him. “Thank you,” she said finally.
“Now, how about that dessert? Coffee?”
Natalie shook her head, causing her dark hair to tumble over that obstinate shoulder. “As great as the cheesecake sounds, I’m going to say no.”
He shook his head. “That’s a shame. I’ve got a terrible sweet tooth. Which means I have to spend far too long at the gym, because I’m not that great at denying myself.”
“Well, that’s one thing we have in common. Not the gym part.” She shuddered. “I walk, of course, and I go to yoga twice a week. But big machines and weights? Not for me.”
“Whatever you’re doing works,” he said, and even though it was probably a nonstarter, he didn’t hold back on his smile.
“You must be a very good lawyer,” she said.
“You think?”
“You’re very smooth.”
“Huh. I could take that one of two ways.”
Natalie flashed that wicked smile he’d seen earlier. “I’ll amend that to convincing.”
“Better.” He smiled back. “That’s because I’m telling the truth.”
“Thank you,” she said, giving him a small bow.
He couldn’t help it. He reached out for her hand again, not sure if she’d put it within reach consciously or not. “Is it at all possible that there’s room in your plan for something a little less permanent until Mr. Right comes along?”
When her teeth scraped against her full bottom lip, he felt his cock stir. It wasn’t the first time that had happened since they’d met, but it was the most insistent. But he doubted words would work when actions said so much more. He leaned in farther, not hiding his desire at all as he gently teased the tender skin of her inner wrist.
* * *
NATALIE WAS EQUAL parts suspicious and tempted. The way he looked at her with such hunger was like something from a movie. However, that, along with his very gentle touch, meant it was also possible that she was being played. In fact, that was likely the case. The question was, did she mind?
There was a reason she didn’t do one-night stands. His name was Cory and she’d met him in college. She’d been won over by his love of literature and the way he’d looked at her. They’d clicked on a level that had been entirely new. The night had been magic. They’d made plans. He never called her again. When she’d run into him at a book signing, he’d said hey in a way that made it clear he couldn’t remember her name.
After that, she had a boyfriend for the last two years of undergraduate studies; another, Tim, for almost all of grad school; and Oliver. Max was another creature altogether. He was gorgeous, sexy, smart. A sophisticated man who belonged to Manhattan in a way she never would. She was a child of her neighborhood. He was skyscrapers and after-hours clubs. She’d only crossed paths with the likes of him at work.
Was she up for something that risky? Although, was there a risk at all, if she walked in with no expectations? Frankly, it would have been easier to throw caution to the wind if she’d worn matching underwear.
His thumb on her wrist was right over her pulse. No way he could miss how her heart was beating allegrissimo. But then, the way he looked at her made her feel entirely exposed, as if he could read every thought.
She wished he would say something. Blink. Because if he didn’t, she was going to say yes. The hell with her blue polka-dot panties and her plain white bra.
He didn’t say a word, but his gaze was a blatant promise of things she’d only read about.
“How far did you say your place was?”
4
NATALIE’S FIRST IMPRESSION of Max’s loft was that she didn’t belong in it. Nothing was overstuffed or secondhand. Of the few things he had, a lot were shiny and black and his television was bigger than her stove. Her second impression was that the only way she’d get through the next part of the evening was if she considered this a visit to another country. She’d always been a brave traveler, never afraid to try the local cuisine or explore the dodgy side of the tracks.
“Courvoisier?” he asked, putting the box of cheesecake on the glossy counter that divided the kitchen from the minimally furnished living room.
“Please.” Noting the bare-but-for-an-elaborate-coffeemaker countertop, she doubted he did much cooking. The well-stocked wet bar looked as if it got a lot more use.
He brought down two snifters from the top shelf and poured them each a generous finger of the cognac.
“My parents liked Rémy Martin,” she said. “My father was a cellist for the New York Philharmonic and he received a bottle every Christmas from the concertmaster. That was the only time they used their snifters. When I was a girl, I used to sneak Coke in them. I imagined myself being terribly sophisticated as I swirled my soda, then sipped elegantly even though the carbonation never stood a chance against the heat from my palms.”
He gave her a glass and a smile. “Who were you terribly sophisticated with?”
“Movie stars, mostly. From black-and-white films, of course. Cary Grant was my favorite.”
“Okay, there’s no way I can compete with Cary Grant.” Max watched her swirl her drink as he did the same. “My folks didn’t do a lot of drinking, but when they did, it was beer. They had a few bottles of hard liquor for guests, but that’s it.”
She looked over his collection of liquor. “You ended up with excellent taste.”
“Don’t tell anyone, but I took a class. Okay. More than one. The year between NYU and law school, I learned about wine. That was interesting, and I liked the tasting part, so I took another class that included hard liquor.”
“Very practical,” she said. “I imagine the knowledge has been especially useful in your line of work.”
“If you count sounding like a pretentious ass useful.”
She grinned. “I doubt you made a single mistake.”
Stepping closer to her, he lifted his glass. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me, too.” She clinked her glass against his and lifted the snifter to her lips, figuring it was safe enough to take a sip now that some of the alcohol had evaporated. Not only was she wrong, but her sip went down the wrong way and sent her into a fit of coughing that doubled her over.
Thankfully, Max didn’t pat her on the back. He just disappeared for a bit, and then took her cognac, replacing it with a glass of water.
Finally, after a ridiculously long and painful time, the spasms stopped and she was able to breathe again. Naturally, she’d teared up and could only imagine the mascara damage. “Bathroom?” she croaked as she grabbed her purse from the counter.
“Come on.” He touched her arm again, in that same spot behind her elbow. “I’ll show you.”
