without saying—oh, bay-bee!
“For dinner,” he added, holding up the menu. “What do you recommend?”
Ooooh, what did Della think about that? Well, that was a totally different question from the one she’d been thinking he asked, wasn’t it? Good thing she’d been too nonplussed to answer.
“Um, I’m not sure,” she said. “This is the first time I’ve dined here.” Somehow, she didn’t think a man like him would be too impressed if she told him to order whatever was most expensive, because it would make him appear chic, sophisticated and rich. He was all those things simply by existing on the planet.
Her answer seemed to surprise him. “But how can this be your first time? Palumbo’s has been a Chicago institution for nearly a hundred years. Are you not from Chicago originally?”
There was no way Della was going to answer that question. Mostly because no one other than Geoffrey knew she was here, and he was keeping much too close an eye on her. Even if he didn’t know exactly where she was at the moment, she wasn’t about to risk his discovery of her little escape by breathing a word of it to anyone.
So she wouldn’t—couldn’t—tell this man that. Either she’d have to lie—which Della never did, even though her honesty had gotten her into trouble more than once, as evidenced by her having to rely on Geoffrey at the moment—or else her reply would lead to the kind of small talk that might make her talk about her past. Or, even worse, her present. And she wanted to be as far removed from both of those tonight as she could be, on account of nothing in her past or present lent itself to Carolina Herrera gowns or diamonds and rubies or box seats to La Bohème.
So she replied instead to the first question he’d asked. “I ordered the special. I adore seafood.”
He said nothing for a moment, and Della wondered if it was because he was pondering her answer to his first question or trying to decide whether or not to press the fact that she hadn’t replied to the second. Finally, he said, “I’ll remember that.”
For some reason, though, he made it sound as if it were the fact that she loved seafood that he would remember, and not that she had recommended it for dinner.
He opened his mouth to say something else, but his server arrived to place a short, amber-colored cocktail in front of him and a dewy pink cosmopolitan on the table at the place directly next to his.
He was expecting someone to join him, Della realized. A woman, judging by the color and daintiness of the drink. Couples didn’t dine in places like Palumbo’s unless their relationship went beyond casual—or one of them was looking to make it more than casual. This guy was throwing steamy glances her way, even flirting with her, despite the fact that there would be a woman joining him momentarily. That meant the guy was a complete jerk.
Okay, so maybe her thirtieth birthday celebration wasn’t going to go quite as perfectly as she had planned, since she was going to have to be seated near a jerk. And—oh, all right—maybe it wasn’t only because of the jerk that the celebration wouldn’t be exactly what she’d had in mind. Maybe it wasn’t even because her gown and accessories were rentals from a Michigan Avenue boutique instead of pulled casually from her own closet.
Maybe, just maybe, it was because, in addition to not being the life of a millionaire, Della’s current life wasn’t even her own. Everything about her life these days—every thing she did, every place she went, every word she spoke—had to be vetted and controlled by Geoffrey. Her life would never be normal again. Or, at least, it would never be the life she had made for herself or the one she had planned. It would be a life manufactured and orchestrated by someone else.
As soon as the thought formed, she pushed it to the furthest, darkest recesses of her brain. She wouldn’t think about any of that tonight, she reminded herself again, wondering why she was finding it all so hard to forget. Because tonight, she didn’t want to be Della anyway. Tonight, for one night, she wanted to be the woman she had envisioned herself to be two decades and two thousand miles ago: CinderDella, toast of the town and belle of the ball. Nothing was going to mar this evening. Not even Prince Less-Than-Charming over there who was still making bedroom eyes at her while waiting on a girlfriend who could do a helluva lot better.
As if cued by the thought, the hostess seated a boisterous party of four at the table between them, completely blocking the man from her view. For that Della was grateful and not disappointed, even if some twisted part of her made her think that was what she was feeling.
Well, even if he was a jerk, he was still the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.
And she saw him again an hour and a half later—at the Lyric Opera when she was trying to locate her seat. After realizing she was in the wrong part of the auditorium, Della asked an usher for directions, then found herself gazing at a box across the room that afforded an amazing view of the stage … and where sat the handsome stranger she’d seen at dinner. Just as he’d
been at the restaurant, he was surrounded by gold, this time a cascade of engraved gilt that encrusted the walls and ensconced the stage. Likewise as he’d been at the restaurant, he was seated alone.
Okay, so maybe as she’d left Palumbo’s, Della had happened to notice that his date still hadn’t shown up. Not that she’d been trying to notice that. She just had, that was all. Though whether the woman had gotten waylaid somewhere and been unable to make their rendezvous, or she’d wised up about what kind of man he was, Della couldn’t have said.
Not that she cared either way. Hey, she’d barely noticed. In case she hadn’t mentioned that.
Now as she strode down the aisle to her seat, she similarly barely noticed that it was not only in the same box the man was occupying, but also in the same row, as well—a small one at the front that contained only three chairs. She also barely noticed that he had placed both a program and a long-stemmed rose on the seat beside his own, as if the chair would soon be occupied. So evidently his girlfriend had indeed been waylaid earlier and was intending to catch up to him here.
Butterflies head-butted Della’s midsection at the prospect of having to sit in such close proximity to the man. Once she squeezed past him to get to her seat, there would be no escaping him—unless she wanted to pull a Groucho Marx maneuver from A Night at the Opera and swing across the auditorium on a cable.
She inhaled a single, fortifying breath and forced her feet to move forward until she stood at the edge of the row beside him. His head snapped up, and, when he recognized her, he grinned that shudders-down-the-spine grin again. Heat flared in her belly, her brainturned to mush, and the excuse me Della had been about to utter evaporated in her mouth.
He murmured a greeting as he stood, but she barely heard it, because she was too busy trying not to swoon. Not only did he smell delectable—a luscious mix of spice and wood smoke—but he was also much taller than she’d realized, forcing her to tip back her head to meet his gaze. It was an action to which she was unaccustomed, since she pushed the six-foot mark herself in the two-inch heels she was wearing. Even without heels, she was accustomed to being at eye level with virtually everyone. With this man, however, eye level meant gazing at shoulders that spanned a distance roughly the size of Montana.
But it was his face that drew her attention. His jawline was resolute, his nose was straight and refined, his cheekbones looked as if they’d been hewn from marble, and his eyes … Oh, his eyes. His eyes were the color of bittersweet chocolate, a brown so dark and so compelling that Della couldn’t tear her gaze away. Then she realized it wasn’t the depth or color of his eyes that
