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He seemed amused by the question. “Yes, normally. I’ve found it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. Plus, I already asked, and you said no.”
Oh, okay. So he’s daft. I nodded politely and tried to put a respectful look on my face. I don’t think I succeeded.
“Do you like Centaur?”
“I’ve never been. It’s a little out of my budget.”
“You’ll like it. You do eat meat?”
My dirty mind chuckled to itself, but I kept my tone mild. “Yes, I eat meat.”
His mouth turned up slightly, a smirk he tried unsuccessfully to keep in check. I looked away, trying to remain composed, but fighting a ridiculous urge to smile myself. Keep laughing, De Luca. I plan on putting a porterhouse on this bill.
The town car pulled through big gates and past freshly cut lawns up to a huge white Southern-style farmhouse with deep porches and thick columns. The entrance steps were flanked on either side by centaur statues. The well-manicured lawn, impressive structure and white-gloved valets screamed expensive. An attendant sprang to action when the car stopped, and pulled open my door. I accepted his outstretched hand, swung a leg out and stood up, squinting in the bright sun. My headache was drumming its fingers on my cerebral cortex.
I walked around the car and met De Luca at the base of the steps. He gestured for me to go ahead, and I stepped forward. As I climbed the stairs, he placed a gentle hand on the base of my back. A delicious shiver ran through me and my subconscious smacked it down as if it was a wandering fly.
The maître d’ instantly recognized De Luca and beamed. “Mr. De Luca! Come, come, I will put you at your favorite table!” He grabbed two leather-bound menus and led us through the restaurant. It was packed, and as we traversed through the tables, we were stopped several times by different men standing up to shake De Luca’s hand and say a sentence or two in greeting. When we finally arrived at the table—a large four-top in the back corner—I sank into the seat in relief. Before I had a chance to open my menu, a tuxedo-clad waiter appeared.
“Mr. De Luca, how are you?”
“Very good, Mimmo.”
“The usual?”
“Yes, please.”
Mimmo turned and disappeared. I glanced at De Luca over the menu.
“Is he going to ask me what I want to drink?”
“No. Is wine acceptable?”
My headache raised both its hands and waved them around. “I’d prefer just water.”
He nodded without responding. He ignored the menu and leaned forward on the table, crossing his arms and gazing at me. His biceps stretched the sleeves of his dress shirt and I raised the menu a bit higher, hiding behind it.
“How are you enjoying the internship?”
I lowered the menu slightly and spoke over it. “It’s been quite informative. I feel like I’m learning a lot and getting a great base that I’ll be able to build a strong legal education around.”
He reached over and gently pushed the menu down so that he could look at me. “Is that what you have prepared as your interview spiel?”
I colored slightly. “Maybe.”
“Come on. I’m not going to go running to Broward. How is it really going?”
I sighed, not knowing how honest to be. Hell, the man practically kidnapped you—you can probably be frank. His eyes were compassionate and gentle, and I didn’t see any blood dripping from his teeth.
“It sucks,” I admitted. “Broward works these ridiculous hours, and I am nothing more than a glorified secretary. My duties consist of typing and filing, with an occasional coffee run thrown in. Other than the prestige of the firm’s name, I am adding nothing to my résumé. The only thing I have figured out is that I don’t want to do corporate law. The other interns all seem to be learning and doing so much more—Todd has been to court with you, for heaven’s sake! I am just trying to get through these next couple of months and then spend the next three weeks sleeping.”
His brow arched and he gave me a conspiring look. “I’m sure you’ve been doing something other than sleeping in your time off.”
I didn’t respond. Where the hell is that coming from?
He leaned back as our waiter brought two empty glasses and then filled them from a chilled Voss water bottle. “I know that Kent can be a hard-ass, but keep your morale up. You will learn something, even if it’s how to bill ridiculously long hours. If you want to see how the other half lives, you can always spend a day in either my or Clarke’s office. We normally sub the interns around a bit—let them see the other disciplines.” The waiter held out a bottle of wine for his inspection, and De Luca looked at it and nodded.
“I don’t think I’ll be spending much time in the other wings. Mr. Broward seems pretty intent on keeping me in our office.”
His eyes narrowed. “In your office or out of mine?”
I shifted uncomfortably, my body language no doubt answering the question before my lips even opened. “More likely the second.”
He waved away the offer to taste the wine and the waiter took the hint, hurriedly pouring two glasses and then scurrying away.
“I recall you making a stripper comment earlier. I’m not sure what you have been told about me, but I’m not nearly as bad as they make me out to be.” His deliciously deep voice carried a little bit of ego.
I’m sure you are exactly as bad as they make you out to be.
“Okay then, let’s verify some of the rumors.”
The challenge stood on the table between us.
De Luca took a swig of wine, his eyes never leaving mine, and then set it down firmly and nodded at me. Bring it on.
I started to open my mouth to speak, and he raised a hand, stopping me. “Wait. Before I agree, let’s make a deal. For every...rumor...you bring up, I get to ask you one question.”
I nodded in response. Throwing caution to the wind, I grabbed the second glass of wine and took a sip. I had a feeling I’d need it.
Our duel was postponed again by the overattentive waiter. “Are we ready to order, Mr. De Luca?”
“Sure, Mimmo. I’ll have my usual. Julia?”
I had barely looked at the menu, but went with my initial thought. “Porterhouse, please. Medium rare.”
Mimmo raised a brow but did not comment on my choice. “Would you care for a salad?”
“No. Baked potato, please. Just butter.”
“Certainly.” He did a little bow and departed.
De Luca looked back at me.
Okay, let’s go. “Have you ever slept with an intern?”
“Yes.” The answer was said matter-of-factly, without shame or pride. As if he had answered another question entirely.
“Details?”
“I’ll save that for a second date.”
“We aren’t having a second...date.”
“We’ll see. My turn. Why did you choose CDB for your internship?”
“It’s the best. I have no desire to settle for second best.”
“Have you been with the best in the past?”
“I’ve never had a job before.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I shot him a look. He put up his hands in feigned innocence and grinned.
“Why do you think I’ve been told to avoid you?” I asked.
He shrugged and took a sip of the wine. “All good reasons, I’m sure.”
“That’s evasive.”
“I’m an attorney. It’s my job.”
“And you think you’re good at your job.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I know I’m good at my job. There’s a reason I have a ten-month wait.”
“I’ve heard other reasons that divorcing females might want to wait for your services.”
“Meaning?”
“Sex.”
“So you think I’m good at that job?” His eyes brimmed with mischievousness, and I suddenly had a very good idea of what he would have been like as a ten-year-old boy.
“You’re being evasive again.”
“Just trying to figure out what you think you know.”
“Do you sleep with your clients?”
“Just the female ones.”
His blatant and unashamed response floored me, and I stumbled over the next question. He had leaned forward, across the table, and was meeting my eyes dead-on. I felt locked into a stare-off.
“All of them?”
“I’m not a gigolo. I have sex for pleasure. If I am not sexually attracted to the woman, there is no purpose in having sex.”
“Don’t you think that’s bad for business?”
“On the contrary, it is extremely good for business.” He leaned back and put one hand to his temple, playing with his pinkie with his mouth. His gaze had started to smolder. “I am very good at pleasing women, Julia.”
I blushed and looked away, praying for our food to arrive. It did not, but there was a different interruption: a ringing cell phone.
Brad reached for his cell and touched the screen without breaking his gaze at me.
“De Luca...
“At lunch...
“Yes, you can patch her through.”
He looked at me apologetically, and looked around for our waiter. Mimmo materialized at his side with a pen and pad in hand. This seemed to be an old pattern they had. De Luca grabbed the pen, looked at his watch and scribbled “12:33 p.m.” on the notepad. He ripped off the top page and returned the notepad, but not the pen, to Mimmo.
Hysterical babble could be heard from the phone pressed to De Luca’s ear. To his credit, he listened intently to the hysterics without an eye roll or sign of impatience. At the first pause, he spoke. “Claudia, listen to me. You need to trust that we know what we are doing and we will handle it. I will have him covered by the private investigator. He won’t sneak anything by us on my watch, I promise you.”
More hysterical shouting, then something that sounded like pleading.
“Those assets are safe. We already have a court motion in place that has frozen those. Please relax, Claudia. Why don’t you let me send Alfonzo over? He can massage those worries right out of you.”
I tuned his conversation out when Mimmo brought our food. My steak was enormous and smelled incredible. I had my knife and fork ready and dived in the moment the plate hit the table. De Luca shot me a bemused look, which I ignored, chewing furiously. The steak had just enough fat to add flavor, and was tender and perfectly cooked. I liked my steaks bloody, and this fit the bill. I paused in my intake to sip some wine. The glass was full. I stopped and looked at it. Did I finish the first glass? Or did he refill this early? I shook my head and pushed it to the side, reaching for the water glass instead. I needed to keep my head clear, given the temptation sitting across from me. Plus, I had broken enough cardinal rules for the day. I didn’t want to add Drunk at Work to the tally.
I was eighty percent through my steak and had demolished the baked potato when De Luca finally ended the call. He glanced at his watch again and wrote “12:42 p.m.” on the piece of scrap paper. I glanced at it and rolled my eyes.
“You’re going to bill her for nine minutes?”
“It was nine minutes I could have spent talking to you. And yes, at eight hundred and fifty dollars an hour, I damn sure am going to bill for nine minutes.”
“Not ten?”
His mouth twitched. “Not ten. For the same reason.”
Well, it looks like the man has some shred of moral fiber. Shocker.
“I’ve got to get back to the office.” He mumbled the words through a hefty bite of steak.
“Do we have time to run an errand?”
“Depends on what it is. Rick in IT is not expecting you to return with a...cable port thingy? I think that’s how you referred to it.”
“I need to go by CVS.”
“For what?”
“If you must know, a pregnancy test.” I kept a straight face and he blinked, taken aback. He squinted at me, trying to figure out if I was serious. I kept my iron facade. For about four seconds. Then I burst out giggling. “God—you are easy! I need headache medicine. But you, of all people, with your stable of women, should know to never ask a woman what she needs at the drugstore.”
He grinned. Reaching for his phone, he unlocked it and then pressed a number into the phone. “Jeff. We will be ready for pickup in about five minutes. Check the car for some Advil or Tylenol. If there isn’t any, go grab some. We’ll see you in the valet area in a bit.” He hung up the phone and returned to his steak.
