just a fraction, those pale eyes raking over him in a way that might have had a lesser man squirming. “Is that important to you? The truth?”
“It is. Especially here.”
“Why?”
“Because here is where I’m the most me. And I expect the same from my partners.”
He hadn’t actually meant to say that. Unease settled in his stomach, but he kept his expression neutral.
Never let them know what you’re thinking, son.
His father’s words, that had served him well in business though not as well in matters of the heart.
