“I told you no worries. I’m simply changing the direction on the GPS.”
Twenty minutes later they were turning onto Stockton Street in Nob Hill. There was a valet person in front of the Neiman Marcus department store, which seemed to satisfy him.
He pulled up to the valet, hopped out of the car and made his way to her side. Normally Sinead wasn’t someone who waited for a man to open her doors. Not that she had dated a lot of guys who would even know to do that. But it was her surprise at their stop that had kept her rooted in her seat.
He held his hand to her and she took it, but the suspicion was already creeping in on her.
“What are we doing here?”
“We’re here to buy you an appropriate outfit. One in which you will feel comfortable at Saison.”
He tossed his keys to the valet and started ushering her inside until she stopped walking. “You can’t do that,” she said.
He sighed and turned to face her, taking her hands in his.
“Sinead, listen to me. I am a very wealthy man. I could impress you with land holdings and business accomplishments, but frankly it’s all really boring. It does, however, mean I can buy whatever I want whenever I want it. Which if you think about it seems really unfair when you consider the rest of the world, but there it is. There is no changing this fact. We can sit here and play the game if you want. No I couldn’t possibly. It’s too expensive. You just met me.”
All of that he said in a high falsetto voice.
She raised her eyebrows as if to suggest she didn’t care for the imitation, but he continued.
“Or we can go in there, find you a dress and shoes, possibly a brassiere depending on the dress you pick out, and be done with it. There are no strings. There are no obligations. I like fine food and good company and I want both tonight.”
Sinead wished it could be that simple, but of course nothing expensive came without strings and obligations. Her father had taught her nothing if not that.
“This doesn’t make sense.”
“It makes perfect sense,” he contradicted. “We’re at a store. You need a fancy dress. Our reservations aren’t for another hour or so.”
“Why me? I mean look at you. You’re beautiful and funny. And apparently rich. You should be here with some supermodel, not me.”
David moved in a little closer and wrapped his arm around her back and bent down to kiss her forehead. “First of all, supermodels are way less fun than you think. They don’t eat, so taking them to fancy restaurants is pointless. Second, I’m here with you because you intrigue me and I like a good mystery.”
She pulled back, away from him. “I am the least intriguing person I know. I work, I stay out of trouble. That is it. That is the sum total of me.”
He shook his head. “When you came to the house last night you looked at me… well, quite frankly you looked at me like you wanted to take a bite out of me. I thought, well, how refreshing is that? You didn’t know me. You didn’t know my name or anything about me, yet it was all there written on your face.”
“Great. Add obvious to my lists of faults.”
“It’s not a fault and it’s not obvious. It’s honesty. You weren’t playing a game. You didn’t have an agenda. You were just being you and looking at me like you were interested. Trust me when I tell you I haven’t had that in a very long time. Beyond giving a boon to my ego, I thought I would love to have a conversation with somebody that honest. Yes, Sinead, you intrigue me. And in order for me to have the food that I want and the conversation that I want, I need to purchase a dress. Please let’s make that happen.”
Sinead looked at him for a moment, and then he changed his expression to something between a puppy dog and a small boy. She thought of all the reasons why it was an extremely bad idea. Then, like she had last night, she acted against her inclinations.
“Fine, but I get to pick out the dress. I’m not buying something ridiculous because you like tits and ass.”
He frowned. “I do like tits and ass, but agreed.”
* * *
Thirty minutes later, she was walking out of a dressing room in a bad imitation of Pretty Woman. The dress was black and sophisticated in front, backless and sexy in the back. It had built-in support cups, lacking the need for a brassiere, which she planned to inform him was not really a word people used anymore.
Similar to gussied.
The shoes were black patent Jimmy Choos. Because why not? If you’re selling your soul, it should at least be for a pair of Choos. Looking in the mirror, she thought she looked elegant and sexy, which were two words she had never once in her life used to describe herself.