the next day.’
‘I would imagine a lot of actresses live for the attention of the paparazzi.’
‘You’re wrong,’ I say quickly. ‘That attention can be used to build an image, sure, but it’s a double-edged sword. And not being able to escape that hounding, it’s horrifying. Everyone deserves to be able to switch off their “persona” and just be themselves for a while.’
He’s watching me in a way that gives me goose bumps and makes my head feel light, because he’s looking at me as though he sees the real me, deep inside who I am, beyond my own ‘persona’.
‘You’re speaking from experience?’
‘Sort of. Not really. I like to fly beneath the radar as much as possible, but my parents, on the other hand…’
He waits, encouragingly, as if he doesn’t know about them. And maybe he doesn’t. I forget sometimes that I’m out of the East Coast bubble.
‘My mother’s an actress. Or was. Now I guess she’s a socialite. She never met a camera she didn’t like.’
Wow. I sound so bitter. So serious. And I am—God knows I carry a lot of resentments but I usually do a much better job of hiding them. It’s hard to hide things from Nicholas.
I force a smile to my face. ‘The club was only meant to be for a few people, but it just took off. I started with a single venue here in Manhattan but…’
‘You found a gap in the market, and the market rose to meet it.’
It sounds so cynical when, actually, it wasn’t at all. ‘I studied business at college—I thought I’d get a job out this way but, once I got here, I found I didn’t really want to spend my time working hard to make rich people even richer.’ I smile to take the sting out of the statement. ‘Then, the club took on a life all of its own.’
‘And you have your charity too, right?’
My smile now is natural. ‘Chance, yeah.’
‘It does something for kids?’
‘Excuse me, sir?’ a voice calls from beyond the curtains.
‘Yes?’ Impatience curves Nicholas’s expression.
The curtains open and the waiter reappears, placing a platter on the table top. ‘Compliments of the chef.’
Oysters—one of my favourites—with a variety of toppings, and caviar atop thinly sliced cucumber. It breaks the serious mood that had descended on us, and I’m glad. Glad for the reprieve. We promised each other a whole lot of fun and talking about broken engagements and my parents is hardly fun.
Beneath the table, I brush my hand over his knee. He turns to look at me slowly, but that doesn’t stop the slash of heat that steals across my body.
Dating was his idea and I really liked it but now all I want is to be back in bed with him, exploring the desire that fogs the air around us.
I am hungry only for Nicholas Rothsmore.
I’M NOT SURE if it’s the champagne I’ve been drinking, or the incredibly decadent Belgian mousse we shared after dinner, or the fact we’re walking hand in hand through New York with the lights of the Brooklyn Bridge twinkling in the background, snow dusting down from an inky black sky, and Christmas lights twinkling overhead, but suddenly I feel as if I’m floating.
‘So, is this a normal first date, Nicholas?’
His fingers squeeze mine. I love how he does that, as if it’s his way of agreeing with me or something. ‘I mean, we’ve already had sex on two separate occasions, so I’m not sure we can classify this as a first date?’
‘No, no, no,’ I demur with a grin. ‘Those weren’t dates. It was fucking.’ Champagne has taken away any of my usual tendencies to hesitate. ‘And you told me fucking is different from dating.’
His laugh is like a caress. I close my eyes and let it wash over me.
‘It is.’
‘But you don’t really date.’
It’s not a question; I know the answer.
‘I date,’ he corrects, pausing before leading us across the street.
‘Oh, yeah?’
‘Sure. I date like this—when I know it’s just for fun, with no chance of becoming more than what it is.’ His eyes meet mine for the briefest second. ‘But not a lot of women are interested in that.’
‘Really?’ I pull a face. ‘Because you’re such a catch they insist on a wedding ring on the first night?’
He laughs. ‘Something like that.’
‘I can actually kind of believe it.’
‘I wasn’t serious.’ He drops my hand so he can put his in the small of my back, guiding me further down the street. It’s a perfect, perfect New York winter’s night. Bundled up in my jacket, with Nicholas at my side, I feel warm, safe and as if I just don’t want the night to end. ‘It’s just hard to meet someone who understands that I really, truly don’t want to get involved.’
‘Beyond sex.’ I am definitely emboldened by champagne.
‘Yeah.’
I look up at him thoughtfully. ‘Is that what the tattoo means?’ I blink and see those words I am my own written over his heart.
He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand me. ‘The tattoo means a lot of things.’
‘Yeah?’ Curiosity barbs in my chest.
His smile is self-deprecating. ‘About a year after the wedding—the wedding that never happened—’ he laughs ‘—my dad came to New York and he was livid. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like that. We argued—which we don’t do. It’s very un-British.’ He grins, so sexy, so full of passion that I think Nicholas flies in the face of any stereotype regarding stiff, unfeeling upper lips.
‘What did you fight about?’
‘My lifestyle, which he hated. The nickname “Playboy of Manhattan”, which people delighted in calling me.’ He expels a sigh. ‘He did everything he could to get me to go home, but at the same time I think he knew the business here needed me. So in the end, he issued an ultimatum. Sow my wild oats, get the partying out of my system. Then, at thirty, get married and come home to settle down.’
‘And you’re nearly thirty?’
He nods. ‘It’s time to face the music.’
‘So, what, you go home and get married, sometime next year?’
For a second, something
