The waiter walked by with a basket of garlic cheese toast, momentarily capturing Rachel’s gaze like a catnip toy dangling on a string, before she yanked her eyes back and focused on the linen tablecloth in front of her. He could see her throat constrict as she swallowed hard. The fumes of delicious food were probably wreaking havoc on her salivary glands. And he was filled with a perverse sense of satisfaction that he’d crafted a way for her to accept his invitation to dinner with her pride intact. Not hungry, my ass.

*   *   *

Sarah forced herself to eat slowly, to savor, even though she could have happily planted her face into her food and not lifted it until the plate was licked clean. She placed a juicy, butter-doused chunk of lobster into her mouth. An involuntary moan escaped from her lips.

“I know.” Mick grinned happily as he plopped some creamed spinach onto his plate. “It’s good, huh?”

“It’s delicious,” she said, and then cleared her throat because her voice had come out in that low, husky cadence that happened only with delicious food or mind-blowing sex. “I’m glad you wanted company.” That was better. Her voice sounded almost normal, not like she was on the fringe of a food-induced orgasm. She carved another piece of lobster, squeezing lemon over it, and dunked it in the butter. “They have a . . .” What the hell? Shut up, girl. She stuffed the bite of lobster in her mouth and chewed.

“They have a what?” Mick said, of course, because nothing seemed to get by the bastard. He was cutting into the rib eye, but she could see him watching her through his disgustingly long lashes. It was criminal that such lush, thick lashes were wasted on a man.

“A comfortable decor,” she said with a smile, heart thumping because for a second she had relaxed her guard.

“That’s not what you were going to say.” A slight smile on his face, eyes gleaming like he was so damned smart. He was right, of course. She’d been thinking about summers as a child spent at their beach house in East Hampton. Saturday was the staffs’ day off, and so at the end of the day—sun-kissed and tiny particles of sand still clinging between her toes no matter how much she rinsed off—Sarah would climb into the back seat of the Rolls-Royce, the cream-colored leather upholstery smooth and slippery against her sundress. The car was her dad’s baby. He had spent hours on the weekends polishing its deep-blue exterior or tinkering under the hood of the 1973 Corniche coupé. Her mom and dad would ride in front, relaxed and carefree in their summer linens and tans. They’d go to The Palm in the Hamptons. It was tradition.

“Sure, it was,” she lied. “I like the wooden beams and the comfy booths. Would you pass the cheesy potatoes, please?”