Still, it doesn’t escape me the way he sweeps my body with a heated look that makes my nipples perk. I smile and sit quickly.
“Can I get you something to drink?” the hostess asks. “A waiter will be right with you.”
Spying a glass of something clear and fizzy with a lime twist in front of Luka, I ask for the same and settle into my seat.
God is he breathtaking. He skipped the suit jacket again and I’m glad that he did. He’s in a dark green dress shirt that complements his eyes, top buttons undone again, and dark, expensive-looking jeans. I love the no-tie look he’s got going on and the messy thing he does with his hair. It’s hard not to reach over and just run my fingers through it.
“Thank you for meeting me,” he says. “You look amazing, by the way.”
“Thanks.” I don’t compliment him in return. No matter what, I’m staying in control of this meeting. If he really, really wants me for this assignment, or whatever it is, he’s going to have to work a little for it. “Though something tells me you don’t seriously worry about people standing you up.”
His eyebrows lift and he shrugs nonchalantly, rather than reverting to “preening peacock” mode. Huh. This Luka really is different than the one I remember. He’s still intense and carries that air of self-aware, wealthy sex appeal, but this time around he seems calmer, quieter. More focused. Maybe the downfall of KZ Modeling has forced him to grow up in a big way.
“You might be surprised,” he says. “People don’t always react to me the way you’d think they would. Especially lately.”
He searches my face, maybe to see if I’ll acknowledge the elephant in the room. I will.
“Look,” I say, “I’m well aware that your family’s business has been through hell the last few months. Guilty or not, I don’t pretend to know all the details of whatever went down, but…as far as I’m concerned, you have a clean slate with me.” It’s only partially a lie.
I can see him visibly relax, some of the tension going out of his shoulders and a smile playing at his lips. “I appreciate that.”
“No problem. And for what it’s worth, I think this will work best if we’re both as open and upfront as possible, yeah?”
“Agreed.”
As gratifying as I thought it would be to make him squirm, I can’t help the warm fuzzies I’m getting now that I’ve established some good will between us. Maybe it’ll even give me the upper hand.
Our server arrives and sets down a breadbasket, a dish of olive oil and Italian herbs, and my drink. I take a sip and realize it isn’t a cocktail at all, but sparkling water. I hold back a grimace. I hate that stuff. I figured Luka would be having a drink-drink, but I guess not. We both order pasta, which I know will be fantastic since they make it in-house—carbonara for me, alfredo for him—and then we’re alone again.
“Shall we get down to business, or are we still trying for small talk?” I ask. “You know everything about me thanks to my ‘audition’ this morning, but I don’t know much about you.” Except that you’re a manwhore. I take a sip of my drink and force myself to swallow it.
He shrugs. “There’s not much to tell. If you don’t live in a cave, you’ve probably gotten some kind of impression of me from the media. Though I’d say it’s largely inaccurate.”
I half-snort without meaning to. “Inaccurate? I thought we were going to be honest with each other.”
Luka laughs, and his grin is sheepish. “Fair enough. I’ll admit I lived a privileged life of excess and hedonism for…well, a while. But like you said, there’s been a lot of turmoil in my family over the past few months, and it shook us all up. Watching your dad go to prison for sex trafficking kind of takes the flavor out of things. So, I don’t know. I’ve changed.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” I say, ripping a hot piece of crusty bread apart and letting it soak up some oil and herbs before popping it into my mouth. I close my eyes and stifle a moan. It’s perfection.
“You’re making that innocent bread look downright sinful,” Luka says, his eyes glued to me.
“Sin with me, then,” I say, pushing the basket toward him. “It’s that good. And then go ahead and try to convince me that I have any interest at all in a sham marriage.”
“That’s a tall order,” he says, digging into the bread. “Especially considering that I don’t have the gift of negotiation and persuasion quite like my brother and…father seem to.”
He says the word father like it’s distasteful, and I’m quick to smooth over it.
“I imagine that you’re very persuasive,” I say carefully, trying to keep any hint of accusation out of my voice. “But if I didn’t know any better, I’d almost think you feel inferior to them in some way.”
My voice is light and teasing and he takes it that way, grinning as he crosses his arms on the table and leans over them. “You got me. The truth is, I’m the black sheep of the Zoric family. It’s easy to prove. Just look at my profile.”
He turns his head to the side, and I laugh, not at all sure what he’s up to.
“It’s a very nice profile.”
Scoffing, he turns the other way. “Look at this side. Do you see it now?”
“Again, very nice.” Very, very nice.
“You flatter me—but I’ll have you know that I’m the least photogenic of the family, by far. Which is ironic, isn’t it, considering what our family business is?”
“That’s a terrible shame.”
“It is. I mean it’s tough, having to walk around with a paper bag over your head during the holidays and family functions, trying not to mess up any group photos.”
The mental image is so ridiculous I have to laugh. I can’t believe we’re flirting like this, and that it feels so easy and natural.
“But you know,” I tell him, “everyone takes a bad photo once in a while.”
He reaches over to tuck a strand of my hair behind my ear, his fingers brushing my cheek for a split second. Don’t react, I tell myself. Just, don’t.
“I highly doubt that you’ve ever taken a bad photo, Brooklyn.”
There he goes again, saying exactly the right thing. Charming me. Making me want. I shake my head and pull away to grab my wallet from my purse. “Oh, yeah? Be prepared to be proven wrong.” I tug out my driver’s license and hold it against my chest. “Come on, yours too. Fair is fair.”
He fake groans and makes a big deal of pulling his out of his wallet. Then he tosses it across the table and plucks mine from my fingers. I pick his up and let out a laugh. He’s hot as hell, but that picture is something else.
“This is like a straight-up mug shot,” I say, before realizing I’ve just said the most awkward thing in the world to someone who did indeed get arrested a few months back.
But when I look up at him to gauge his reaction, he’s got the biggest smile on his face. “To be honest, my mug shot looks way better than my driver’s license,” he says. “Google it.”
Now we’re both laughing, and I have to remind myself that this is the same man who lied to me, who used me, who doesn’t even have the decency now to remember my face.