Growing up, her chief source of entertainment had been old movies and TV shows on the free channels, and she’d always wanted to have her own household like the glamorous women of the ’50s. It was everything she’d expected. Being in charge of her domain gave her a heady sense of accomplishment and purpose, which popped out of her mouth in song.
When Leo strode through the door at six o’clock that evening with a small, lopsided grin, her throat seized up and quit working entirely.
“I thought we’d have dinner together,” he said as she stared at him, wordless. “If you don’t have other plans.”
Dinner? Together? Why?
“Oh,” she squeaked and sucked in a couple of lungfuls of oxygen in hopes it might jar everything else into functioning. “No plans. I’ll let the cook know.”
Clothes, she thought as she flew to alert the staff Leo would be dining in. She should change clothes. And open a bottle of wine. Her foot tangled on the edge of the Persian runner lining the stairs to the second floor. And slow down. A broken leg wouldn’t do her any favors.
This was the first time she’d dine alone with Leo since they’d gotten married. It was practically like a date. Better than a date, because it had been his idea and totally a surprise. She wanted it to be flawless and so enjoyable he couldn’t wait to do it again.
In spite of a triple-digit pulse and feeling as though her tongue was too big for her mouth, she could get used to that kind of surprise.
Dannie opened her closet and surveyed her small but lovely wardrobe. She’d never owned such amazing clothes and shoes before and never got tired of dressing up. She slipped into a casual black cocktail dress that veed over her breasts, buckled her feet into the sexiest Louboutins she owned and curled her lip at the state of her hair. Quickly she brushed it out and twisted it up into a sleek chignon.
Done. That was as close as she could get to looking like the kind of wife a man would enjoy coming home to. She took her time descending the stairs in her five-inch heels and spent a few minutes in the wine cellar glancing at labels until she put her hand on a sauvignon blanc Wine Spectator had talked up. A perfect date-night wine.
She stuck the bottle in a bucket of ice and left it on the formal dining room sideboard to chill until dinner, which the cook informed her would be a few minutes yet. At loose ends, she tormented the place settings until the silverware was either perfectly placed or exactly where it’d been when she started. She couldn’t tell, which meant stop obsessing.
The cook announced dinner at last. She went to fetch Leo and found him in his study, of course, attention decisively on his laptop. His suit jacket hung on the back of the leather chair. His shirtsleeves were rolled up on his forearms and he’d already removed his tie. Rumpled Leo might be her favorite.
Leaning on the doorjamb, she watched him type in efficient strokes, pause and type again. Mentoring anonymously via chat again, most likely. She hated to interrupt. But not really.
“Dinner’s ready.”
He glanced up without lifting his head and the way he peeked out from under his lashes was so sexy, it sent a spiral of heat through her tummy.
“Right now?” he asked.
“Um, yeah.” She cleared the multitude of frogs camping out on her vocal cords. “We don’t want it to get cold.”
He typed for another couple of seconds and then closed the laptop’s lid with a snick as he stood. “That would be a shame.”
Boldly, she watched him approach, aware her body blocked the doorway and curious what he’d do about it. “I’m a believer in hot food, myself.”
He stopped a healthy distance away when he apparently realized she wasn’t budging. “I’m looking forward to a home-cooked meal. Thought I should start eating better. I’ve had too much takeout lately.”
Whose fault is that? “Just the food, then? The company wasn’t a draw?”
“Of course the company was a factor.” Something flickered in the depths of his blue eyes and heat climbed all over her.
Oh, that had all sorts of interesting possibilities locked inside. They gazed at each other for a long, delicious moment, and he didn’t look away. Or back up.
Then he gestured to the hall. “Shall we, Mrs. Reynolds?”
And somehow, that was far more intimate than calling her Dannie. Deliberate? Oh, goodness, she hoped so.
Leo’s capable palm settled into the small of her back as they walked and she felt the contact all the way to the soles of her feet. Something had changed. Hadn’t it? Was her coffee that good?
In the dining room, Leo drew back the heavy chair and allowed her to sit on the brocade cushion before pushing it in for her. Then he expertly poured the wine to exactly the same level in both glasses on the first try—impressive evidence of how good Leo was with both detail and his hands.
Not that she’d needed additional clues the man hid amazing things under his workaholic shell. Were they at a point where she could admit how outrageously attracted to Leo she was? Or was that going past blunt into another realm entirely?
Placing her glass on the table before her, he took the seat catercorner to hers instead of across the table. “So we can talk without shouting,” he said when she raised her eyebrows.
All small, small gestures, but so huge to her romance-starved soul. Flutters spread from her stomach to every organ in her body. Especially her heart.
For whatever reason, he was trying, really trying, to give her some of his time. But what was his intent? The friendship she’d hoped for or merely a small gesture toward crossing her path?
She’d keep her wits about her and under no circumstances would she read anything into what was essentially just dinner. As they dug into Greek salads served with crusty bread, she stuck to discussing her progress on the party. The more the wine flowed, the more relaxed they both became.
About halfway through her swordfish, she brought up the one thing she’d been dying to ask since the night of their marriage. “Do you still draw?”
Leo’s fork froze over a piece of grilled zucchini. “How did you know about that?”
“Your mother told me.”
He grimaced. “I should have guessed. She still has every piece of paper I’ve ever touched with a pencil.”
Which was no answer at all. “Is it a sensitive subject?”
“No.” Carefully, he cut a hunk of fish and chewed it in a spectacular stall tactic she recognized a mile away. He didn’t want to discuss his art, that much was clear.
“So, never mind then. It’s not important,” she lied. His reaction said there was more to the story and it was very important, but she didn’t want to alienate him. “Tell me something else instead. Why venture capital?”
His expression warmed. “If you’re good, you can make a lot of money. You just have to recognize the right opportunities.”
“Are you good?”
She
