Just One Taste...(6)

"My office is nearby. It's convenient."

She wanted to ask about his office but didn't. Her father's office was  also nearby, but he certainly would have mentioned hiring an old-moneyed  Louisiana lawyer, which Lucas had to be, so he must work for a rival  firm. In her father's eyes, every firm was a rival, after all.

For a moment-a really brief moment-she considered turning off. He was  part of the world she'd left a long time ago, a world she'd honestly  never felt comfortable living in. Did she really want to get involved  with a man who did? Despite the few times she'd given in to her sister's  setups, she'd been careful not to fish from her old pond.

Involved? You're not getting involved. Carnal exploration, heat, falling into a fantasy. That's it, remember?

Her pulse skipped a beat as she pictured the heated look in Lucas's eyes.

Oh, I remember.

They pulled into the parking lot of a luxury high-rise apartment  building. Vanessa's hands trembled as she shut off her car. They barely  spoke as they rode in the elevator to the sixteenth floor.

Lucas rested his hand at the small of her back, and they watched the  numbers light in amber sequence. Sometime during the drive he'd ditched  his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. Vanessa fought the urge to slide her  hand in the opening and see if his chest was as warm and hard as she'd  imagined. By the time sixteen dinged, her palms were sweating.

He unlocked the door to his apartment, tossed his keys on a mahogany  table in the foyer, and before she could do more than glimpse at the  sunken living room decorated in neutral shades, he'd pinned her to the  wall.

"Wanna throw down right here?"

Instinctively, she arched into her body against his. Finally was all she  could think. Finally his composure had snapped. She wasn't alone. He,  too, felt this clawing, aching need. This desire that throbbed through  her like a second pulse.

She had the sense that grabbing him-or, hell, just nodding at him-would  be enough to have him ripping off their clothes and driving himself deep  inside her. She wanted that immediate gratification. It would keep her  from questioning her decision. It would keep things simple. She wanted  him. She was drawn to him and intrigued by him. Did she really need to  know him?

Before she could form an answer, he slid his hand gently across her  cheek, then stepped back. "Relax, chère, I have some manners."                       
       
           



       

Still trying to catch her breath, she stared after him for a stunned and  confused-and needy-minute before curiosity forced her to follow him  down the hall and into the kitchen, which was as sophisticated and sleek  as he was. Black marble countertops, gleaming appliances, ceramic-tile  floor and iron stools lined up along a curved bar.

What was with the manners thing? Some manners? He was impeccable. She'd spent a lifetime trying and failing to be that smooth.

He was a bit forward, she supposed, but for some reason, she doubted he  came on to every woman the way he had her. Something about her had set  him off. Just as the same had happened to her. She felt a connection to  him she didn't even feel in the presence of her own family. But when he  wasn't touching her, or looking at her in that intimate way he had, he  seemed like a stranger.

He is.

He opened a below-the-counter wine fridge and pulled out a bottle. "I'm  having whiskey, but I imagine you'd like something a bit softer."

Was she predictable now? And soft? In her mind, soft was just another word for gentle, quiet or-worse-demure.

Oh, hell no.

She could admit to herself she was questioning her impulse to leave with  him. She could silently acknowledge she was uncertain and off balance.  But she wasn't about to let him in on those weaknesses.

She was strong. Self-possessed. Bold. Confident.

She'd worked her ass off to make sure.

Leaning one hip against the counter, she said, "I'll have whiskey."

In the process of retrieving a wineglass from the cabinet, he turned. "One finger or two?"

Oh, God, she was pretty sure that meant straight. No ice, no mixer. She  swallowed bravely, then smiled at the challenge in his eyes. "Whatever  you're having."

He set two crystal tumblers on the counter, then poured a healthy amount  into each from a bottle of Jack Daniel's. Black Label. He handed one to  her, then raised his glass. "To tattoos."

She tapped her glass against his. "And chocolate." She sipped and felt  heroic when she managed to down a swallow of the burning liquid without  choking.

"Good?" he asked, raising one cocky eyebrow.

She actually liked the taste of whiskey; she just didn't like swallowing  it. She'd dated a saxophone player once who'd always sipped whiskey at  the end of his set, and he'd tasted fabulous. Drinking the stuff,  though-especially without ice-must be an acquired thing.

"Smooth," she managed to say.

"After the third or fourth glass, you hardly taste it at all."

Now her chest was burning. "I'm sure."

Grinning as if he knew the torture she was enduring, he linked hands  with her and led her down the steps, through the living room and onto  the balcony.

Though the view of the sparkling sky was stunning, and the balcony was  nearly as richly decorated as the inside, Vanessa wasn't sure they could  accomplish the night's goal on the wicker couch and chaise longue. But  Lucas leaned against the balcony wall, the lights from the high-rise  across the street framing his body, as if he planned to hang out there  all night.

"You have a thing about being outside, don't you?" she asked.

"The fresh air clears my mind-" he toasted her "-which you've fogged up quite nicely."

Bravely, Vanessa took another sip of her whiskey. "And you need a clear head?"

"Yes."

"What happens if you don't have one?"

"I grab you and drag you back to my bedroom."

Sounds pretty good to me. "And you don't want to do that because … "

"I want to too much."

Is it any wonder I'm fascinated with the man? "What happens to things you want too much?"

"I still get them. I'm just not especially gracious-or gentle-about the process."

Oh my.

There was certainly more to Lucas than his steaming sensuality and good  looks. He wasn't just a corporate lawyer in a slick suit. Away from the  rich and powerful crowd where he'd both blended in and stood out, his  allure only grew stronger, the mystery of where he'd come from only  deepened.                       
       
           



       

Vanessa set her glass on the ledge and stepped closer to him. "You're trying to warn me off."

"I'm not. At all."

"But you're deliberately acting dark and mysterious."

"I am dark and mysterious."

"Ha! You're an open book."

"No kidding."

"You're from Louisiana," she began, watching his eyes widen as she  obviously hit the mark. "I'm thinking New Orleans. The place is steeped  in Creole history. The family homestead is probably in the Garden  District. Your grandmother would be the matriarch-as is proper in all of  New Orleans society. There's a scandal in your family's past, probably  something to do with a riverboat gambler or pirate. I'm betting the  family money started in agriculture-rice or sugarcane probably-but at  some point somebody wise invested in manufacturing or real estate. And  you, since you have a bit of the rebel in you, decided not to toe the  family line completely and studied law. At Tulane, I'm sure. Where you  didn't pledge the proper fraternity, but instead bought a motorcycle and  got a tattoo. With your wild days behind you after law school, you went  into a well-established practice back home. But after a while you  decided you needed a new challenge and came here. Where I found you,  being bored to smithereens by the hunting stories and name dropping of  the Atlanta Country Club." She paused and studied his blank expression  with interest. "Pretty close, huh?"

Roaring with laughter, he hooked his arm around her waist, pulling her against him.

"I'm right, aren't I?"

His body continued to shake. "Absolutely. One hundred percent. That last observation was dead-on."

She laid her hands against his chest and glared up at him. "Why do I have the feeling I'm more wrong than right?"

"Mmm." He smiled broadly. "Well, let's just say I'm not going to ask you to read a jury anytime soon."

It was the smile that did it.

Her annoyance fell away. He was even more beautiful when he smiled. All  he had to do was touch her, and suddenly she wasn't quite so interested  in her story as she was in the feel of his body against hers. The magic  they generated. The warmth emanating from his skin. The spicy scent of  his cologne.