Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 92474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
The waiter opened his mouth with a frown, then took one look at Victor and nodded.
“I’ll put that right in.” He disappeared and she turned her attention back to Victor.
“I don’t know much about you. I mean, I only just found out your name.” And she was already considering how she could get him into her bed.
“And yet, even though I hardly know you, it also feels like I’ve known you for years. Does that sound silly? Almost as though we’ve been in contact in a past life or something. Or maybe it’s just because you’re my stalker,” she joked.
He stiffened. “What?”
“Remember, I accused you of stalking me because you knew my name?” she reminded him.
“Oh, yes. Of course. Your name badge.”
“You’re not really stalking me, right?” she said jokingly.
“If I did, it would only be for your protection.”
“Right, ha ha. I’m certain you have more important and interesting things to do than follow my ass around. I’m so boring you’d fall asleep. So, what is it that you . . .” she trailed off as he narrowed his gaze at something over her shoulder.
“Excuse me,” a pompous-sounding voice said from behind them.
“Yes?” she asked, turning.
The short man standing there was dressed in a chef’s uniform that strained over his bulging stomach. He held a piece of paper in his hand.
“Did you order the filet mignon well-done, ma’am?”
“Uh, yes?” This was a bit weird.
“Well, you ordered it wrong. It’s only cooked rare or medium-rare. Never well-done.” His voice was snooty and condescending and she felt herself shrinking. How was she supposed to know? She’d rarely eaten steak and when she had, her grandpa would cook the crap out of it on the grill. She’d never eaten steak that wasn’t well-done.
Victor leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. The chef’s smirking gaze went from her to him. And his expression changed in an instant. He visibly gulped.
“My girl wants her filet mignon well done. Is that going to be a problem?”
“Uh, well, yes, you see, that’s not the way I cook this cut of steak.”
“Then you best learn how to cook it that way. Because what she wants, she gets.”
Someone needed to come cool her down because she swore her body was overheating.
Who didn’t want to hear a sexy, commanding guy like Victor say that?
“It’s all right, I can eat it, uh, medium-rare.” Argh, did that mean there would be blood? She wasn’t sure she could handle that. “Or maybe I should get the fish.” There was no way she could muck up the order for that, right?
“No, you’re having the steak,” Victor told her firmly. “And it’s going to be cooked how you want it to be cooked. Isn’t it?”
“Yes, well, it will taste terrible though. Perhaps you’d prefer some porterhouse cooked well-done?”
“Yes, okay, thanks,” she said hastily before Victor could say anything.
“I apologize for interrupting you.” The chef waddled off.
“Just great,” she groaned, sitting back in her chair.
“What is it?”
“He’s going to spit in our food.”
Victor narrowed his gaze. “He better not.” He moved his hand back to her leg, running it up and down her thigh. She shivered.
“What do you do for a living?” she asked, trying to get her mind off how good that felt.
“What do you think I do?” he countered.
“Ooh, a guessing game. I like these. Do you own a gym?”
“No.”
“Are you a businessman?”
“No.”
“Lawyer?”
“Definitely not.”
She clicked her fingers together. “Writer.”
“Writer? Really?” he asked.
“Yeah, it was a long shot. But I thought maybe I should take a chance. I could have asked if you were a contortionist, but . . .”
“Definitely not that.”
“Me either. You should see me trying to get my foot up onto the barre. It’s pitiful. I’m way too short to begin with. But then, Sammy is a lot taller than me, and she can’t manage it either.”
“Sammy? She’s the one who did this?” He ran his finger gently down her swollen cheek.
Argh, she’d nearly forgotten that she looked like one of Picasso’s paintings. It was still hard to see out of her eye and even though the painkillers she’d swallowed earlier had taken the edge off her headache, she could still feel a dull ache in her temples.
“Yes, but she didn’t mean to. It was a total accident,” she told him hastily.
He just grunted. “You should have stayed home today. It’s easy to see it pains you.”
“No rest for the wicked.” She grinned at him.
“Wicked, huh? Just how wicked are you, little bit?”
“Oh, very.”
“Yes, I can tell. Very, very wicked.” He moved his hand from her thigh up to her neck. She almost protested, until he started massaging. She moaned in pleasure, her eyelids closing.
“Jesus, baby. You can’t make noises like that in public. It makes me want to do things you really aren’t ready for.”
She opened her eyes, staring over at him. “What makes you think I’m not ready?”