Eight Dates With Romance: An S. L. Scott Valentine's Day Collection (7 page)

William leaned back, sinking into the back seat as Joe shut the door and the taxi took off into traffic, but he stopped the driver one block up. “I’ll get out here.” He could barely afford the current fare, so he paid the cabbie and walked the remaining fourteen blocks home to save money, thinking of Evie, and smiling the entire way.

Continued in A Prior Engagement, a bestselling standalone novel.

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A
ustin has invited
Jules to have dinner with him when she delivers a painting he has purchased from her gallery.

J
ules
, April 2
^nd

T
he elevator deposits
us right into Austin’s apartment—the penthouse.

He isn’t there when the shiny silver doors open in front of us, but then he is, rounding a corner with a gorgeous smile and warm greetings, welcoming and surprisingly, barefoot. So casually dressed and so sexy. He kisses me on the cheek as his hands hold my shoulders, professional, yet I feel the tingling of something more developing.

I wonder if he does.

I have staff with me, so I must behave. He winks at me before greeting them. I stand and wait for instructions. He’s the client. He should make the decisions.

“How about setting it over there against that wall? I haven’t quite decided and would like to get Ms. Weston’s professional opinion on how to best highlight the painting.”

After setting the painting down, the interns look to me, so I thank them before walking them to the elevator with a reminder to drive safe and that we have an employee meeting on Monday morning. They leave and we’re alone. Austin’s turned on some music, classic rock. Another pleasant discovery about this charming man.

“Wine?
Or
…” He jogs into the kitchen and comes back out just as quickly to show me. “I found this great Gossett champagne. My wine guy pulled it from the reserves for me.”

He has a wine guy.
I’m impressed.
His excitement is contagious and I smile, relaxing. “The champagne. We should celebrate.”

“We can drink to the Rusque finding a home.” On a mission to open the bottle, he goes back into the kitchen. “Make yourself at home, Jules.” His voice travels from the confines of the other room.

I study his décor—clean, neutral palette, highlighting the artwork. I like that. I used to be more eclectic, warmer in my taste … back when I was with Dylan. I had a much more carefree style. Over the years, I’ve learned that clutter is confining and never replaced any of the knick-knacks he took the day he left me.

Looking at the walls, a large painting hangs above the couch. It seems to be the one piece I didn’t sell him.

Handing me a glass of champagne, he says, “I picked that up in Europe four years ago. It caught my eye and I had to have it. Do you like it?”

“It’s lovely,” I reply, studying the bright colors up top that fade to a gradient mix with the muted base tones. “It’s a great find. I’ve not seen anything like that here. It’s unique in its composition.”

“That’s exactly how I felt when I saw it, but could never put it into words so perfectly.” Tapping the fluted crystal against mine, he toasts, “To new friends and amazing art.”

“To amazing friends and new art,” I add, the crystal chiming between us.

We sip, then he says, “Let me show you around and you can help me find a place to hang the new one.”

Most of the paintings he’s purchased from me hang gallery style down the long and wide hallway. He says, “I had it designed this way to showcase the paintings.”

“It’s an art lovers’ dream. Have you had your place photographed professionally?”

“Once, last year,” he looks down, seeming self-conscious. “It was silly really, a local publication.”

We stop in his bedroom and I see the Cirie I sold him three years ago on Valentine’s Day. “That’s more powerful than I remember,” I note, staring at it hanging above his headboard.

He stands there, analytical, before saying, “The deep burgundy blending into the more subtle red, but stopping before it turns pink. I can feel the passion behind it. Cirie knew when to stop. It’s not feminine—”

“Or masculine,” I say, interrupting, “just beautiful.”

I hear him whisper behind me, “Yes, so beautiful.”

I glance over my shoulder.

His eyes are on me.

I blink and turn back to face the painting. “Yes, it’s pure passion. Above the bed is the perfect place for it to hang.”

He steps closer, silently admiring … the painting or me, I’m not sure. His fingers brush against my elbow. His voice comes out lower, “Come with me. I’ll show you where I was thinking the Rusque could go.”

Liking his touch when his hands are on me, I follow him into another room sticking close. Much like Austin, his office is breathtaking. The room is identical to his bedroom with two full walls of windows, but this room has no curtains to block the world out. He stands back, leaning against the door as I explore the room. The other two walls are white and bare, needing something, craving something vibrant.

“I think the painting should go right here. It feels right.” I turn around abruptly and ask in all seriousness, “Do you use this room?”

“All the time.”

I release my relief through an exhale. “Good. I would hate for that piece to be abandoned in some room that’s never used, where it would never be seen.”

“So would I. Your passion for art is very sexy.”

“Art is sexy.”

“Indeed.”

I sip then gulp my drink, eyeing him, admiring his lean and fit figure. “It must be hard to date a tycoon,” I joke, the bubbles going to my head. “The world is at your feet, literally right outside the window and down thirty-seven flights.”

“I’ve never dated a tycoon,” he retorts. “So I wouldn’t know.”

I laugh and he smiles at the sound. Sipping my drink, each bubble bursts in my mouth. I walk to a window and look out. “It’s a long way to fall.”

“No further than Heaven and you survived that.” Laughing out loud, I try to contain the roll of my eyes that wants to escape from his corny comment. “I’m sorry. I always wanted to know what it was like to say one of those awful pick-up lines and you gave me the perfect set up.”

“I think you’ve been carrying that around in your back pocket for about fifteen years too long,” I tease.

He grins. “Maybe longer. I’ve been interested in girls for a long time now, Jules.”

“I just bet you have.” I punctuate my words with a wink.

Standing in front of him, the silliness between us alters into something more, something with depth and it scares me. I swallow hard, trying to change it back by asking, “Do you believe in love at first sight, Austin, or should I walk by again?” Together, we laugh this time from my bad pickup line. Walking past him, I bump his hip with mine playfully, then with my smirk still in place, I say, “Now feed me, I’m hungry.”

Following behind, he says, “If I knew you better I’d …” but catches himself and stops.

I lean against the wall between two bold, modern paintings, a bit breathless, a lot playful. “You’d what? What would you do if we knew each other better?”

His feet stop in front of mine and a roguish smile plays on his lips. “If we knew each other better, I would have slapped your ass for that pun.”

“Consider us good friends then, but let’s skip the ass slap, even as appealing as that sounds …” His eyebrow arches, his body leans forward, one hand stationed above my head. Our breathing picks up, but also deepens, both of us wanting more. I finish by saying, “… And just kiss me.”

His hand is on my neck, sliding upward over my jaw, caressing my cheek. “You are a fascinating woman, Ms. Weston.” His lips press against mine. They’re soft, yet purposeful. Full and wonderful. My eyes are closed, enjoying, savoring, wanting more. He pulls back and our eyes slowly open. The tip of his finger glides along my bottom lip. Leaning in again for a quick, sweet kiss, he says, “You said something about being hungry—”

“Yes, starving.” In more ways than one right now. My body craving him more than food.

He takes my hand and we walk back to the kitchen. “Rao’s?” I ask when I see the bags on the counter.

“I like it. It’s impossible to get into the restaurant as you know, but I have kitchen connections and get take-out every couple of months.”

“You went to a lot of effort for tonight.”

“You’re worth it,” he replies not understanding how much it means that someone thinks I’m worth the effort. He starts unpacking the bags. “Hope you like spaghetti and meatballs. I got the house salad and dessert.” He raises his eyebrows up and down when he says dessert. It’s really quite cute.

He’s quite cute.

“I love Italian.”

I
lean forward
with a straight face, and say, “You must be tired because you’ve been running through my dreams all night.” I can’t hold a straight face any longer. “That line is so bad, but I remember a time that I actually thought that was clever.”

He laughs, struggling to keep his full mouth closed. His hand covers it, just in case. He’s all manners and etiquette. “You’ve got to stop, Jules. My stomach hurts from laughing so hard.”

“You sure it wasn’t from the large meatball you stole from my plate?” I’m kidding with him. It’s fun to eat so casually in his living room. It’s easy to feel happy around him. I need easy. I need happy. I need more laughter in my life. It’s been too long. Smiling feels good. Laughing feels freeing. “Okay,” I say, “I’ve finished my pasta. You finished my meatballs. Let’s dig into dessert.”

“You’re my kind of girl,” he replies, starting to stand.

I read his comment two ways and it makes me feel good. “No, let me. You’ve been serving me all night. Let me serve dessert.”

“No, you’re my guest.”

“Nope, you just sit there and enjoy the view.” I shake my ass, then walk into the kitchen. Peeking back out, I ask, “That wasn’t too forward, was it?”

The candle he lit on the coffee table earlier reflects in his eyes, or maybe that’s something else. “No, I liked it a lot.”

Opening the refrigerator, I spot the container of dessert. “Austin, I
loooovvvveee
Tiramisu,” I call from the kitchen. I bring the container out with two spoons in hand, no dishes. I sit down on the floor on the other side of the table from him. He smiles. “No plates?”

“I didn’t want to make a bigger mess than necessary. You know how to share, don’t you?”

“I do. Just forget all about the meatball stealing.”

“Already forgiven and forgotten.”

He digs in and then leans across. “You should try mine.”

“We’re eating the same thing.”

“I don’t know,” he says, eyeing his spoon. “Mine tastes so much better. You should really try it and let me know.”

I grin, leaning forward. Feeling flirtatious, I close my eyes and wrap my lips around the spoon seductively. When I’m finished, I open my eyes and catch him licking the spoon I just took my bite from.

With a contented sigh, I say, “I think you’re right. I think yours is better.”

“I’m not positive, but now I’m thinking it might not be the dessert. It might just be me.”

I’ll happily play along. “Come here then and let me taste you. You know, just to figure out if it’s you or the dessert.”

He crawls on his knees around the table, no hesitation, his body hovering over mine. My stomach tightens in anticipation as I rise up onto my knees. I want this. I close my eyes and let his kiss take me away.

A
n hour later
, my dress is a mess. I frantically straighten it along with my wild hair in the bathroom.

When I walk out, I blush, not being able to look him in the eyes. This behavior is so unlike me and if we wouldn’t have stopped when we did … my mouth dries, knowing it’s time for me to go home.

My tongue runs over my bottom lip—a lip that’s swollen from kissing—his wonderful and erotic kisses. “I should go,” I say, wanting to avoid any major awkwardness. “Thank you for dinner and dessert …” I wave my hand around, definitely making it more awkward. “… And everything else.” Oh God this is embarrassing. Hopefully I’m not blowing it after such a great night.

“You’re a beautiful woman, but I think you’re pretty damn cute when you get embarrassed, Jules.” He takes me gently by the arm, halting my retreating body. “By the way, you have no reason to be embarrassed.”

“It’s been a long time. I don’t know what came over me.” I talk to our feet, avoiding his eyes altogether.

He pulls me to him, wrapping his arms around me, comforting me. “You were turned on. I was too,” he says, lifting my chin up against my will until I relax and look him in the eyes. “You can still see how much you turn me on.” He glances down between us then back up again. I don’t need to look. I can feel how turned on he is. “Do you want to talk about it? I don’t want you leaving here feeling bad about what we did or regretting it. I liked it too much for that. I like
you
too much for that.”

“I don’t want to talk about it, not tonight. I’m tired and that will take too long. I won’t regret it. It was amazing. You are amazing.”

“Then let’s talk about me and how inflated my ego is now that I gave you an orgasm from second base.” He chuckles, the sound is refreshing and when I start to laugh, I feel the weight of a long carried burden beginning to lift from my shoulders. He adds, “I haven’t made out like that since I was in college.”

I hit his chest in jest and reprimand lightly, “You are so bad.”

“I can’t have you taking things like tonight too seriously. We have enough problems in life. We don’t need to add embarrassed over having an amazing time with a handsome man to the list.”

“Stop it!” I playfully reply, squirming in his arms. “Next time I’ll resist just so I can deflate some of that ego of yours.”

Gripping me tighter, not wanting to let me escape, he takes me by the waist and swivels me. After kissing me lightly on the head, he says, “Never. I don’t want you to ever hold back. You don’t have to with me. Outside of our apartments you can be who you need to be to feel comfortable enough to face reality, but in here, I want the real you—the you I saw tonight. The you that laughs, and recites cheesy pick-up lines, and spontaneously orgasms when a guy grabs your boobs. That’s the you I want when it’s just the two of us.” He kisses me on the corner of the mouth. “Now please tell me that I get to spend more time with this you sometime soon.”

I nod, wanting this, wanting to spend more time with him because I like this me too. I like the me I am with him.