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Fliss knew better, but every time she looked at him, her brain shorted out. How could it not? He was gorgeous! Rather than the standard tuxedo most men had donned, Saint wore a dark blue jacket with geometric patterns embroidered into it. His black silk lapels framed his black silk tie against a crisp white shirt. His perfectly tailored trousers landed precisely on his glossy black shoes, and none of it distracted from his ruggedly handsome features. In fact, it only accentuated his athletic physique and sheer charisma.
His straight, dark brows gave him a stern look that reached all the way into the pit of her belly, but the hint of curl in his dirty blond hair, and the stubble that framed his sensually full mouth, were pure hedonism.
Don’t stare, she reminded herself, but he really was as good-looking in person as he was in photos. More. He had an aura of lazy confidence that was positively magnetic.
The way his gaze slid over her like a caress was dark magic that ought to have sent her tucking and rolling from the car, not sitting here holding her breath, waiting to see what would happen next.
Just go home.
Coming to the art gallery had been a terrible idea. She had traded away shifts and distressed her credit card to make this gown in time, and it hadn’t held up against the ones by the professionals. Not at all. It was fine for a bridesmaid at a country wedding, but her belief that its simplicity was classic had actually been a fear-based decision. She saw that now.
Which, she supposed, meant the night wasn’t a total waste of time.You learn more from failure than success, Granny used to say. Fliss understood now why she and her work weren’t being taken seriously. Insecurity was holding her back from expressing herself.
Her confidence had taken a major hit when she’d arrived and seen how outgunned she was. Rather than try for the red carpet, she’d slinked into the queue for the side entrance only to be shuffled to the side because she wasn’t the invitee.
She had been ready to go home, tail between her legs, when this ridiculously famous man had swept her into the party, then into his car, and now—
“My hotel,” he told the driver as traffic began to clear.
Sucha playboy.
“Presumptuous,” she cast at him before leaning forward to say to the driver, “You can drop me at the nearest tube station.”
“Fordinner. You’re the one making presumptions,” Saint said indignantly, but laughter twitched his lips.
Amusement tickled inside her chest along with flutters of excitement and intrigue. Was he really this superficial and predictable? Or was there more to him? She wanted to know.
And shewouldrather catch a car-share from a hotel than have him drop her outside the humble row house where she rented a room with four other housemates. Also, she had skipped lunch because she’d been pressed for time and had thought she would be eating well tonight.
Was she rationalizing spending more time with him? Absolutely.
Was she also giving in to that ambitious, calculating part of herself that had gone so far as to put on her own gown and turn up with Delia Chevron’s invitation in her handbag, trying to blag her way into a world where she didn’t belong?
How had she deluded herself into believing she could be “discovered” on the red carpet? Talk about the ultimate queue jumper!
She was mortified by her own behavior and grateful she’d slipped away without anyone knowing her name. She had only provided her nickname to that woman who’d called her “not Julie.” If Granny were alive to hear about this, Felicity would feel the old woman’s yardstick, for sure. She’d have opinions about Fliss allowing a serial womanizer like Saint Montgomery to take her to dinner, too.
You’ll know the right man when you meet him, Granny’s voice had assured her countless times.Don’t waste time with boys who don’t appreciate you.
Fliss had been schooled rather harshly on how disrespectful a boy could be. Saint reminded her a lot of that first and only boyfriend, emanating the same alpha qualities of strength and wealth and handsome popularity.
Fliss knew better than to imagine he was the Mr. Right she was waiting for, but this felt like a chance at something—not fame or gain, but connection. She couldn’t pinpoint why it felt so necessary to spend a little more time with him, but when they exited the car outside his hotel, she didn’t refuse his dinner invitation and order a car to take her home.
She entered the door the uniformed doorman held for her, aware of Saint’s hand in her lower back as he came in right behind her.
The hotel was one that she had only ever heard of as being very posh. She tried not to gawk, but it was like something out of a movie with its checkered tiles and chandeliers, its arches and columns and refined opulence.
The staff treated Saint like a movie star, too. Or, she supposed, like a man who could buy out the place if he wanted to. As they arrived at the dining room, the maître d’ escorted them to a table that bore a Reserved sign, leaving a well-dressed party of four grumbling at the reception podium.
“Do you have any allergies?” Saint asked Fliss as he seated her.
“No.”
“Have the chef prepare us a tasting menu,” he told the maître d’. “Wine to pair, and don’t let anyone bother us.”
The man nodded with deference and melted away.
“Fliss. Is that short for something?” Saint unbuttoned his jacket as he sat, leaving it hanging open while he leaned back, at ease with who he was and where they were. “Tell me about yourself.”
