“No, actually,” I say, trying to look ladylike as I blot my lips on my napkin. “Only on two days a year.”
He cocks a brow, waiting for an explanation. In an ashtray next to his left elbow, his cigar sends up lazy whorls of smoke into the air.
Are you even allowed to smoke in here?
As if that would stop him.
I glance away from the dark pull of his eyes. “It’s a long story.”
Even though I’m not looking at him, his attention is a force I can physically feel on my body. In my stomach. On my skin. I close my eyes and slowly exhale, trying to steady my nerves.
Then—blame it on the buzz—I jump off the cliff in front of me. “Today was supposed to be my wedding day.”
After an oddly tense pause, he prompts, “Supposed to be?”
I clear my throat, knowing that my cheeks are red, but there’s nothing I can do about it. “My fiancé disappeared. That was five years ago. I haven’t seen him since.”
What the hell, he’d find out from someone soon enough anyway. Diane Myers has probably already mailed him a handwritten essay about the whole thing.
When he remains silent, I glance over at him. He’s sitting perfectly still in his chair, his gaze steady on mine. His expression reveals nothing, but there’s a new tension in his body. A new hardness in his already stony jaw.
Which is when I remember that he’s a recent widower. I’ve just stuck my foot in my mouth.
Hand over my heart, I breathe, “Oh, I’m so sorry. That was thoughtless of me.”
His brows draw together in a quizzical frown. It’s obvious he doesn’t know what I mean.
“Because of your…situation.”
He sits forward in his chair, folds his arms on the tabletop, and leans closer to me. Eyes glittering, he says quietly, “Which situation is that?”
God, this guy is scary. Big, hot, and really scary. But mostly hot. No, scary.
Shit, I think I’m drunk.
“Maybe I’m wrong. I just assumed—”
“Assumed what?”
“That when you saw me in my wedding dress…that you’re new in town and you seem very, um, a little, how should I say? Not angry, exactly, but more like upset? That perhaps, you were, ah, maybe suffering from a recent loss…”
Feeling pathetic, I trail off into silence.
His stare is so hard and searching, it might as well be an interrogation spotlight. Then his expression clears, and he sits back into his chair. “You thought I was married.”
There’s a definite a hint of laughter in his tone.
“Yes. Specifically, a widower.”
“I’ve never been married. Never been divorced. Don’t have a dead wife.”
“I see.”
I don’t see, not one bit, but what else can I say? So sorry my best friend and I are conspiracy theorists and spent an entire lunch obsessing over you?
No. I definitely can’t say that.
Also on the list of prohibited topics: if you don’t have a dead wife, why did you freak out when you saw me in my wedding dress? Why do you look at me like you want to run me over with your car but turn around and give me such beautiful compliments? Then hate yourself for giving them?
Last but not least, what’s up with the punching bag?
At a loss for what else to do or say, I pat my lips with my napkin again. “Well. I apologize. It’s none of my business anyway.”
Very softly, Kage says, “Isn’t it?”
His tone suggests that it is. Now I’m even more flustered. “I mean…no?”
“Is that a question?” A faint smile lifts one corner of his mouth. His eyes have warmed, and there are tiny crinkle lines around them.
Wait—is he mocking me?
I say icily, “I’m not in the mood to play games.”
Still with that low, suggestive tone, he says, “I am.”
His gaze drops to my mouth. He sinks his teeth into his full lower lip.
In a wave, heat rushes up my neck to my ears where it settles, throbbing.
I grab the champagne bottle and attempt to pour champagne into my glass. My hands are shaking so badly, however, it spills down the sides of the flute and onto the tablecloth.
Kage removes the bottle from my hand, takes the glass, and finishes pouring, all the while wearing an expression very close to a smirk.
It’s not a real smirk, mind you, because that would require smiling.
He hands me the champagne flute. I say breathlessly, “Thank you,” and toss it back.
When I set the empty glass back on the table, he turns businesslike. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. Let’s start over.”
Oh, look, he’s being reasonable. I wonder which personality this is?
He sticks out his baseball mitt of a hand. “Hi. I’m Kage. Nice to meet you.”
Feeling like I’m in an alternate universe, I slip my hand into his, then doubt I’ll ever get it back because it’s lost somewhere inside his warm, rough, gargantuan palm.
What would it be like to have those hands on my naked body?
“Kage?” I repeat faintly, struck by the vivid mental image of him running his huge hands all over my naked flesh. I flush all the way down to my toes. “Is that your first name or your last name?”
“Both.”
“Of course it is. Hi, Kage. I’m Natalie.”
“Pleased to meet you, Natalie. May I call you Nat?”
He’s breaking out the manners, I see. And he still hasn’t let go of my hand. And I still can’t banish that image of him fondling me everywhere as I writhe and moan and beg him for more. “Of course.”
Please don’t let him notice that my nipples are hard. Please, please, don’t let him notice. Why the hell didn’t I wear a bra?
He says pleasantly, “So what do you do for a living, Nat?”
“I’m a teacher. Of art. At a middle school.”
I could also be an escapee from a mental institution. I’ll let you know in a minute, right after the throbbing between my legs settles down and the blood returns to my head.
What is wrong with me? I don’t even like this guy!
“And you?”
“I’m a collector.”
That surprises me. He could’ve said “contract killer” and I would’ve just nodded. “Oh. Like antiques or something?”
His pressure on my hand is firm and steady. His gaze is also steady as he looks into my eyes and answers.
“No. Like debts.”
6
Nat
It’s obvious there’s some hidden meaning behind his words. This isn’t a man who sits behind a desk in a call center wearing a headset and harassing debtors over the phone to pay their past due credit card bills.
I withdraw my hand from his but maintain eye contact, feeling curious and uncomfortable and extremely turned on. It’s a confusing combination.
Aiming for nonchalant, I say, “A debt collector. That’s an interesting line of work. Is that why you moved to Lake Tahoe? For work?”
Sitting back in his chair, he picks up his cigar and thoughtfully puffs for a moment, gazing at me as if carefully choosing his words.
Finally he says, “It was supposed to be for work.”