Just One Night: Sex, Love & Stiletto Series (2 page)

The thought hurt. The thought had been hurting for years. But the man hadn’t once tried to move them out of the “squabbling sibling” zone they’d been in for more than a decade. And while Riley liked to consider herself bold in most areas of her life, she drew the line at going out on that limb with Sam all by her lonesome.

Her pride had limits. So did her heart.

Steven topped off her wineglass with the last of the rather excellent Chablis he’d ordered. She was more of a whisky girl herself, but fancy white wine did the trick too.

“So you’re good with splitting crème brûlée?” he asked after his ten-minute perusal of the dessert menu.

Good with crème brûlée? Yes. Splitting? Not so much
.

“Sounds perfect,” she said, giving him a steamy look.

For a second, Steven looked just the slightest bit dazzled at her smile, and Riley stifled a sigh. Not because the attention wasn’t flattering. It was.

It was also been-there-done-that.

How many dates had she been on just like this one, with the hard-to-get reservations, and the mouse-sized servings, followed by
let’s freaking
split
dessert
? Dozens.

Then again, this wasn’t just any date.

This was the
fifth
date with the same guy.

And every woman knew what that meant. Or at least, every woman who wrote about the
dating process for a living knew what it meant.

Hell, Riley wasn’t entirely sure that she or one of her friends hadn’t
invented
the rule somewhere along the way.

That was one of the unexpected perks—or hazards, depending how you looked at it—of writing for the top-selling women’s magazine in the country: You got to write the rules.

And as one of
Stiletto
’s primary relationship columnists, Riley had done a fair amount of writing about the fifth date.

Or rather … the
after-party
of the fifth date.

So yeah. Riley knew what tonight meant, and from the way Steven’s bland gaze kept dropping to her cleavage, so did he.

Again, Riley waited for that tug of anticipation low in her belly.

Again, nothing.

She gave a mental shrug and took another sip of wine. It had been worth a shot. The night was young. Maybe Mr. Good Enough was just biding his time to light her fire.

Although if
that
were the case, the man really should have ordered two desserts, because nothing lit Riley’s fire like food, and this uppity place hadn’t even offered a decent bread basket, just a weird little seeded-roll thing the size of a tangerine.

A French restaurant with no French bread was a
grand faux pas
.

Or was it
faux pas grand
?

Whatever.

Julie had written an article a couple of years back about how gorging oneself early on in the dating ritual was a Bad Idea. Something about bloating and gluttony and other prehistoric ladies-should-be-ladies nonsense. Julie Greene was a bit of a legend when it came to dating.

But legend or not, Riley was
pretty
sure her best friend had gotten it wrong on this one. There was something utterly warped about changing one’s eating habits for a man.
Any
man.

Maybe that’s why Julie’s engaged and you’re not
.

Stifling a sigh, Riley dug into the crème brûlée the server placed on the table between them. She took small bites. Not because she wanted to be dainty, but because it was freaking
tiny
, and she wanted to make it last.

Luckily Steven either didn’t have much of a sweet tooth or figured that hers was bigger than his, because he politely set his own spoon aside after two bites.

Good boy
. Her hope for them just hitched up a notch. Sam would have been knocking her spoon out of the way to beat her to the brittle top, which everyone knew was the whole point of crème brûlée. A gentleman, Sam Compton was not.

“So, Riley,” Steven said, watching as she cleaned out the last sugary bits from every cranny of the mini custard pan. “I’ve got to tell you, I’ve done my fair share of dating, but I’ve enjoyed these last couple of weeks with you more than I’ve enjoyed a woman in a long, long time.”

What garbage.

“Me too,” she said instead. Grace had warned her about this earlier.
Something-something-something, don’t kick his balls and just be
nice.

It all sounded fishy to Riley, but Grace Brighton knew her shit.

If Julie was the dating guru of
Stiletto
, Grace was the magazine’s Dalai Lama of relationships. There was a kind gentleness to Grace that even a wretched breakup with a cheating bastard hadn’t diminished.

Not that Grace had remained single for long. In fact, she and Jake were probably doing some sort of nauseating just-for-two activity right this very second and actually
enjoying
it.

Barf
.

Riley didn’t need any of that. Didn’t want it. She just wanted to stop feeling like …

A
fraud
.

Steven was still talking. “I’m not ready for this date to end. How about you?”

Here it was.
Tell him you don’t want it to end either. Ask if he wants to go back to your place for a nightcap
.

She curved up the corners of her mouth and lowered her eyelids in a way that usually had men panting a little bit. “You want to come back to my place?”

Riley drew the line at using the word
nightcap
. This wasn’t 1954.

“I’d like that, Riley. Very much.”

Okay then
. Even
she
knew what the husky voice and steamy look meant. His eyes skimmed her body, and his appreciative smile said he liked what he saw.

She resisted the urge to smirk. He hadn’t even seen the good stuff yet. One didn’t write about sex for a living and not learn a thing or two about sexy lingerie.

Words like
nightcap
may be passé, but the way Riley saw it, garter belts were
always
in
style.

She just wished the big moment wasn’t quite so … imminent.

It was on the tip of her tongue to suggest they get another dessert … or hell, maybe just a repeat of the
entire
meal so that she’d actually feel full. But their server was already discreetly sliding the bill onto their table.

To her surprise, Steven let her pay for half. She’d offered on previous dates, but he’d always kindly waved away her credit card with a comment about his mother uninviting him at Christmas if she found out that he’d let a woman pay.

She was pleased to see he’d relaxed his stance. Riley was all for gentlemanly gestures on the first date or two, but there was a mighty fine line between chivalry and chauvinism.

However, just when she was about to bump him up from Good Enough to just plain
Good
, he got, well … 
prissy
.

“Oh man, it’s
raining
,” Steven said, doing a fussy little dance to avoid a puddle outside the restaurant.

Riley lifted an eye as she pulled her Kate Spade umbrella out of her purse and watched him pointlessly swipe at the water on his shoes.

“These are
Italian
,” he whined, not noticing her less-than-enamored expression.

Riley understood the reverence for Italian-made goods.

But only as it pertained to food. Pasta, in particular.

But men’s footwear? Not so much. Normally she tried to avoid double standards, but she had a lot less tolerance for shoe obsession in potential bedmates than she did in girlfriends.

Carefully hiding her disdain, she went to the curb to watch for an available cab. Despite the common misperception that Manhattan had an unlimited supply of taxis, on rainy Friday nights in the Village this couldn’t be further from the truth. Riley’s fingers turned numb right before her hand lost feeling from being held in the air for a good five minutes.

A quick glance revealed that Prince Charming was huddled beneath the restaurant awning with four other women.

Seriously?

Okay, so maybe a
little
machismo wouldn’t be so bad.

In the back of her head, Riley heard Emma Sinclair discreetly clear her throat.
Don’t do that. Do not go searching for reasons why he’s all wrong. Nobody’s perfect
.

Riley snorted.

Like Emma was one to talk. Emma was every bit as single as Riley.

Then again, Emma seemed quite happy with her status. Emma Sinclair, in all her unruffled southern belle glory, wasn’t in the midst of a rather epic dry spell like Riley.

And maybe nobody was perfect. But sometimes it felt like there was a guy that was perfect for Riley. Only it wasn’t the guy currently hiding from the elements. It wasn’t her
date
.

Finally a taxi deposited a group of girls in front of the restaurant, and Riley swooped in for the kill, smiling apologetically at the two men who’d made a move for the same cab.

Sorry, boys. My delicate little flower needs to get his Italian shoes out of the rain
.

Steven hurried over and scooted her into the cab before sliding in and closing the door behind him.

“West Fourth and Perry, please,” Riley told the cabdriver. It was at times like these that Riley was glad she’d snatched up the West Village apartment Julie had left behind when she’d moved in with Mitchell. Riley still considered herself a Brooklyn girl, born and raised, but there were times when a Manhattan address was priceless.

Rainy booty-call nights were
definitely
one of those times. At least she was pretty sure. One would have to have actually had a booty call to be positive.

Although with each passing second, Riley’s determination to give Steven Moore a front-row seat to her garter belt was fading.

Particularly since he was still fussing with the shoes.

“They’re ruined,” he muttered.

All right. Enough of this
.

“So, on a scale of getting laid off, to, say … getting a terminal illness, where would you say the ruination of Italian leather falls?” she asked sweetly.

Steven stared at her in surprise, and then, to her relief, he gave a sheepish laugh. “I’m being a baby, huh?”

Oh no. Much worse than any baby I’ve ever known
.

“A little,” she agreed. “But I get it. I’m pretty attached to some of my shoes too.”

“I’ll tell ya what. If you agree to forget about my prissy moment there, I’ll make it up to you later?”

Uh-oh
.

Steven Moore was putting on the
moves
, and they weren’t good. He’d unsubtly moved closer to her in the cab, and his hand was on the back of her neck in what
could
have been a seductive massage if his hands weren’t freezing and his grip wasn’t pinching.

Riley wanted nothing more than to suggest that this nice but thoroughly not-for-her man might prefer to spend the rest of the evening at home saying a eulogy for his shoes.

Alone.

But then she remembered the ramifications of that particular suggestion.

It would also mean
Riley
would be home alone. Again.

“You know that this is every man’s fantasy?” he said, his tongue finding her ear.

She closed her eyes and ordered herself to not pull away.
It’s supposed to feel
good,
Riley
.

Her heart was starting to pound. And not in the impending-sexy-times kind of way.

Riley’s hand found his knee and squeezed. Hard. “Steven, it’s my turn to be prissy. Do you mind if we get back to my place, before … um … I just feel kind of gross from the rain, you know?”

He pulled back. “You don’t
look
gross. But sure, no problem. I know that mood’s important.” Steven gave her an understanding look and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

Riley gave him a smile—the first genuine one of the night.
Well, whaddya know
. Her mother and friends had been right. Maybe she
was
too quick to write men off. Maybe they just needed a little gentle nudging to keep them from being complete tools.

She took a deep breath and tried to think sexy thoughts. She’d written an article about this just a few months ago: “Sixteen Sexy Mental Tricks to Rev Your Lady Libido.”

Now, if she could only remember them.

Just
one
of them …

Come on, now
, any
one would do …

“My friends are all taking bets on this, you know.”

“Hmm?” Riley asked, still trying to summon Lady Libido.

“They didn’t believe me when I told them that Riley McKenna had agreed to go out with me, but here we are on date number five.”

“Uh-huh.” Honestly, how was she supposed to get to her sexy place when the man
wouldn’t shut up?

“Are you looking for research material for your next article? If you are, is there anything special you want from me? I mean, I know you’re the expert, but I’ve never gotten any complaints …”

Stop. Talking
. “I never mix business and pleasure,” she said, giving him her old standby line to go with her standby wink.

“Of course,” he said. “But I wouldn’t mind, if,
you know
 …”

“No, I actually don’t know,” she said, saying a mental goodbye to Lady Libido. Not that she’d been likely to show up. She never had before.

“I read last month’s article,” Steven whispered, with a quick glance at the driver.

Please
. Like a cabdriver gave a crap whether his passenger had snuck a peek at a women’s magazine.

“Last month’s article … the BDSM one?”

She wrote a BDSM article about once a year, which was about how often it came up as “the next naughty thing everyone but you is trying.”

It wasn’t that she wasn’t intrigued, it was just that when you spent most of your time trying to figure out whether the correct spelling was
blindfold
or
blind-fold
, it sort of took some of the titillation out of the whole concept.

“I never thought it’d be my thing,” Steven was yammering, “but I’ll try anything once. Especially if you show me the ropes. Pun intended.”