She couldn’t keep from staring at his mouth, and the smile that flitted across it was different than the others—it somehow seemed more honest. “I can imagine,” he murmured. “So tell me how you do it.”
It was an odd interlude—she knew he was drawing her out just as she did with her students, and yet she was helpless to resist. No, that wasn’t true. She’d never been helpless in her life, not if she could do anything about it. But he smiled at her, spoke in that low, easy drawl, and she could feel all her caution and doubts melt away beneath his practiced charm. She found herself telling him things she’d never told anyone—her stage fright when it came to teaching, her perfect older sister, her remote parents. She told him about the beauty of the Pacific Northwest, a beauty she’d left for Massachusetts, where she was alternately freezing and roasting, and he listened, his eyes on her, his attention never straying, and she felt herself slipping, slipping, underneath his lazy, tempting charisma.
No one could be that seductive by accident—he had to have had lots of practice, and he was exerting everything he’d learned on her. She knew it, and even though she did, it worked. She was melting, and she slapped down that tiny warning voice inside. Other women did this, all the time, and she could count it as another milestone in her goal of putting the bad things of the past behind her. She was hardly a romantic—sex was a pleasurable, physical sensation, one that was much more enjoyable with a partner. She suspected he’d be a very good partner. He knew what she wanted to drink, he’d ordered for her, and he’d chosen perfectly. He was attuned to what she liked, what she wanted, picking up subtle cues, and he asked just the right questions, ones that had her telling him far too much, more than she’d ever told anyone. They say the real opposite of talking isn’t listening, it is waiting. Waiting to get in your own two cents, your opinion, your experience. Not with James Bishop. He seemed content with listening to her, gently prodding to keep her talking.
Having sex with someone like that, someone so keyed in to her, could be quite extraordinary, she thought, gazing at his elegant, unreadable face. Maybe too extraordinary. She considered herself an ordinary young woman, a little stubborn, perhaps maybe even boring. She was too practical, too wary. She wasn’t made for grand passion, for throwing caution and responsibility, and even duty, to the wind for the sake of a man. She’d worked hard to get where she was, and she had more hard work ahead of her that she couldn’t afford to jeopardize, even for one night, especially one that could go disastrously wrong given how skittish she could be.
But this man might be worth it.
“Now what are you thinking about?” he said lazily, leaning back as he stirred his espresso. “You haven’t said anything since they brought dessert.” The tiny, perfect pastries sat between them, delectable, and she had the sudden thought that she’d rather lick him. Color flooded her face—she must have had too much to drink.
“Just what a lovely evening this has been,” she said with a good stab at nonchalance. It failed, but she deserved credit for trying.
Once more he gave her that enchanting smile, the one that didn’t meet his eyes. “You’re looking nervous again. I thought you’d gotten over that.”
“I’m not!” she protested. What would his hands feel like on her body? No one had touched her in almost a year, and Lester had been more enthusiastic than skilled. This man would be both.
Wouldn’t she like to have just one time with someone who knew what he was doing? She could feel the color mount her
face again, and she was ashamed of herself. Of course Lester and the others had known what they were doing, and she’d been fine, orgasmic, once she’d gotten over her initial fears. She’d just longed for something . . . more.
She suspected the man across from her was an expert at providing that elusive more, if it even existed. Except that he didn’t seem to be making much of an effort to offer her more—his gently teasing manner, his flattery, was probably unconscious on his part. It was just what he did. She was sitting there in an absolute pool of irrational longing and he was leaning back in his chair, sipping his espresso and smiling, perfectly relaxed. She felt like a tightly wound violin string, ready to snap, and he didn’t even seem to want her.
Which was a relief, she told herself. Depressing, demoralizing, but a relief. She wasn’t up to dealing with someone like him. She preferred safety, reliability. And besides, he wasn’t interested.
She realized another silence had fallen while he watched her, a speculative expression in his unreadable dark eyes. She laughed, just a little nervously. “I’m sorry,” she said, taking a sip of her own cappuccino. For some reason he’d known she’d prefer it to espresso. “I’m drifting off again.”
“You won’t be drifting off with that coffee in your system,” he pointed out pleasantly. “And it’s early. I’d suggest we go for a walk but I think the storm is about to hit.”
She hadn’t been paying attention—not when there was something else so gorgeous to look at. She glanced overhead into the night sky. The stars were gone, hidden by the black, scudding clouds, and the poplar trees swayed in the breeze. She could feel the ozone in the air, the approach of the rain, and she wondered how long it had been like this, and whether he knew she’d been too mesmerized by him to pay attention to an imminent downpour.
Here they were, sitting out in the open, about to get soaked. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve been talking my head off and you’ve been wanting to get in out of the weather. I’ve kept you . . .”
“Why do you keep apologizing?” he said lazily, not moving from his relaxed position. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”
Yet, she thought. If she didn’t get away from him she was going to make a complete and utter fool of herself. She couldn’t tell whether he was sending her mixed signals or if she was looking for signs that didn’t exist. Italian men flirted. European men flattered. James Bishop had lived here long enough that he would have picked up both habits.
“Sorry,” she said, and then gave a little laugh, annoyed with herself. “It’s a bad habit of mine.”
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he mimicked lightly. “Come to bed with me.”
For a moment she thought she’d misheard him. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said come to bed with me,” he said, still that lazy voice that signaled no strong interest at all. “I could teach you not to be sorry about anything.”
The words hit her directly between her legs, an odd sensation. Words had never been that arousing in her life. Odd, because her few healthy relationships had been with fellow graduate students and academics, supposedly good with words.
She stared at him in shock, but at least her mouth wasn’t agape in astonishment. That was about the only blessing. “You’re kidding,” she blurted, feeling utterly stupid.
“Oh, I never kid about sex. You’re the most delicious creature I’ve seen or talked to in so long I can’t remember, and I’ve wanted to fuck you since I saw you in that church, which was very unholy of me.”
“But I . . .” Whatever she was going to say was lost, as the gorgeous woman who’d been by James’s side that afternoon suddenly appeared, dropping down into one of the empty chairs as if she belonged there.
“We’ve got a problem,” she said abruptly. And then, as if she suddenly realized she was intruding, she turned to Evangeline and gave her a dazzling smile. “Hello, there. I’m Claudia Facinelli, James’s associate. You’re the young woman we saw at the church earlier, aren’t you?”
The woman had just the trace of an Italian accent, and her eyes were a bright metallic blue as she surveyed Evangeline. The glance was slow and assessing, but there was no identifiable judgment in it. It was just that she was so elegant in a lean, flat-chested, greyhound kind of way that Evangeline immediately felt plain and clumsy.
“Claudia, you’re interrupting,” James said, sounding bored. “Whatever it is, it can certainly wait until tomorrow morning.” He made no effort to introduce her to his partner, and Evangeline wondered whether she should do it herself.