Catherine wondered about Law’s lifestyle. “Have you always lived at the hotel?” she asked.
He nodded. “My grandfather’s presence motivates staff and ensures the highest quality of service. Both my parents worked alongside Randall. Hotels and hospitality were in their blood. Penthouse suites provided security and direct access to their corporate world.”
“You’re very self-contained,” she noted. “You have room service, housekeeping, and maintenance at the press of your phone pad.”
“My life can be hectic,” he stated. “Living here simplifies things. This is what I’ve always known. There’s no reason to change.”
Catherine couldn’t imagine the permanence of his penthouse. His life might be simplified, but he’d never enjoy the little experiences that touched her life. Washing dishes, doing laundry, and vacuuming all took up precious time. There was, however, something soothing about ironing a blouse and cleaning windows. She gained a sense of accomplishment, even with the smallest tasks. Self-sufficiency provided an independence she valued above all else.
Law’s personal life was so different from her own. They connected best on business. She slipped her napkin onto her lap, then withdrew her glasses from the breast pocket on her blazer. The top file folder was in reach, and she flipped it open. Spreadsheets fanned across the table.
Law’s deep chuckle drew her gaze. “I bet myself that I could hold your attention through the main entrée before you turned to business. I lost.”
“What did you lose?” Cat asked.
“My self-esteem.”
She couldn’t help smiling. He knew as well as she did that his self-worth wasn’t the least bit deflated. She’d have dinner with him, but wouldn’t feed him ego munchies.
The wait captain poured their white wine. “Montrachet 1979, compliments of Chef Amaury.”
The server also took that moment to entice her with the appetizer, a work of art on a fine china plate, which looked too good to eat. “Gelée de langoustine, crème d’avocat et crevettes, or mashed avocado in a savory shellfish jelly with shrimp mousse and a marinated prawn.”
She savored every bite.
Catherine May was having a culinary orgasm. The sexy slits of her eyes followed by the flick of her tongue as she licked the last of the shellfish jelly from her fork left Law as stiff as a table leg. Wood was not welcome while dining. It distracted from the meal.
Cat caught him looking at her, and she quickly set her fork aside. “The appetizer was delicious.”
“The main entrée will make you moan.”
“What about dessert?”
“You’ll be reaching for a cigarette.”
“I have a pack of matches in my purse.”
The lady had a sense of humor, Law thought, as the server cleared their first course, then produced the entrée. Cat’s eyes went wide in appreciation of Amaury’s culinary skills. The French chef would have bowed and kissed her hand.
“Seared salmon, wild rice, and fresh vegetables.” Her relief was evident. “I like fish, but I was afraid it might come with a heavy sauce.”
“Amaury creates numerous salmon dishes; some are served with a raspberry brandy sauce and others with dill and butter. I prefer the lighter version.” Law cut the salmon with his fork. The fish was perfectly cooked.
Once again, he took inordinate satisfaction in watching Cat eat. Her manners were impeccable, her expression intense. Law could imagine her in bed, when food took second place to physical pleasure.
He liked a woman who could do justice to a meal; someone who knew she wouldn’t gain five pounds in the process. So many of his dates were on diets, some as thin as the asparagus on his plate. They’d pick at their meal, eating little.
He’d witnessed starvation in South Africa and hated when food went to waste. Cat was secure in her body. She had a great figure, which he attributed to a high metabolism. Zen claimed she was a workaholic.
“Tell me more about your family,” he initiated when the server removed the dishes of the main course.
She took a sip of her white wine and half sighed, half smiled at him. “I’d rather discuss Give the Dog a Bone.”
With the mention of dog and bone, Bouncer trotted into the dining room. He looked from Law to the server, and his tongue made a full swipe of his muzzle. The boy was hungry.
“Beef and kibble?” asked Law, and the boxer started to bounce. Law nodded to the server, and the man set a big bowl of Bouncer-chow at the corner of the antique buffet. The dog dug in.
“Et gâteau au citron avec le sucre glacis.” A few minutes later, the server brought their meal to a close with dessert. “Petite iced lemon cakes.”
Cat’s restraint in turning to the subject of the doggy spa instead of tasting dessert impressed Law. She’d gone all business even though an internationally famous confection beckoned. He teased her by sampling his own cake, taking slow, small bites and looking blissful. She looked ready to lick his lips.
Catherine gave him the rundown on Give the Dog a Bone for fifteen minutes, ending with, “The owners have wanted to retire for some time. The canine spa is marginally profitable now and income could increase under new ownership.”
Her gaze shifted from the spreadsheets to the lemon cakes and Law heard her swallow. “The spa has special events throughout the year,” she concluded. “The Bone Hunt at Easter is a big draw, as is Rudolph the Red Dog Reindeer. Dogs wear reindeer ears and a harness and hook up to Santa’s sleigh for holiday photos.”
Her overview completed, Cat took her first bite of cake. Law swore her eyes glazed with the sweetness. The hotel pastry chef had won more awards and trophies than the Richmond Rogues. Cat didn’t say another word until she’d finished her dessert.
“Noir de Noir?” The server offered them a French blend of espresso.
They both accepted. Between sips, Catherine laid out the financial reports on Satin Angels and A Likely Story. Law already knew his way around vinyl catsuits and lace-up bustiers, so Cat concentrated on the bookstore.
“Do you read?” The question slipped out, and she blushed.
“Books, not comics?” he baited. Her color deepened and he let her off the hook. “My library’s stocked with biographies and psychological thrillers.”
“Your personal library is no doubt larger than A Likely Story,” she returned. “The independent bookstore is housed on the first floor of a Victorian house. Small and quaint, it can’t compete with the major chains. It’s a pet project of mine to find the perfect owner.”