I swear my eyes were drooling. Tonight, he was Mr. Preppy—clad in a crisp blue and white striped collarless shirt that was unbuttoned enough to flaunt his taut chest. The shirttail hung loose over tight but not too tight perfectly pressed jeans. Navy suede loafers covered his sockless feet, and a rich cashmere sweater, almost the same blue as my shawl, wrapped around his broad shoulders. Bottom line…he looked fucking sexy. And smelled intoxicating.
I sucked in a breath. “Your car or mine.”
“Mine.” He studied me. “My sex goddess, you look like an angel. Blue is definitely your color, and you should always wear your hair that way.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled, trying to hold it together while he called his driver. Why did he have to say the word “sex”? Though I had mastered my “all good things must come to an end speech,” my hormones were already raging. I bit down on my lip.
His car pulled around outside, and as his driver held open the rear passenger door, he slid in after me. I moved away from him. A bemused smile flitted onto his face. “So, Gloria. Are you playing a game tonight? Hard to get?”
I wrinkled my nose. He chuckled. “That nose thing is one of the things I love about you.”
I cringed. Why did he say the L-word? He wasn’t making it easy for me to stay in control.
He told his driver Orson to take us to Raoul’s on Spring Street.
“Have you ever eaten there?” he asked.
I’d heard of the restaurant, one of the city’s original French bistros, but had never eaten there. I shook my head.
“The food is delicious. And the atmosphere’s great. There’s even a fortuneteller who holds court in the loft. Maybe you can ask her about our future.”
I cringed. I knew the answer to that already. There was none.
The restaurant was located not far from Jaime’s office. The jam-packed front room resembled a classic Bohemian French bistro, with leather banquet tables and funky paintings, including nudes, hung all over the walls. The attractive brunette hostess, welcomed Jaime with a warm embrace; he was obviously a regular. Flirtatiously looking back at him from time to time, she led us through the crowded, noisy restaurant and then through the busy kitchen to a back room. I couldn’t help but wonder if he had fucked her and all the other beautiful women who stopped him along the way.
Unlike the frenetic front room, the back room was low-key and romantic, filled with candlelit tables draped with fine white linens. A glass ceiling added to the atmosphere. We were escorted to a table for two, closest to the blazing fireplace. I could feel the warmth of the fire against my back.
A heavy-set, jovial waiter came to our table. “Good evening, Mr. Zander. What will it be tonight?” As Jaime pondered the menu, the waiter looked me over and smiled. I wondered—was this where Jaime brought all his fucks? And how many had sat in this chair before me? I mentally kicked myself. Why should I care? This wasn’t even a date; it was a business dinner. And I was about to set the womanizer straight.
Jaime gazed up at me. The flickering candlelight and blaze in the hearth bathed his face in a soft glow, making him even more breathtakingly gorgeous than he already was. Despite myself, tingling desire was spiraling inside me. Damn it! Stay in control, Gloria, I silently chided.
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“Gloria, I hope you don’t mind if I order for the two of us. The steak tartare is divine and so is the artichoke. And we’ll share a bottle of Bordeaux. We’ll have the Latour 2009 Controllé right away,” he told the waiter. The waiter smiled and sauntered off with our order.
The wine came quickly. The waiter poured a little into Jaime’s glass. Jaime sampled it and then nodded with approval. The waiter continued to pour wine for both of us. After he parted, Jaime clinked his goblet against mine.
“To winning,” he said with a seductive smile.
I twitched a smile back at him, wondering if he was referring to our swimming competition, the Gloria’s Secret account, or me. Or all of the above.
After a few sips, Jaime eased into conversation. His voice was deep and sultry, and his long-lashed eyes held me captive.
“So, Gloria, tell me something about yourself that I haven’t already read on the Internet.”
“What exactly do you know about me?” I countered.
“Not much…Self-made business woman extraordinaire. Built Gloria’s Secret into a billion-dollar company from the ground up.”
This was true. After Kevin and I touched down in LA, we stayed at a rundown Hollywood motel until we found a charming two-bedroom apartment to share in Beachwood Canyon. We were able to secure it with a first and last month deposit from the money we had stolen from Boris. Kevin quickly found work as the manager of a hot Hollywood night club, frequented by celebrities, and I, once recovered from my gunshot wound, used the money to rent some studio space downtown and to purchase bolts of lace and silk as well as a dozen used sewing machines and necessary supplies. Once settled in, I hired a handful of talented, eager to work laborers to stitch up my lingerie designs. I shortly found a small, affordable storefront on Hollywood Boulevard to sell my wares. Gorgeous French-inspired lingerie at a reasonable price.