B00KQBTC3O EBOK by Julia Kent

Author:Julia Kent
Language: rus
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 9

Our eyes lock. “Where are we going?” It’s a relief to make simple small talk.

He names a restaurant I’ve always wanted to try, but needed to date a billionaire to afford.

Oh.

“Sounds good,” I say, nodding. Leaning back against the buttery leather, I try to take in my surroundings without looking like a major gawker. The leather seats hug my body better than any knockoff Tempur-Pedic memory foam like Mom and Dad have on their bed back home. A small fridge and a few decanters of what I assume are spirits dot the edges of the enclosed space. The limo looks like it could seat six comfortably, eight in a pinch.

With just two of us in here, there’s plenty of room to stretch out.

Go horizontal.

Or straddle.

I close my eyes, willing the sensual images that flood my brain to stop. Declan’s steady breath doesn’t help, cutting through me like he’s syncing it with the pictures in my mind. The scent of him fills the air between us and I feel charmed.

And doomed.

Declan chooses to say nothing, just watching me as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. His eyes take me in and I wonder how I appear to him. Loose, long hair. Makeup mostly where it’s supposed to go. A curvy body in a dress meant to ooze sophistication. A tailored, feminine blazer that says I might be sexy underneath, but I’m all business on the outside.

My inner world is crumbling, brick by brick, and Declan’s holding the sledgehammer that demolishes me. Women like me don’t ride in cars like this. We don’t get invited out for a dinner—business or pleasure—by men like Declan. And we certainly don’t entertain wild ideas about happily ever after with men who will go so high in the business world that women like me are just, well…coordinators.

Whatever delusions I hold inside about his attraction for me are there only because he’s looking at me like he really means it. As if I am as beautiful and desirable as his look says.

He’s very good at pretending that I’m worth the attention.

His phone rings, making me jump. His breathing stays the same, and his sleek, fluid movement impresses me. Nothing seems to rattle him. With dulcet tones, he talks to someone named Grace, the cadence of their conversation quickly familiar to me. Scheduling helicopters and private jets may be out of my realm, but I know a logistics talk when I hear one. Grace is probably his executive assistant. Something about New Zealand, a reception, and then a return flight to the West Coast pops up through their twenty-minute conversation.

I spend the time willing my heart to stay in my chest.

If I weren’t such a cheap date I’d knock back a shot of whatever is in the crystal decanter at my elbow, an amber liquid that looks good. But two drinks and I’m quite tipsy. Three and I’m drunk.

Four and I’m singing “Bad Romance” at full blast in a really cheesy karaoke performance. Whether there’s a karaoke machine or not.

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