Duke’s mouth caresses the edge of the wine glass. He sips, and I’m drawn to the way the muscles in his throat flex and relax as he swallows. He parts his lips and the merest glimpse of his tongue sends a shiver along my body.
He gazes at me steadily. “Chicago’s south side can be dangerous. Especially for a naïve young…”
I blink away the image of his mouth hovering over my flesh. My nipples harden, visible through my thin dress. I sigh and try to pull myself together. “My area isn’t quite South Side. It’s a little…vintage. But I can handle myself.”
“Are you certain?”
My gut clenches. “Of course.”
His gaze points to my chest. “Even in a dress that invites…attention?”
Anger flares at my temples. I resist the urge to cross my arms and cover my exposed cleavage. I should have worn something more conservative, less showy. An outfit that didn’t announce my tits like they’re debutantes at a coming out party. Focus.
“The MicroTracker attaches to flesh,” I say.
His eyes lift to meet mine, then lower to stare at my chest. “I can appreciate how some things might be worthy of tracking…”
My jaw drops. The corners of Duke’s eyes crinkle with amusement. Damn him, he’s enjoying getting under my skin. I hate that I’ve allowed it and somehow love that he has.
Our server brings two iced tumblers artfully filled with crab and something that looks like caviar. I breathe in an earthy aroma of herbs.
“Truffles,” Duke says, pointing with his appetizer fork. “They pair well with the seafood and caviar.”
“I’ve never tasted caviar before.”
He seems pleased. “It can be an acquired taste.”
I ease some of the seafood mixture onto my fork, careful to steady my trembling hands. My skin burns under the heat of his stare. A chunk of the caviar rolls off the fork and lands on my napkin. I try to dispose of it before Duke notices. Too late. He’s always watching.
“The wait staff will take care of that,” he says dryly, almost in disapproval.
I shrug. “We could put the tracker on it—see where that little fish egg ends up.”
Annoyance pinches his features tight. Every time I bring up the Microtracker, Duke pulls back. Like talking about the product—or anything business-related—is the last thing on his mind.
He sets down his fork and pushes the appetizer aside. “What did you think of the caviar?”
My nose involuntarily scrunches up. “I’m afraid my palette isn’t very sophisticated.”
Dad’s more of a meat and potatoes kind of guy, and when Mom does venture outside of his comfort box, she loads up on creams and crusts to make the “healthy” go down easier—beer battered fish, clam chowder, and deep-fried escargot are staples at the Locke home. That and a hearty beer.
“We’ll have to do something about that,” Duke says.
The unspoken promise sends a thrill up my spine. I’m mid-crafting an appropriate response when our second course arrives. Some kind of salad served in an irregular-shaped pewter dish. Pieces of arugula have been twisted to form rose buds. I’ve never seen anything like it.
I tamp back the urge to take out my cell and snap a picture—no one will ever believe me. From inside my purse, I hear my text messages vibrate. Forrest and Jake, for sure. Guilt threads under my skin.
I sit taller, aware the motion has thrust my chest further into the spotlight. Instead of shrinking under his gaze, I embrace it. Try to use his fascination with my breasts to my advantage. If you’ve got it…
My palm closes around the MicroTracker and I slide it across the table toward Duke. His fingers stay wrapped around the stem of his wine glass, unflinching even when our skin touches. A bolt of electricity hits me right in the gut. Jesus.
I shift, lean forward, give Duke the full scope of my cleavage. “Why don’t you have another look?”
“Gladly,” he says.
My breath hitches. This is the exact opposite of professional, but it’s becoming increasingly clear that if I want Duke’s attention, my partners’ advice might not be far off the mark.
A little harmless flirtation can’t hurt.
But then again, I know this is anything but harmless. I feel like I’m playing with fire. And worst of all, I think I might actually want to get burned…
I tap my chipped fingernail on the table to draw Duke’s gaze back to the MicroTracker.
“I don’t need another look at that,” he says. “My attention is on…other things.”
My teeth slowly scrape along my lower lip. I don’t need a mirror to know that desire is written all over my face.