“So,” he began once they’d ordered, “to answer your question, I came here to go into business with my cousin Jamie.”
“I knew about that. Well, everyone at The Bastille knows who Jamie is, and that you’re here to open the motorcycle shop—which is how I showed up there—but I wasn’t sure if there was another reason for you to come to the U.S.”
“There might have been other incentives. But Jamie and I, we’ve always been close, even though he’s been in the States since he was a kid. If I remember correctly, his family moved here soon after he lost his brother—his twin, Ian—in an accident when he was seven or eight. My dad and Jamie’s mum are brother and sister—Americans who came to live in Scotland as teenagers, when our grandfather remarried a woman from Edinburgh, so my cousin and I both have dual citizenship. We were kids together in Scotland, although he’s a bit younger. There was a time when we lost touch for a while, but we’ve always shared a love for speed, for a good engine, and that brought us back together. I’ve visited here a number of times. I’ve always liked it here. Loved it, really. There’s a magic to this city, but I guess you know that. There’s a magic to Scotland, too, with its castles and myths and legends. But I got damn tired of the cold winters in Edinburgh. And some places hold ghosts.” He caught himself before he could finish the sentence. That wasn’t a place he wanted to go with Layla. Or at all, truth be told.
“So,” he went on, “Jamie opened SGR Motors a few years ago, and he’s done well. Rebuilds muscle cars, and does a gorgeous job of it. He’s in love with your Mustang, by the way. Anyway, he asked me to join him here to open up a joint venture. I arrived a couple of months ago and we’ve been focusing on getting the new shop put together, which is a huge pain in the ass, but now I’ll be doing what I did in Edinburgh—rebuilding vintage bikes, especially Harleys, only I’ll be working for myself. I’ve spent pretty much every penny I had on opening the business, but I’m fucking thrilled about it. I think we’ll make a good go of it.”
“It’s a wonderful thing to live your passion. Not many of us get to do that.”
“Spoken like a woman who well knows the truth of those words.” He leaned forward. “Tell me about your passion, Layla.”
He swore he saw a faint blush under the flawless mocha skin, but she blinked it away quickly enough.
“I’m a working artist—a sculptor. One of the many reasons why I’m such a disappointment to my family, even though I make a decent living at it. But they don’t understand what a challenge it is to do any sort of art full-time. The last couple of years have been pretty good to me, and I’m grateful. I’m showing in a few galleries—here, in San Francisco, in Dallas. I’ve even had some interest from New York. I know how lucky I am.”
“Aye, that you are. What medium do you work in?” Layla raised one dark brow at him. “What? Just because I’m a mechanic means I know nothing about art?”
“No. No, of course not. It just took me by surprise. Not that you know about art, but that you expressed any interest in it. Most men couldn’t care less about what I do, in my experience.”
He reached across the table and took her hand. “Then you’ve experienced the wrong men. I’m interested in everything about you. Every single detail. And I don’t mean to sound like a creep. It’s simply the truth.”
She watched him, her gaze taking him in, trying to sort him out, he thought. He was trying to sort out his interest in Layla Chouset, too. It had been a long time since he’d courted a girl—if that’s what this was. He’d done nothing more than play with girls at the clubs, take them home and fuck them. Nothing more since Bess, with good reason. And little else before her. She’d been his second try at a real relationship and he’d fucked it up good. Again. But why was he even thinking about all of that now? Why was he thinking of the past when this beautiful woman was right in front of him?
“Duff, come on. Don’t lay any lines on me. I’m not going to bed with you tonight.”
“I never said you were.” He stroked her palm with his thumb. “All right? This is you and me getting to know each other. Nothing more.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Somehow I don’t quite believe that. But . . . I’m okay with us getting to know each other.”
He let her hand go as their appetizer—a beautifully presented plate of chicken satay, the skewers laid out over a bed of jasmine rice and Thai basil—was delivered.
“I can live with that,” he said, smiling at her over the food. “As a start.”
She picked up a skewer of the fragrant chicken, dipped it in the peanut sauce and blew on it. “You think this is the start of something?”
There was challenge in her voice. He’d have been a bit disappointed if there wasn’t. But she’d also lowered those heavy lashes, peering up at him through that dark veil. She was definitely flirting, and he liked it.
“Don’t you?”
She bit into the chicken, and even the way her lush lips closed around the small bite made his dick hard, as he imagined those lips wrapped around it. He had to shift in his chair.
She chewed thoughtfully. “I don’t know, Duff.” She gestured at him with the skewer. “I’m not sure I can trust you to behave.”
“That all depends on what you consider ‘behaving,’ my lovely.”
“Not talking to me or treating me like one of your little subbie girls, to begin with. Not trying to talk me or seduce me into submitting to you, because that’s just not who I am.”
There was strength in her voice. Determination. And a small smile on her pretty lips.
“Even though you’ve had some experience from the bottom end before, I gather from your earlier remark?” he countered.
Her lashes fluttered as she glanced away, then back to him. “A little. And yes, even so.”
He tasted the satay, which was quite good. Taking another bite, he licked a little peanut sauce from one fingertip, found her gaze riveted to his mouth.