Their conversation was so easy that Rachel even talked a little about her interest in metaphysics, astrology, Buddhism, and a host of other things she typically reserved for several months out when meeting someone new. But Flynn took it all in stride, and while he did not subscribe to the same theories, he was open about them, asking honest questions and listening to her with interest. When the subject rolled around to astrology, and Flynn said he was born under the Pisces sign with Cancer rising, Rachel thought she’d died and gone to heaven. There could not be a better match for her than that, and she should know—she’d studied her birth chart enough times to know.
That evening felt nothing short of magical, either the conjured type or pure coincidence. Rachel could count on one hand the number of times she’d made such a connection with another person, so quickly, and so strongly. Not once did she feel self-conscious, or inelegant. Not once did she have that feeling that he thought she was a wacky broad tilting at windmills.
And Flynn—wow. She had a growing and abiding sense of respect for Flynn. He was witty, and unerringly cheerful. He was respectful and thoughtful and considerate and very smart, and really just delicious to look at.
He asked her how she had landed on ancient British history in her schooling, and she confessed a fascination with kings and queens and knights and romance. “The medieval period was such a brutal time, yet such a romantic time, too.”
“As to romance,” Flynn said, “how are you on that?”
She laughed. “I’m definitely okay with it.”
He smiled, propped his elbows on the table and leaned forward, his gaze intent. “Do you prefer the subtle approach? Such as candlelight dinners, and flowers, and vintage wine?”
“Ooh . . . that sounds excellent,” she murmured. “What other romance is there?”
“Well, there is the purely Neanderthal approach, of course—a bit rougher in the wooing, but in terms of instant gratification, it can’t be beat.”
She laughed a little, leaned forward to match his intent gaze, and said, “With a good bottle of wine, I could be persuaded.”
Flynn’s brows lifted in surprise. “Don’t be too hasty, love. You haven’t considered the metrosexual romance.”
“Pardon?” she asked, wrinkling her nose with a laugh.
“This romance encompasses the finer points of both your subtle and Neanderthal romances. For example, a suave, debonair bloke much like myself may begin his romance with dinner and wine. But in the course of it, he begins to notice things,” he said, his gaze falling to her mouth. “Like how her lips look as if they were carved from coral, or how her eyes are the exact color of the Pacific Ocean. Or perhaps,” he said, reaching across the table to take her hand, “he can’t help notice the curve of her waist into her hip, and that curve makes him think of the little hollow just above her bum that he longs to kiss, or how she might arch her back when she enjoys lovemaking.”
Everything stirred in Rachel. “Wow,” she murmured.
He laced his fingers with hers. “And perhaps, by the time the dessert is served, this bloke says no thank you to the flan, for he’s thinking of something infinitely more delectable.” His gaze casually drifted to her chest. “So he asks the object of his desire if she might enjoy a nightcap,” he said as he caressed her hand with his thumb, “but he’s not thinking of brandy, exactly.”
Oh Christ, her knees were weak and her belly was fluttering. Fluttering.
“How would you find that sort of romance?” he asked, looking at her from the cloak of thick lashes.
“Perfect,” she managed to whisper.
Flynn’s gaze darkened; he let go of her fingers, leaned forward, his hand sliding up her arm to her elbow. “Rachel . . . would you like a nightcap?”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, Flynn, I would love a nightcap.” And with Flynn’s smile, she felt herself light up like a Christmas tree inside.
Flynn grinned, signaled the waiter, and quickly paid the check as Rachel finished her wine, feeling it sluice through her, warming her.
Flynn drove them to the Corporate Suites. As they strode past the reception desk, Flynn saluted the guy behind the counter. He punched the up button on the elevator, and fairly pushed her inside the small compartment.
The moment the doors closed, he turned to her, put his hands on her shoulders, and gently pushed her up against the wall. “I have a confession to make,” he said, his breath warm on her lips. “I lied.” He kissed her. “Horribly,” he added as Rachel caught her breath and kissed her again. “And not very imaginatively. I’ve got an interior boom box, a lousy jazz CD that a friend loaned me, and a bottle of cheap Scotch that might begin to taste like brandy after a tot or two.”
“Why, you silver-tongued devil,” Rachel said, lifting her face, brushing her lips against his.
The elevator doors opened. Flynn grabbed her hand and pulled her behind him, off the elevator and down the hall to his door. He put his key in the lock, pushed the door open, and stood aside, letting Rachel through first. When the door shut and locked behind him, he caught her hand, pulled her into his arms, and said, “I don’t know how you do it, but I find you utterly irresistible.”