Hers For One Night Only?. Carol MarinelliЧитать онлайн книгу.
couldn’t spell it out; she only had her eyes and they held his.
She lifted the glass of temptation he offered and the wine slipped onto her tongue and down her throat. It tasted delicious—cold and expensive and not at all what she was used to.
She felt her cheeks burn as she dragged her eyes from him and back to her friend and tried to focus on what Jasmine was saying—something about Mexican, and a night that would never end. She sipped her champagne that was far too nice, far too moreish, and Bridgette knew she had to get out of there. ‘Not for me,’ she said to Jasmine, feeling the scald of his eyes on her shoulder as she spoke. ‘Honestly, Jasmine…’ She didn’t need to make excuses with her friend.
‘I know.’ Jasmine smiled. ‘It really is great that you came out.’
It had been. Bridgette was relieved that she’d made it this far for her friend and also rather relieved to escape from the very suave Dominic—he was so out of her league and she also knew they were flirting. Dominic had the completely wrong impression of her—he thought she worked agency for the money and flexibility, so that she could choose her shifts at whim and party hard on a Saturday night.
If only he knew the truth.
Still, he was terribly nice.
Not nice, she corrected. Not nice nice, more toe-curlingly sexy and a dangerous nice. Still, no one was leaving. Instead he had made his way over, the music seemed to thud low in her stomach and for a bizarre moment as he joined them she thought he was about to lean over and kiss her.
Just like that, in front of everyone.
And just like that, in front of everyone, she had the ridiculous feeling that she’d comply.
It was safer to leave, to thank him for the drink, to say she wasn’t hungry, to hitch up her bag and get the hell out of there, to ignore the dangerous dance in her mind.
‘I’ll see you on Monday,’ she said to Jasmine.
‘You can help me pack!’
The group sort of moved out of the bar as she did and walked towards the Mexican restaurant. There had been a burst of summer rain but it hadn’t cleared the air. Instead it was muggy, the damp night air clinging to her cheeks, to her legs and arms as her eyes scanned the street for a taxi.
‘Are you sure you don’t want something to eat?’ Dominic asked.
And she should say no—she really should walk away now, Bridgette told herself. She didn’t even like Mexican food, but he was gorgeous and it had been ages since there had been even a hint of a flirt. And she was twenty-six and maybe just a bit flattered that someone as sophisticated as he was was paying her attention. Her wounded ego could certainly use the massage and she’d just checked her phone and things seemed fine, so Bridgette took a deep breath and forced back that smile.
‘Sounds great.’
‘Good,’ he replied, except she was confused, because he then said goodbye to Vince and Jasmine as Bridgette stood on the pavement, blinking as the group all bundled into a restaurant and just the two of them remained. Then he turned and smiled. ‘Let’s get something to eat, then.’
‘I thought…’ She didn’t finish her sentence, because he aimed his keys at a car, a very nice car, which lit up in response, and she glanced at her phone again and there wasn’t a single message.
Her chariot awaited.
She climbed in the car and sank into the leather and held her breath as Dominic walked around to the driver’s side.
She didn’t do things like this.
Ever.
But there was a part of her that didn’t want to say goodnight.
A part of her that didn’t want to go back to an empty flat and worry about Harry.
They drove though the city; he blasted on the air-conditioner and it was bliss to feel the cool air on her cheeks. They drove in silence until his phone rang and she glanced to the dashboard where it sat in its little charger and the name ‘Arabella’ flashed up on his screen. Instead of making an excuse, he turned for a brief second and rolled his eyes. ‘Here we go.’
‘Sorry?’
‘The maudlin Saturday night phone call,’ Dominic said, grinding the gears. ‘How much she misses me, how she didn’t mean it like that…’
The phone went black.
‘Your ex?’
‘Yep.’ He glanced over to her. ‘You can answer it if she rings again.’ He flashed her a smile, a devilish smile that had her stomach flip. ‘Tell her we’re in bed—that might just silence her.’
‘Er, no!’ She grinned. ‘I don’t do things like that.’
On both counts.
‘Were you serious?’ she asked, because she couldn’t really imagine him serious about anyone. Mind you, Jasmine had said they’d been engaged.
‘Engaged,’ he said. ‘For a whole four weeks.’
And he pulled his foot back from the accelerator because he realised he was driving too fast, but he hated the phone calls, hated that sometimes he was tempted to answer, to slip back into life as he once had known it.
And end up like his parents, Dominic reminded himself.
He’d lived through their hellish divorce as a teenager, had seen their perfect life crumble, and had no intention of emulating it. With Arabella he had taken his time. They had been together for two years and he thought he had chosen well—gorgeous, career-minded and she didn’t want children. In fact, it had turned out, she didn’t want anything that was less than perfect.
‘You’re driving too fast.’ Her voice broke into his thoughts. ‘I don’t make a very good passenger.’ She smiled. ‘I think I’m a bit of a control freak.’
He slowed down, the car swishing through the damp city streets, and then they turned into the Arts Centre car park. Walking through it, she could hear her heels ringing on the cement, and even though it was her town, it was Dominic who knew where he was going—it had been ages since she had been in the heart of the city. She didn’t feel out of place in her silver dress. The theatres were spilling out and there were people everywhere dressed to the nines and heading for a late dinner.
She found herself by a river—looking out on it from behind glass. She was at a table, with candles and silver and huge purple menus and a man she was quite sure she couldn’t handle. He’d been joking in the car about telling his ex they were in bed, she knew it, but not really—she knew that too.
‘What do you want to eat?’
Bridgette wasn’t that hungry—she felt a little bit sick, in fact—but she looked through the menu and tried to make up her mind.
‘I…’ She didn’t have the energy to sit through a meal. Really, she ought to tell him now, that the night would not be ending as he was undoubtedly expecting. ‘I’m not very hungry…’
‘We can get dessert and coffee if you want.’
‘I wouldn’t mind the cheese platter.’
‘Start at the end.’ He gave her a smile and placed the order—water for him and cognac for her, he suggested, and, heaven help her, the waiter asked if she wanted it warmed.
‘Dominic…’ She took a deep breath as their platter arrived, a gorgeous platter of rich cheeses and fruits. ‘I think—’
‘I think we just ought to enjoy,’ he interrupted.
‘No.’ Bridgette gulped. ‘I mean…’ She watched as he smeared cheese on a cracker and offered it to her.
‘I don’t like blue cheese.’
‘Then you haven’t had