propped up on her elbows. “The service provide that, too?”
He smiled. “Of course. I’m a very good customer.”
He left the bedroom and headed to the kitchen, hoping he had something that would satisfy a chocolate-loving caterer. He found cheese and grapes and a bottle of cabernet sauvignon. As he set out glasses and plates, he reflected on the fact that Vanessa Last-Name-Not-Provided was his first guest.
At some point, he’d planned to have a few key people at the firm over for a cocktail party, but the past week had been spent immersed in learning office procedures, client lists and potential clients. This job was his first time working for someone else in nearly a decade. He needed some time to get acclimated before he hosted the partners.
When he heard the shower running, business flew from his mind. He found himself anticipating the scent of his soap on Vanessa. Her skin, soft, warm and wet from the water, he’d part the robe and kiss the side of her neck, sending her pulse racing.
She appeared at the end of the hall moments later, bundled in his robe, but a wary expression was set on her face.
Perhaps seduction should wait.
“Wine?” he asked her, holding up the bottle.
“Sure.” She sat at the bar and glanced down at the plate of food. “Empty fridge, huh? I was expecting stale chips and old Chinese food.”
“I was referring to my lack of chocolate. I’ll have to fix that if I want to keep you around, I expect.”
She selected a fat green grape. “This is great.”
Noting she didn’t respond to his invitation to stick around, he made the decision to keep things light, not to probe too obviously for details about her life. It would only take a simple phone call to find out the identity of the lovely blond country-club caterer.
As he slid onto the bar stool next to her, he handed her a wineglass. “Considering your exceptional skills in the kitchen, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
She sipped the wine, nodding with approval. “How do you like Atlanta so far?”
“It’s fast. The traffic is murder.”
“A bit different from New Orleans, I bet.”
His hand clenched around the stem of his glass. “What makes you think I’m from New Orleans?”
She shrugged. “Earlier you called Mia chère. Then me, in the hall. I just figured you were from there.”
He hadn’t even been conscious of the endearment. A troubling thought. It made him realize how much Vanessa had affected him, distracted him. As he searched for the right answer, he took a drink. “I practiced in New Orleans, but I’m not originally from there.”
“Oh, well, the accent is nice. Don’t get rid of it.”
“You mean like those diction classes?”
“Yeah. Pretty ridiculous.”
He’d spent much of his life hating his accent, and he’d modified his speech a great deal. Only a trace remained, just enough to be identified as Southern. Just enough to appeal to a sympathetic jury. How would Vanessa feel knowing that?
Not complimentary, he was sure.
“How old are you?” she asked, choosing another grape.
“Thirty. You?”
“Twenty-seven. Did you always want to be a lawyer?”
I wanted to survive. “No. I sort of fell into it.” I got arrested.
She held up her hand, indicating the posh apartment. “But obviously you found a niche. You’re a big success. Are your parents proud?”
“My father died when I was young. My mother’s proud, though.” At least when she’s coherent.
She laid her hand over his. “I’m sorry about your dad. My father and I don’t always get along, but I can’t imagine being without him.”
The half-truths he was telling bothered him. He wanted to be honest with her. He wanted to share his pain, his struggles. But he suspected her background was far more upstanding than his, and he wanted her too much to risk her rejection. “Did you always want to be a caterer?”
She grinned. “Not specifically. I wanted to cause trouble.”
He raised his glass to her. A kindred spirit. Maybe that was part of her appeal. “Laissez les bons temps rouler.” When she angled her head in question, he elaborated, “Let the good times roll.”
“Exactly. My family has…” She glanced down at her glass, then back up to him. “They have a traditional idea of how a proper Southern lady should live her life,” she continued, rolling her shoulders back. “I’m not traditional.”
“That’s not a crime.”
“It is in my family.” She sipped her wine. “Anyway, I don’t mind being covered in flour, sweaty and wearing jeans. I was drawn to the fast pace of restaurants, then I got sucked in by the instant gratification—”
When he leered, she nudged him playfully with her elbow. “Gratification of cooking. Feed people, and for the most part, they’re happy. I turned out to be a good chef.” She angled her head. “I’m a great pastry chef, to tell you the truth.”
“I know. I got a taste, remember?”
She licked her lips. “I remember.” Her hand danced toward the plate, then she drew back. Her gaze locked with his. “I’m sometimes impulsive to my own detriment.”
“Like tonight?”
“No. Yes. I don’t normally go this…far. Something about you just got to me.”
He pushed back a lock of hair that had fallen across her cheek. “I know the feeling. I was at the party to network, not find a woman who’d knock me on my ass.” He cupped her jaw. “There are no rules here, Vanessa. I won’t put you down for being nontraditional.”
“Thanks.” She squeezed his wrist. “Really. Just thanks.”
He sampled a wedge of cheese and let her have a moment to recover. He also didn’t want her to see how much he wanted to violently shake sense into her family. “So what happened after you caused trouble?”
“I moved out. I got a job. I went to culinary school. I got the tattoo, and my mother was humiliated and furious, but she realized I was serious about—” Her eyes popped wide. “I never saw your tattoo!”
During the heat of their connection, he’d forgotten about it. “How could you have missed it?”
One hand lying on the back of his bar stool and the other gripping his thigh, she leaned close. “Where?”
“Before, you wanted to know what.”
“So where?”
