An Improper Deal(45)

A thick, white tablecloth covers the square table. The centerpiece features lavender hydrangea and pale pink roses, quite romantic and quite bridal. Three separate platters covered with silver domes sit around the flowers. A bowl of salad and another bowl with cubed melon and berries complete the dinner offering.

A bottle of Dom sits in a silver ice bucket. I give a small frown at the sight. The notion that Elliot would want champagne for our wedding dinner never crossed my mind. I didn’t expect he would want to toast to our one-year marriage.

He pulls out a chair for me. I sit down, and he takes the remaining chair to my right. “We don’t have a server,” he explains. “Hence everything being out at once. Thought it might be more comfortable this way.”

“This is fine,” I say, unsure exactly how to respond.

When my parents had money, we went out to fancy restaurants from time to time, but being served was always a treat. Affluence settled uncomfortably on them, like they were wearing clothes cut a little too loose in one place and a little too tight in another.

With Elliot it’s different. He expects to be catered to, expects people to anticipate his needs even before he voices them. And it’s obvious that he finds that to be the normal state of affairs.

He unveils the platters. Thinly sliced beef with a horseradish dip, prosciutto, crisp toasted bread slices, various cheeses and miniature desserts occupy the platters by theme, each of them like little gourmet islands. He uncorks the champagne with a soft pop. Whitish mist comes out of the chilled bottle, reminding me for some reason of fog on a lake. He pours two flutes with a dexterity that could put the waiters at La Mer to shame, then hands me a bubbling glass.

“Sorry, but I don’t drink.”

“Not even on your wedding night?”

I shake my head. “Not for anything.”

A speculative look crosses his face. “Religious?”

“Nope. Just not into alcohol.” I give him a thin-lipped smile. My reasons are not up for discussion. Nobody knows, not even Traci. It’s my secret, something not even the best detective could dig up.

“Well then.” He places both flutes in front of him. “What would you like?”

“Water would be good.”

He gets up wordlessly and disappears into the suite. It doesn’t take long before he returns with two bottles of water. Condensation fogs the surface. He places them on my side along with a tall glass.

Before I can reach for the bottle, he twists the cap and pours me my drink. His movements are efficient but also elegant. Once he’s done, he lifts his champagne. I clink my water with the bubbly wine.

“To our one year,” I murmur.

“To the coming year,” he agrees.

I take a sip. He watches me over the rim of his flute, his strong throat working as he swallows. Despite the chilled water flooding my mouth, warmth suffuses my face. His gaze skims my cheeks, and I feel it like a physical touch. His pupils are wide, but not from the dimming outside light. The pulse at his neck accelerates.

His tongue darts out and licks the droplets of champagne from his lips. My gaze drops to them, and the memory of how they feel against my bare skin floods me. Need uncurls in my belly, making it harder for me to drag in air. I can’t think of a time when I was this hyperaware.

“Beef?” he rasps.

I tear my gaze from him and look at the tiny cluster of fresh spouts wrapped with the slice of beef on the end of his fork. I don’t want to take it. It seems too intimate somehow, beyond what’s in our agreement. At the same time there’s no graceful way to refuse. I lean forward and take it into my mouth.

It’s cold…and exceptionally good. The beef is tender and flavorful, and the crispy texture of the sprouts complements the meat. I don’t think I’ve ever had anything this good before.

I devour the food with delicate greed. I’ve always loved eating, and I’m not going to demur. Elliot periodically puts more morsels on my plate. Given the care and attention he’s giving me, I can almost believe we’re having a normal, “married couple” dinner, not some kind of transaction.

He is nearly finished with the bottle of champagne. I surreptitiously watch for any signs of drunkenness, but he seems fine…so far. He sets a bite-sized chocolate mousse with golden foil around the bottom on the tip of his long, thick index finger and offers it to me. I eye it, wondering how I’m going to get the foil off without making a mess.

“Take the whole thing,” he says.

“Even the gold?”

“Yes. That’s the point.”

I’m skeptical, but I reach for it.

“Take it with your mouth,” he says.