Unfortunately, he did.
But she remained bubbly, and he loved it. Every dish she tasted she said was divine, every sip of wine was heavenly. By the time the waiter had cleared their plates, Leah had talked herself nearly to death and proclaimed herself stuffed. And she had a delightful glow of having drunk a little wine.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked him pointedly as he gazed at her.
“You really want to know?”
Her eyes narrowed with suspicion, and she leaned forward as her fingers drummed lightly on the stem of her wine glass. “Yes,” she said. “I really want to know.”
Now it was Michael’s turn to lean forward. He took her hand from the wine glass and held it in his. “Remember the night we went to the opera?”
“Yes. I’ll never forget those box seats,” she said with a wink.
“Is that all you remember? Or do you maybe remember what happened at home afterward?” he asked, one corner of his mouth turning up at the thought of it.
Leah glanced around the tables near them before whispering, “How could I forget that? It was fabulous.”
“Well that’s what I was thinking about. Only this time, I think I’d tie you up,” he said, looking at the top of her blond head, “and lick you down,” he murmured, his gaze sliding languidly to the revealing décolletage of her gown.
“Michael,” she said. “We’re friends, remember?”
“We had a great sex life, didn’t we, baby?”
She sighed with a bit of exasperation, but then cheerfully acknowledged, “We did.”
“You’re squirming,” he noted, squeezing her hand affectionately.
“Hey, we all have our memories.”
“So what do you remember?”
She smiled wickedly. “I remember how you always liked me to put my tongue in a particular place—”
With a laugh, Michael broke her gaze and looked away a moment. When he glanced at her again, she raised a brow and smiled knowingly. “Now who is squirming?”
He grinned. “Leah . . . would you like to see my place?” he asked.
“No,” she said instantly. “Well . . .” Her gaze didn’t waver, but she was clearly debating it behind those blue orbs. And after several moments of what was obviously an internal debate, a lovely smile spread across her lips. “Yes. I would like to see your place.”
He could not have been more elated if he had just been handed a wad of cash and a Porsche. “Great. Let’s blow this place.”
“Wait, are you kidding?” she exclaimed. “Before the soufflé with Grand Marnier? I don’t think so, pal,” she said, and withdrew her hand from his, picked up her wine, and leaned back, watching him smugly, with clearly no intention of going anywhere until she had dined on every last morsel. That was his girl—never one to pass up good food or good wine or good sex.
“I’ll ask for a doggie bag,” he said, and although it was obvious Leah thought he was kidding, he was not. He couldn’t get the check or the Grand Marnier soufflé out of the head waiter fast enough, but by the time he had finally invested a full $600 in L’Orangerie, he had what he wanted. He helped Leah up then walked closely beside her out of the restaurant, very aware of the many male heads swiveling around to have a look.
Leah, however, seemed oblivious.
In the limousine, she took the gold box with the soufflé from him. “I’ll hold that,” she said briskly.
“You don’t trust me?”
She laughed. “Clearly you haven’t heard a word I’ve said in the last two weeks,” she said, tucking the box on the other side of her body. “I don’t trust you in the least.”
“Yeah, well, we’re going to change all that.”
“Don’t be so sure. And don’t get any grand ideas, Mikey. We’re just checking out your place. We’re friends,” she said again.
He smiled, settled back. Maybe she didn’t trust him, and maybe she thought they could pretend to be just friends, but there was one little detail she had forgotten—Michael knew how to make her come.
Chapter Seventeen
HE didn’t tell her that he lived in one of those ornate downtown loft complexes, where fabulously wealthy and famous people now lived. It was the sort of place built around what was supposed to look like an Italian piazza, and had better furniture in the lobby than most middle-class homes across America.
And Michael certainly didn’t tell her that he owned a loft on the top floor with its own private terrace, overlooking the L.A. skyline and the Hollywood Hills.