Page 13 of Bastard In A Suit

I reach for my wine glass and hold it up to my nose. Sniff. The scent of peach cuts the sharp tang of citrus. I swirl the liquid in my glass like I’ve watched people do on a million cooking shows, and then take a sip. Duke observes every motion, the corner of his mouth quirked with amusement.

I set the wine on the table and lick my lips. “I appreciate you giving us another chance to talk to you about the MicroTracker.”

“How charming is Mystic, really?”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

Duke unfolds a napkin and places it on his lap. And damn if my mind doesn’t go straight to thinking about what’s under that linen. He gives me one of those heart-stopping smiles. “That’s where you’re from, correct?”

It makes sense that a man like Duke would have done his research. Still, I’m off-kilter. “Yes, but I’ve always had Big City dreams.” I need to steer the conversation back to the product fast or I’ll lose my nerve. “I moved here straight from high school. I graduated with honors and a scholarship to Chicago College.”

I leave out the drama that followed—a stream of bad apartments and bad choices.

“Eager to escape your parents’ control.”

He’s more on the nose than I’m willing to admit. I lift my glass and mock toast. “Ambitious, perhaps. I’m not one for being tied down.”

“Now that’s a shame.”

His response makes me choke a little on my wine. I clear my throat and root around in my handbag, finally withdrawing the small container that holds the MicroTracker. Duke barely gives it a glance. I talk anyway. “This device…”

“How do your parents feel about you being in Chicago?”

I exhale hard. “Dad’s…well, he’s dad. Protective, worried.”

Chicago’s long history of crime often comes up in conversation. I’ve managed to stave off a full-blown parental panic attack by never inviting them to see my apartment. Mom would be mortified to know her monthly care packages of homemade goods and small packets of money Dad knows nothing about go toward bills, not furniture. My cardboard box coffee table might send her over the edge.

Duke’s mouth caresses the edge of the wine glass. He sips, and I’m drawn to the way the muscles in his throat flex and relax as he swallows. He parts his lips and the merest glimpse of his tongue sends a shiver along my body.

He gazes at me steadily. “Chicago’s south side can be dangerous. Especially for a naïve young…”

I blink away the image of his mouth hovering over my flesh. My nipples harden, visible through my thin dress. I sigh and try to pull myself together. “My area isn’t quite South Side. It’s a little…vintage. But I can handle myself.”

“Are you certain?”

My gut clenches. “Of course.”

His gaze points to my chest. “Even in a dress that invites…attention?”

Anger flares at my temples. I resist the urge to cross my arms and cover my exposed cleavage. I should have worn something more conservative, less showy. An outfit that didn’t announce my tits like they’re debutantes at a coming out party. Focus.

“The MicroTracker attaches to flesh,” I say.

His eyes lift to meet mine, then lower to stare at my chest. “I can appreciate how some things might be worthy of tracking…”

My jaw drops. The corners of Duke’s eyes crinkle with amusement. Damn him, he’s enjoying getting under my skin. I hate that I’ve allowed it and somehow love that he has.

Our server brings two iced tumblers artfully filled with crab and something that looks like caviar. I breathe in an earthy aroma of herbs.

“Truffles,” Duke says, pointing with his appetizer fork. “They pair well with the seafood and caviar.”

“I’ve never tasted caviar before.”

He seems pleased. “It can be an acquired taste.”

I ease some of the seafood mixture onto my fork, careful to steady my trembling hands. My skin burns under the heat of his stare. A chunk of the caviar rolls off the fork and lands on my napkin. I try to dispose of it before Duke notices. Too late. He’s always watching.

“The wait staff will take care of that,” he says dryly, almost in disapproval.