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She ran a finger around the stem of her wineglass, which he found ridiculously sexy. “I should have made it a coffee. Dinner’s too much of a commitment for a first date.”
“I agree. I always go with the coffee.”
She looked up. “Oh, are you—” Then she stopped herself.
“Single?” He finished her question for her in the direction he hoped it had been headed. “Yeah. I am.”
He wanted to say something more. Ask her out?
And then the douche returned. Since Sam was hanging around the table, he said, “Allow me to tempt you with Chef’s special dessert tonight. He’s calling it Valentine Fantasy. It’s made with Valrhona chocolate and fresh cream and a hint of raspberry. He says it tastes like sex.” Because he couldn’t help himself—it was that iron filing thing again—he caught her eye when he said that and experienced a sudden, hot surge of lust.
She held his gaze and he instinctively knew she was feeling the sizzle, too. Her voice was low and sexy. “I’ve always thought that if sex had a flavor it would be chocolate.”
And in that second a vision of her, naked and wet while he teased her with chocolate, took him so strongly he stopped breathing.
He wasn’t supposed to crush on the customers, he reminded himself as he took their orders, the Fantasy for her, and an overpriced crème brûlée that they kept on the menu for dickheads like her date.
* * *
Oh, no, Sam thought when he next swung out of the kitchen, the guy at table 12 was pulling out his smartphone again. Seriously?
Dude, no.
Not the fake text thing, he begged silently. Don’t do this to that sweet, sexy woman. But sure enough, bad first-date guy made a pantomime of shock, then distress. Sam could see his lips moving, saying something like, “Emergency, gotta go.” He practically leaped from his seat, putting his hand up to his ear, thumb and baby finger extended in an I’ll call you gesture. And then he charged out of the restaurant like his ass was on fire.
Sam would have bet his life savings that bad first date had set up the fake emergency when he was in the john. Classy.
As much he was glad to see the back of the guy, Sam saw two problems with his fast exit. First, he’d left a gorgeous, hot chick sitting by herself in a busy restaurant on a Friday night before she’d got to dessert. Second, he’d ditched her with the bill.
Sam hoped he was as nice as the next guy, but he was running a business. He turned tail and grabbed a server’s assistant. “Get the bill prepared for table 12 right away. But don’t put the desserts on it.” He finished delivering meals to table 3 and then grabbed the bill, already slipped into one of the black folders with the stylized B logo on the front and immediately walked to table 12.
“Will he be back?” he asked the lone woman at the table.
“God, I hope not.” She acted as if her date running out on her hadn’t bothered her at all, but he swore he could detect a hint of hurt in the depths of her clear gray eyes.
“Still want your dessert?”
She shook her head. Then she glanced at where her date had been sitting and Sam saw the moment she registered that he’d stiffed her for dinner. With a small sigh, she said, “I’ll just take the bill.”
He dropped the folder on the table, then, because it was his restaurant and what the hell, said, “We keep a car and driver. Some of our regulars like the service. He’d be happy to drive you home.”
She smiled her gratitude and again he had that odd feeling, as though there was more between them than a few hot glances and a little chitchat while he’d waited her table. “Thanks. But I’m staying locally.”
“No problem. Take your time.” He wanted to touch her, maybe brush his fingers over her shoulder to let her know she was awesome and amazing and deserved better. In fact, he wanted a lot more. Toyed with the idea of asking if he could see her, then figured he’d come across as a bigger knob than the one who’d left five minutes ago.
He did the smart thing. He went back to the kitchen where the usual organized chaos prevailed.
When he returned, the woman at table 12 was gone. He picked up the folder and flipped it open, assuming there’d be cash inside.
There wasn’t.
Nor was there a credit card.
In the space where a credit card should have been was a hotel room keycard.
She didn’t seem like the dine-and-dash type. And, while she wouldn’t be the first female customer who ever propositioned him, he doubted the room card was anything but the slipup of a distressed woman who got dumped on her first date. More likely, she’d meant to put a credit card down and, well, who knew what she’d been thinking?
All he knew was, he needed to get paid, and she needed to get into her hotel room.
He gazed toward the front door but she’d already left. He stood for a moment, thinking, then ran into the back and told Barney, the most efficient waiter he had, to take over his few remaining tables.
Eloise, one of the sous chefs, was adding the spun-sugar flourish onto the forgotten Valentine Fantasy. She drizzled the heart-shaped chocolate with raspberry reduction. On impulse, Sam said, “Box that up, will you? She’s taking dessert to go.”
Seconds later, he headed for the door out onto the street.
“Hey, Sam, you coming back?” Chef yelled.
He turned. Thought of that sweet sexy woman currently heading back to her hotel without a keycard or a date. He had no idea what was going to happen. Maybe nothing. Probably nothing.
But he recalled the instant connection they’d felt. Said, “If I’m not back, close up, will you?”
“Sure thing.”
And he jogged out onto the street.
He knew from the keycard that table 12 was staying at a trendy boutique hotel in the next block and he headed in that direction. The evening was cold and he hadn’t bothered to grab a coat, so he walked swiftly, the wet streets and dripping trees telling him that it had only recently stopped raining.
He saw a woman he thought was table 12, seat two head into the hotel and took off running. He pushed through the glass doors, jogged through the lobby and caught up with her as she pushed the elevator button.
“Hi,” he said.
She glanced around. Took a second to place him and then said with surprise, “Hi.”
He produced the folder and opened it to show her the keycard. “You gave me your keycard instead of your credit card.”
A quick blush suffused her cheeks and her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry. I just—I wasn’t thinking. I’m so sorry. Oh, I already said that.” She opened her small clutch as the elevator doors opened. Then she looked at him, embarrassment still warming her cheeks. “I’ve got cash upstairs. I hate to take you more out of your way, but I don’t want to make the walk of shame back to the restaurant with my credit card. I was— No man’s ever dumped me in the middle of a date before.”
He liked her. There was honesty and humor in her gaze. “Sure,” he said. “No problem.” They stepped inside the elevator and the doors closed. They were the only two riding up. He could smell her light fragrance, feel the energy between them. He said, “Not that it’s any of my business, but that guy was a total dick.”
She snorted with sudden laughter. “I know! I had no idea he’d be so full of himself. But it’s February and—”
“Valentine’s Day is coming,” he finished for her. “I know.”
They rode up fourteen floors. She said, “I hope this hasn’t inconvenienced you too much.”
“Not really.” He could see she felt bad enough. “I got somebody else to cover my tables.”
The elevator stopped and the doors opened. She preceded him into the hall. He followed her to her room and then handed her the keycard.
“Thanks.”
Then he produced the small, square bakery box.
“What’s in there? Handcuffs so you can take me in?”
She gazed at him over the box and he felt again that strong, sizzling sense of connection. He wished she hadn’t put the idea of handcuffs into his head. Now he pictured her cuffed to the bed while he pleasured her to the edge of madness.
Her lips tilted in a smile so sensual it melted him. He was almost overwhelmed by the urge to kiss her.
He stepped closer. “I’ve brought you your Valentine Fantasy.”
CHAPTER TWO
Jessica Lafayette opened her door with the keycard the hot waiter handed her, his last words still echoing between them. Her Valentine Fantasy? Could this horrible night be about to turn around?
“Thanks,” she said, holding the door open so he could enter. “I’ll get your cash.” Which left her with the dilemma of wanting to give him a very generous tip for causing him so much trouble and not wanting to embarrass either of them.
“Don’t worry about it now,” he said. “Enjoy your dessert.” Which meant he was planning to stay for a while.
Perfect.
She realized she didn’t even know his name. Benedict wasn’t one of those Hi, my name is Darrell and I’ll be your server tonight kind of places. It was much too upscale for that. Which meant she didn’t know the name of the guy she was inviting into her hotel room.
Slut! a voice in her head screamed.
Hell, yeah! her inner rebel cried.
Because clearly, following the rules hadn’t worked for her sex life. She’d been following rules so long she’d forgotten the thrill of bending them, even snapping a few now and then. She’d been serious, smart and hardworking all her life. She was the type of friend who never blabbed secrets or forgot birthdays. Which meant that she had a good degree, a great career, was beloved of her friends. But, while she’d been working her ass off in her job as an event planner and listening to her friends bitch about guys, she’d dated men who were too much like her. They put most of their energies into their careers, their sports and their buddies.
She’d ended up with a completely shitty love life.
Which is why, when another dateless New Year’s Eve came around, and her BFF Morgan asked her about her New Year’s resolution, she hastily revised her answer from the planned “increase ab workout to three times a week and lose an inch around my hips” to a slightly tipsy “have some seriously hot sex with a gorgeous guy.”
“It’s going to take you all year to get a decent shag?” Morgan demanded so loud everyone in the vicinity turned. Put vodka inside Morgan and the effect was the same as putting a megaphone in front of her mouth.
“No,” she whispered back, hoping her friend would take the hint. “I’ll do it by—” her mind searched for an obvious have-great-sex-by date “—by Valentine’s Day.”
“Way to put it out to the universe! Hot sex by V. Day. You go!” Morgan bellowed.
And, being the follow-the-rules-type of girl, once the hangover had passed, she signed up on two internet dating sites plus tried to spend fewer nights at the office and get out more socially. In the five weeks since she’d begun, her tally of great sex was exactly zero.
Tonight’s date was pretty typical of her luck so far—a guy on the rise in banking. She’d realized within three minutes that the only way he’d get her naked was if he bored the pants off her.
The waiter, however, was a different story. Everything about him, from the dark brown of his eyes to the wave in his slightly too long hair, to the way he moved, with smooth confidence, got her girl parts humming.
There were moments, when he was describing the chef’s special creations for the evening, that his deep, sexy voice might have been saying, “The first fresh asparagus of the season is lightly steamed and drizzled in basil-infused olive oil,” but what she heard was, I want to take you up against that wall and rub basil-infused olive oil over your body and then lick it all off.
And right then she decided that her problem was that she kept dating workaholic bores. She should totally be dating waiters and ski instructors and golf pros, guys who worked to live rather than lived to work.
It was as if fate, the universe, her fairy godmother or some combination of the three, had offered her a guy who had so much sexual confidence that it was making her light-headed. And who obviously wasn’t too concerned about work, since he’d blown off the rest of his night’s work so easily.
Perfecter and perfecter.
“Would you like your Valentine Fantasy now?” he asked in that low, sexy voice that made her inner thighs quiver.
She didn’t even know his name.
Sex with a stranger. Was that her fantasy?
Maybe. She thought everything about this man and this night was a fantasy. And the thing with fantasies was, they only worked if you totally let yourself fall into them.
She nodded.
The door shut behind them with a click. He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel his heat, see that his eyelashes were thick and curled. He was tall, his shoulders broad, the black shirt and pants that she supposed were his uniform made him look like an outlaw.
He smelled like chocolate. She remembered that foolish remark she’d made about thinking if sex had a flavor it would be chocolate. She’d been half-joking at the time, but he really did smell like the best, darkest, richest, most decadent chocolate.
She opened her lips, moistened them with her tongue and watched him stare at her mouth as though mesmerized.
Then he flipped open the box and she realized it wasn’t him who smelled like chocolate. It was the dessert. The glorious over-the-top, heart-shaped, raspberry-drizzled, sparkly fantasy of a dessert.
“That is probably the prettiest dessert I’ve ever seen.”
“I’ll tell our pastry chef,” he said, sounding proud. She thought it was cool that a waiter took such pride in his place of work.
There was a tiny pause. She could grab a wad of cash and get rid of him, or she could work on that New Year’s resolution with a gorgeous stranger.
“Would you like to share it with me?” she asked.
“I’d like to share a lot of things with you,” he said, confirming her suspicion that he was as into her as she was into him. Excitement fluttered in her belly. She was so glad she’d packed a few condoms in her makeup bag just in case.
“Please, have a seat,” she said, realizing he’d been on his feet for hours. She indicated the sofa that sat in front of the window.
The suite contained a convenience kitchen and she opened the fridge and removed the bottle of champagne the client had given her today as a small thank-you at the end of the trade show and conference she’d organized. Seemed like the perfect time to open the bubbly.
She grabbed a couple of wineglasses from the glass-fronted cabinet above the sink and a couple of forks from the small cutlery drawer. She passed him the bottle. “Would you?”
“Absolutely.”
She scooted down beside him and he opened the bottle with the most professional of slight pops, no cork banging into the ceiling and champagne foaming on the carpet. He poured wine into two glasses and handed her one.
The wine was pale gold and bubbles chased each other in the depths. Raising his glass in a toast, he said, “To unexpected pleasures.”
His words were casual enough that he could be referring to the wine, but the way he looked at her suggested he was taking pleasure in being there. With her.
The word pleasures had her blood acting like champagne in her veins. She felt light, effervescent. They both sipped and then she reached for the dessert box.
There were four white plates in the cupboard but she was pretty sure she’d make a mess of that pretty dessert if she tried to divide it and put it on plates. She wasn’t the handiest woman in the kitchen. Besides, there was something incredibly intimate about sharing. She left it in the box.
