It would also reek of desperation, and nobody wants to date the desperate girl.
“I do.” I smile. “Happily. Everybody’s been so good to me.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” He stands, thrusting his hands into his pockets.
Even now, completely relaxed, he’s breathtaking. Smiling down at me, backlit—thanks to a fixture just behind his head. It creates an aura around him, like a halo. I’m surprised I don’t hear angels singing.
“Mr. Marlin?” A young woman trots over, pointing to the screen of her phone. “Your jet is wheels up in forty-five minutes.”
“Right,” he sighs. Then, he winks down at me. “But that’s the nice thing about having your own jet. You get to decide when to leave.” Strange how something that might’ve sounded totally … well, douchey, coming out of anybody else’s mouth, is cute and charming, coming from him.
“But your dinner plans,” the girl murmurs.
“Right.” He nods, his jaw tightening. “Okay. But first, I’m seeing this young lady home—if she lives nearby, that is. I don’t know if a drive out of state is in the cards today.”
“Oh.” I blush, even as I wonder how to wrangle a date out of him. Not that the sight of him and the sound of his voice aren’t enough to inspire a virtual porno film of scenarios in my head, but I could use a little insight into his life. “I live here in the city, but you don’t have to do that.”
“I insist.” And he doesn’t sound like a man who’s used to being disagreed with. “It’s the least I can do for a best-selling author who happens to write with one of my publishers. You’ve had a rough day. Let me see you home.”
When I hesitate—because honestly, his generosity is staggering—he adds, “You’d better make up your mind quick or else I’ll be late for my flight and for an important dinner. You wouldn’t want that.”
It’s the way his mouth twitches like he’s trying to hold back a laugh that does me in. No matter how sexy a man is, the sexiest thing of all is a sense of humor. Hands down.
“Okay, okay, I don’t want to make you late.”
“Great. Let’s head out to my car then.” He turns to his assistant. “Please make sure my bags are on the jet and let the pilot know I’m running slightly behind schedule. Oh, and please, call home and let her know I might be a few minutes late but not to go calling the police or the hospital. I had a slight bump in my schedule.”
Her? Home? My stomach drops. I thought he was single, but it’s not sounding that way. He has dinner plans with his wife or girlfriend. Whoever she is, she sounds overprotective. Darn it! All this effort and humiliation for nothing.
“Come on then, Kitty Valentine.” Blake grins, taking the handles of the chair and actually, honest-to-God pushing me out of the room and down the hall.
Blake Marlin, the billionaire, is pushing me in a wheelchair, and he might as well be Moses parting the Red Sea. The people around us step aside without needing to be told, gaping with wide eyes and murmuring to each other. Who’s the girl in the chair? Why in the world would a man this powerful be pushing her wheelchair?
“They probably think I’m a charity case,” I mutter under my breath.
But not quietly enough.
“What’s that?” Blake asks, chuckling.
“Nothing. So, uh, where are you heading tonight? Someplace fabulous, I’d guess. A fancy restaurant?”
“Hardly.” He snickers as he continues to push.
We’re near the front door finally, so I won’t have to endure being stared at much longer.
“Come on,” I tease. “You? Then again, I’m sure what you consider everyday and ordinary would be spectacular to somebody like me.”
“To the famous Kitty Valentine?” He chuckles as we cross the sidewalk with a hotel concierge at our heels—probably to get the wheelchair once I’m out of it and to generally grovel at Blake’s feet.
“I’m famous in a very small circle,” I remind him when we reach the black limousine parked at the curb. Of course this is his car. There I was, thinking he’d be the one driving.
The driver climbs out and opens the door while Blake helps me to my feet. It’s not a bad attempt at flirting that has me leaning against him, though having the excuse to do so is nice. His chest and arms are just as firm as they look in his suit. If I didn’t feel like my legs were screaming, this would not be the worst afternoon I’d ever had.
“I’ll tell you a secret,” he murmurs as he helps me into the limo.
His cologne is intoxicating, the sort of scent that makes me want to bury my face in his neck. I need to remember this feeling for when I’m writing.
“What’s that?” I ask, scooting over to make room for him.
He slides in beside me with a sigh. “I’m having dinner at my mom’s house tonight. That’s where I’m going. Now, you know the truth about me. I have to catch my jet, so I can get to my mother’s house. Shh. That’ll be our little secret.”
I wonder if he’s looking for somebody to fall in love with him because I’m halfway there. “You’re kidding. Dinner at Mom’s? So, she’s the one who might call the hospital if you don’t show up on time?” That would explain the overprotectiveness anyway.
“Correct. I love her, I do, but she hovers. Even now. Especially now really since I’m always traveling. Don’t I know how dangerous air travel can be? That sort of thing.”
“I’m sure it’s out of love.”
“Oh, undoubtedly. It’s just that nobody tells you when you hit the so-called big time that your mom will still see you as a little boy.” He laughs.
What a laugh. It’s like warm honey pouring over me and sweetening everything around us.
He turns on the seat, facing me. “What about you? What made you want to become a writer?”
I clear my throat. Should I tell him the whole story? Hayley told me to be mysterious, but he’s already interested in knowing more about me. If I act coy now, it might turn him off.
“To be honest, I couldn’t find a guy in college who lived up to my hopes and dreams, so I decided to write him.”
“Really?” He folds his arms, looking me up and down with a sly smile. “Maybe I should start reading your work after all.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I’d like to know more about your hopes and dreams when it comes to men … to see how I measure up.”
Son of a …
“Oh,” I breathe, and it’s a wonder I can get that much out, considering how my heart’s pounding like a runaway train.
“Of course, that’s presumptuous of me. You probably have a boyfriend.”
“I don’t,” I blurt out much, much too loud.
He chuckles. “Good for me then. What do you say?”
“To what?” Good Lord, he’s going to change his mind by the time the ride ends if I don’t get it together. It’s just that, at some point along the way, I forgot I’m supposed to be doing this for my career. Maybe it was when I almost shoved my face in his neck.
“To having dinner with me some night soon. Maybe in a few days? I should be back from a conference in Miami on Tuesday. How about Tuesday night?”