I know firsthand what craziness power and wealth induces in people, but what the chef’s describing borders on the ridiculous. But I’m in no position to complain. Sully has promised more money for working up here today. Pandering to some rich dude’s peculiar lunch ritual will go a little way to increasing my chances of survival for a few more days.
While the chef returns to hovering over the poor minion who is preparing the tray, I look around again, trying to find my bearings. Where the hell is north? Geography wasn’t a strong subject in school. In fact, the only thing I excelled in was math and English, both of which account for zero when all you’re required to do is suck cock or lie on your back and zone out until whatever asshole on top of you is done.
My gaze frantically swings back and forth, trying to work out the exact position of the sun. On the third pass, I freeze.
He’s sitting beneath a window, sure, but then so are three other stylishly dressed guys. But while the other men are talking into cell phones or tapping away on tablets, this man is staring straight at the view.
I can only see the back of his head, but even that grips my attention. The slant of sunlight hits dark, glossy hair and lights up the silky, wavy strands that caress the collar of his grey suit. Whoever he is, he could easily be a top contender for a shampoo ad with that hair. My gaze drops to broad, well-muscled shoulders and thick arms. It’s clear, even from across the room that this man takes care of his physique. His seated position means I can’t see the rest of him, but as I watch him, I realize what has absorbed my attention.
He’s deathly still.
Despite the hum of activity round him, he hasn’t moved a muscle. It’s disarming enough to send a shiver down my spine. And I know, even without bruising my brain by further trying to work out which way is north, that he is Quinn Blackwood.
“Remember my instructions, Plate Girl?”
I jerk around, and stare down at the tray. Everything is laid out in pristine condition. China and silver that I’m sure costs more than Clayton’s prized hot rod sits at exact angles from each other. “Yes.”
“Lay it out precisely as it is on the tray. And come back here. You’ll wait until he’s done, then clear his table. Understood?”#p#分页标题#e#
I nod. He hands the tray to me. I take a step forward and realize my legs are shaking. I pause, take a deep breath.
It’s just food. It’s just a goddamn tray of food.
I make my way to where he’s sitting. The table next to his is unoccupied. I set the tray down on it and take the time to work out the angles and distances.
I pick up the gold-rimmed porcelain plate with the distinctive Tiffany blue pattern, and turn.
My breath dissolves to nothing.
Holy heaven above.
He’s…beautiful. Easily, the most hauntingly captivating man I’ve ever seen.
Quinn Blackwood doesn’t acknowledge me. He’s staring at the view, although his gaze is narrowed and lowered, stopping me from seeing the exact color of his eyes. But the square jaw, the dimple in his chin, the sculptured curvature of his cheekbones, all align into a face that is so visually and powerfully stunning, my limbs slack in shock, before blood pumps full bore through my veins.
He blinks, still without looking at or acknowledging me, but the tiny movement draws my attention to his lashes. Long, curved. Perfect.
And his mouth…
Jesus.
For a second, I wonder if I’m back in my alternate universe, where my life isn’t in danger and a million dollars is truly within touching distance. Is this another hallucination? If so, I never want to wake up this time.
My gaze drops to his hands. They’re big, a little out of proportion with the rest of him, but they in no way detract from the magnificent package.
As I stand there, caught in a web of what I can truthfully term as my very first genuine sexual arousal, his eyelids flutter. His chest continues to rise and fall in even, unhurried exhalations, but a spark of awareness lances through the air.
Perhaps it’s another dimension of this weird hallucination. But whatever it is, it takes hold of me, fires through my body to the very soles of my feet and back up again. My mouth dries and I firmly refuse my body’s urge to blink. I don’t want him to disappear. I don’t want him to be a figment of my imagination. Just for a little while, I desperately want this feeling to replace the constant fear that blankets me.
I’m not sure how long I stand there.
His forefinger taps once. Twice.
The movement jumpstarts my spatial awareness. My fingers tighten on the plate when I feel it slip in my clammy grip. I take a hurried step forward and set it down before him. I instinctively know not to step into his light, so I arrange the place setting from the side of his table, his profile a constant threat to my equilibrium. Somehow, I manage to finish laying the table.