Bedded by Her Bodyguard(10)

“Is she not a fascinating woman?” Isaac asked.

“Hold onto your seat. She’ll take you for an intellectual ride you’ll wish you’d never got on in the first place.”

Isaac cocked his head. “I take it you two don’t get along.”

“An understatement,” she admitted. “We’re the two most opposite people who could ever live under the same roof. I’m a Pisces, and she’s an Aries. They’re too close on the zodiac. The two were never meant to coexist, believe me.”

“So you really take this astrology stuff seriously.”

She folded her arms across her stomach. “You can make fun of me. Most people do.”

“I’m not most people,” he said. Potent enough that she dared to sneak a glance at him. She found his gaze direct and sincere.

“Thank you. For respecting me.”

He reached across the seat and cupped her chin. “I’ll always respect you, sweetheart.”

The touch of Isaac’s hand and his thoughtful words sent a wave of shock through her, followed by a swell of warmth in her abdomen. She wanted to rest her fingers over his, to encourage the unexpected affection, but he dropped his hand before she could. A little thrown by this new intimacy, she took a moment to remember the thread of their conversation. Oh, right. Helen. “Helen Sanders is a featured guest on numerous morning talk shows, a staple on cable news channels, and she’s a Dear Abby on four newspapers.”

“No kidding? Sure, I’ve heard of her.”

“Some days I wish I was kidding.” An old sense of inadequacy twisted her nerves into knots. “Few people see the resemblance between me and my mother. She’s quite famous, and I’m not. I’m nothing like her, though sometimes I wish I could be.”

Reaching out, he tucked a lock of hair behind her. “You have many gifts and talents. You don’t need to be like anyone else.” A mesmerizing look swirled in his dark eyes. “I think you’re great the way you are.”

He did?

The possibility made her brain stutter. Isaac Atlas thought she had gifts and talents? Wonder of wonders.

If he believed in her, then maybe she could help him to seal this sales deal, which she so dearly wanted to do, as a benefit for his career and hers.

The sky had darkened to deep plum with maroon streaks along the horizon by the time the town car pulled up in front of the restaurant where they were meeting the Markovs. “Are we here already to meet them? My gosh, my internal clock is all screwy.”

Flicking his wrist, he nudged his shirtsleeve back and checked his watch. “Five thirty.”

That’s when she noticed for the first time that he wore his watch on his right wrist. “You’re left-handed.”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“I never noticed that before.”

“There’s a lot you haven’t noticed about me.” His lids lowered halfway in a look of pure seductive appeal.

A bit unsteady from the lingering effects of Isaac’s suggestive stare, she paused before she took his hand. He helped her from the vehicle. Together they entered the restaurant.

They checked their coats at the entryway at the front desk. Carved wooden beams made cross-hatched patterns above them, reminding her of a similar design in an old church they’d visited earlier that day. This structure had to be several hundred years old. She felt like she was stepping into a medieval castle.

They passed under the cross-hatched beams and she stopped to take in the scene in the restaurant. A whitewashed plaster interior with dark beams overhead gave it a rustic feel. A scarred and dented wood bar ran along the entire left side of the long rectangular room. A huge fire roared in the hearth to the right. Tables clustered haphazardly across the slate floor, and booths ringed the outer edges.

She swore she’d walked into a scene from Indiana Jones: Raiders of the Lost Ar k. Men hunched over pints of beer and empty shot glasses. Any minute a maniacal Nazi in a bowler hat would demand a rare medallion, the place would catch fire, and Harrison Ford would throw some punches.

Maybe she’d watched that movie too many Saturday nights, when she wished she’d had better things to do with better company. Like Isaac.

Although, a stepping into an unknown bar in the middle of nowhere ought to give her a moment’s pause. Helen had written too many articles about the women sold into the sex slave trade in Russia not to give Mindy a few shivers.

Isaac said something to the hostess in Russian. She waved her hands and shook her head no.

Then Isaac cupped the woman’s elbow and murmured low in her ear, flashing her the same smile that always made Mindy’s knees go weak. Instantly, the hostess backed down from her initial refusal and led them to circular corner booth on a raised platform surrounded by brass railings.