Bastard In Suit(10)

My voice turns soapy. “I’m here for Duke.” My face goes so hot I’m sure it’s on fire. “Shit…um…I mean, I’m meeting Duke Kingston.”

The words don’t sound right coming out of my mouth. Like I’m some kind of imposter. A wanna-be in a too-tight, too-sexy dress made for a body that isn’t mine. But if the hostess is perplexed about my connection to Duke, she pulls off an award-winning performance. She probably sees this kind of thing all the time.

“Of course,” she says. “Right this way.”

I follow her through a labyrinth of long tables where people gather in awe of foods that sizzle, smoke, and smell like sin. My mouth waters. I’m so caught up in the sights and sounds and atmosphere that I don’t realize until it’s too late that the hostess has stopped at a private table tucked in the far corner of the room.

And then I’m in front of his table—he’s sitting there, looking elegant and strong and powerful and for a moment I feel so small before him.

Duke lifts his gaze and I’m dumbstruck.

Speechless.

His eyes, those dark, glorious eyes, penetrate my soul. I am suddenly naked and on display. I should feel cold, nervous.

But then I am somehow empowered instead, basking in his undivided attention.

He lifts his wine glass, as if in salute, and raises it to his lips.

My throat goes dry.

No matter how many times I tell myself this isn’t a date, that a man like Duke could never be interested in a girl like me, I can’t seem to quash the underlying hope that maybe this dinner is more than a business meeting.

No matter how wrong it might be for me to hope for it.

“Please,” Duke says, gesturing to the empty chair across from him. His voice is velvet, like warm brandy. “I took the liberty of ordering.”

I nod and sit, my entire body trembling.

As he pours wine, I try to find my voice. “Thank you,” I whisper. Clearing my throat, I add, “This restaurant is lovely.”

“It’s the best.”

I’m out of my element here and I suddenly have no idea how I’m going to pull off this pitch. Waiters pass with fancy dishes that plume with smoke and scents that churn inside my stomach. I breathe deep.

Soft candlelight flickers on Duke’s rugged face. He’s trimmed his beard and changed his suit—this one a deep navy that complements his burgundy tie. A pale blue shirt molds to his chest. I’m desperate to slip my hands underneath it and run my fingertips along his muscles. Jesus. I need a drink.

I reach for my wine glass and hold it up to my nose. Sniff. The scent of peach cuts the sharp tang of citrus. I swirl the liquid in my glass like I’ve watched people do on a million cooking shows, and then take a sip. Duke observes every motion, the corner of his mouth quirked with amusement.

I set the wine on the table and lick my lips. “I appreciate you giving us another chance to talk to you about the MicroTracker.”

“How charming is Mystic, really?”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

Duke unfolds a napkin and places it on his lap. And damn if my mind doesn’t go straight to thinking about what’s under that linen. He gives me one of those heart-stopping smiles. “That’s where you’re from, correct?”

It makes sense that a man like Duke would have done his research. Still, I’m off-kilter. “Yes, but I’ve always had Big City dreams.” I need to steer the conversation back to the product fast or I’ll lose my nerve. “I moved here straight from high school. I graduated with honors and a scholarship to Chicago College.”

I leave out the drama that followed—a stream of bad apartments and bad choices.

“Eager to escape your parents’ control.”

He’s more on the nose than I’m willing to admit. I lift my glass and mock toast. “Ambitious, perhaps. I’m not one for being tied down.”

“Now that’s a shame.”

His response makes me choke a little on my wine. I clear my throat and root around in my handbag, finally withdrawing the small container that holds the MicroTracker. Duke barely gives it a glance. I talk anyway. “This device…”

“How do your parents feel about you being in Chicago?”

I exhale hard. “Dad’s…well, he’s dad. Protective, worried.”

Chicago’s long history of crime often comes up in conversation. I’ve managed to stave off a full-blown parental panic attack by never inviting them to see my apartment. Mom would be mortified to know her monthly care packages of homemade goods and small packets of money Dad knows nothing about go toward bills, not furniture. My cardboard box coffee table might send her over the edge.