That drove home how foolish she had been to come. She was jeopardizing her career—and her brother’s farm—to see a man whose interest she probably wouldn’t hold even through this one evening.
She scanned his face with the distinctive eyes, the sculpted jawline, the thick golden hair—all both famous and familiar from a multitude of photos, advertisements, and television interviews. His head was framed by a window with the kind of view that meant this suite bore a price tag that was stratospheric.
She didn’t belong here with this man. She could only disappoint him. “I’m sure your driver is completely trustworthy, but I probably shouldn’t have come.”
He let his arm drop. “At least have dinner,” he said. “I was going to take you to Bouley, so that’s what we’ve got here.”
He gestured toward a round table set in front of one of the windows, the reflection of candles and yellow roses glowing against the dark blue of the night beyond the glass. A metal warming hutch stood beside it, along with a silver ice bucket containing a bottle of champagne.
He—or his assistant—had gone to some trouble for this dinner. She was flattered and oddly touched. If this was about sex, at least he was romancing her first.
“I just got nervous.” She gave him a genuine smile. “It’s hard to get used to the reality of a date with you.”
All emotion disappeared from his face. “I thought we’d gotten past that.”
“Yesterday we had. Today the shock hit me all over again.” She brushed her fingers lightly against the back of his hand. “Oh, my God, I’m touching Luke Archer.”
The corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Maybe you should keep doing it until the novelty wears off.”
She reached up to comb her fingers through his gleaming hair because he’d given her permission. “So many textures to explore.”
He turned his head to kiss her hand. “I’m starting to think you don’t want dinner.”
She caught her breath as his eyes went hot. “I’m starting to think you’re hungry.”
He gave her a slow smile, his dimple emerging gradually. “There are all different kinds of hunger.”
The dimple and the velvet of his drawl sent desire curling through her. Before she could reply, he walked to the table and pulled out a brocade-covered chair. “Let’s satisfy one at a time.”
She walked toward him, feeling his appreciative gaze as a physical touch, skimming down her legs to her ankles, then back up over the swell of her hips to her achingly taut breasts and finally her lips. “How do you do that?” she asked as she stepped between the chair and the table to sit.
“Do what?”
“Make me feel like you’re touching me just by looking.”
“Focus of desire.” He pushed in the chair with a smooth motion that made her conscious of his strength. His fingers brushed against her skin as he moved her hair aside with one hand before he bent to press a kiss on the side of her neck. His lips were firm and warm, and she shivered at the contact.
“Focus of desire,” she repeated, trying to shake off the haze of arousal he was creating. “It sounds like one of those slogans athletes use to psych themselves up.”
He gathered the hair away from the other side of her neck, and she tilted her head in anticipation of his next touch. This time the kiss was lingering. She heard him inhale as though he wanted to enjoy her scent as well as her taste. She felt a slight rough flick of his tongue and shuddered at the streak of sensation flashing down to liquefy low inside her.
He moved his head far enough away to say, “It’s just how I do things.” His breath tickled her ear.
“It’s effective.”
She could tell he had straightened and stepped away because the air around her lost its charge. She swiveled to see him pick up the champagne and twist the metal basket off the cork before easing it out of the bottle. He leaned over to fill her flute. “Some people can’t handle it.”
Miranda wondered if she was one of them.
He seemed to read her thoughts. “You can.”
As he sat down, she thought she caught a wince of pain. “Is the bruising still bad?”
An odd expression of relief crossed his face. “Right. You know about it. My trainer Stan says the workout we did today should help, but I’m not feeling an improvement yet.”
Miranda thought about their activities the night before and wondered if they had contributed to his discomfort. “Maybe tonight”—she made a vague gesture with her hand—“is not such a good idea for you.”
“Sugar, last night practically cured me.” He picked up his champagne and raised it to her in a toast. “To us.”
“To us.” She touched her glass to his with a melodic ding. His toast described exactly what was going on here. The two of them together for one night. Nothing more.
His eyes never left hers as he took a drink of the fizzing liquid. Caught in the laser beam of that gaze, she barely tasted her own first sip.
He took another swallow, and she found her eyes drawn to the strong muscles moving in his throat. Every part of his body exuded power and control.
He reached over to lift the silver cover off the plate in front of her. “Organic Connecticut farm egg. Or you can have chilled Wellfleet oysters.” He waved to the oysters on his plate. “There’s also sea urchin-and-rabbit salad.” He uncovered two more dishes resting on the side of the table.