masculinity by a certain species of men—excuse me,
males
—who have no real appreciation for their value but feel the pathetic need to display their tail feathers.”
Her small smile grew larger as his disappeared altogether. “I think a man secure in his masculinity would choose something a little more...substantial, shall we say. A little less
showy
.”
A moment passed, not long but wide and cavernous, in which neither of them spoke.
“I’ve offended you,” he finally said. His face betrayed nothing, his tone was quiet and acutely polite. Only his body revealed a hint of anything other than utter detachment. He gripped the edge of the table so hard his knuckles turned white. “How?”
A shade of hostility faded from her posture. She’d expected blustering, outrage, even outright yelling. Most blowhards like him were more than happy to shout at an underling if the opportunity presented itself. She’d been primed and ready for an argument, had even thought of a few more witticisms to snap at him.
But she hadn’t expected this. Not this patience. Not this...concern.
Jenna drew in a breath and shifted her weight onto her other foot. She suddenly wished to be anywhere else than here at this moment. She was tired and behaving badly.
All at once the anger drained away, leaving only a faint residue of embarrassment and the strong desire to go home, climb into bed, and pull the covers over her head.
She closed her eyes and swallowed. “Geoffrey was right, that wasn’t well done of me.” She sighed and passed a hand over her forehead. “I’m sorry, it’s been a long night. I’ll bring the Latour straightaway.”
She turned to leave the table, wondering where she was going to find her next job, when Leander’s soft voice called her back.
“Wait, Jenna, please.”
He was half out of the booth already, rising to stand before caution held him back, reaching toward her with hishand, his face shadowed by the raphis palm near the table, his eyes troubled.
She looked up at him, surprised by his height and his sudden proximity. He gazed down at her intently, his hand still reaching toward her arm. The intoxicating and eerily familiar scent of spice and night air and virile man swirled around her, filling her nose.
“The ’61 Latour was my father’s favorite wine,” Leander murmured. His eyes gleamed in the low light like polished gems. “He served it at his wedding to my mother, thirty-five years ago.”
He inhaled and lightly brushed her bare arm with his fingertips, which sent a current of heat zinging through every nerve. “They were both killed in a car accident three years past. On the rare occasion I find it on a wine list, I order it in memory of them.”
Jenna momentarily lost the power of speech. She was, however, acutely aware of his fingers on her skin, the heat and tension that ached between them, and the curious eyes of everyone in the restaurant.
“Oh—I...I’m so—I’m so sorry,” she stammered, blushing. His fingers kept a light, distracting pressure on her arm. She confounded herself by blurting out, “My parents are both gone too.”
Jenna hadn’t spoken of this to anyone in years.
In response, he simply murmured, “Yes.”
And then she was falling into his eyes, sucked into their bottomless emerald depths like a swimmer losing the fight against a riptide, a swimmer who
wanted
to drown. A dark, startling rush of déjà vu swept through her, so strong and clear she felt overwhelmed by it.
Yes
, her mind echoed.
Yes
.
“Do I know you?” she whispered, urgent. “Have we met somewhere before?”
He remained perfectly still, so motionless and coiled he seemed otherworldly, like he was carved from stone, a piece of marble with incandescent eyes.
He increased the pressure on her arm by a fraction yet didn’t speak. “It was
you
in the parking lot at the store, wasn’t it? I saw you there...didn’t I?” she pressed, breathless. Her heart leapt as their eyes clung
males
—who have no real appreciation for their value but feel the pathetic need to display their tail feathers.”
Her small smile grew larger as his disappeared altogether. “I think a man secure in his masculinity would choose something a little more...substantial, shall we say. A little less
showy
.”
A moment passed, not long but wide and cavernous, in which neither of them spoke.
“I’ve offended you,” he finally said. His face betrayed nothing, his tone was quiet and acutely polite. Only his body revealed a hint of anything other than utter detachment. He gripped the edge of the table so hard his knuckles turned white. “How?”
A shade of hostility faded from her posture. She’d expected blustering, outrage, even outright yelling. Most blowhards like him were more than happy to shout at an underling if the opportunity presented itself. She’d been primed and ready for an argument, had even thought of a few more witticisms to snap at him.
But she hadn’t expected this. Not this patience. Not this...concern.
Jenna drew in a breath and shifted her weight onto her other foot. She suddenly wished to be anywhere else than here at this moment. She was tired and behaving badly.
All at once the anger drained away, leaving only a faint residue of embarrassment and the strong desire to go home, climb into bed, and pull the covers over her head.
She closed her eyes and swallowed. “Geoffrey was right, that wasn’t well done of me.” She sighed and passed a hand over her forehead. “I’m sorry, it’s been a long night. I’ll bring the Latour straightaway.”
She turned to leave the table, wondering where she was going to find her next job, when Leander’s soft voice called her back.
“Wait, Jenna, please.”
He was half out of the booth already, rising to stand before caution held him back, reaching toward her with hishand, his face shadowed by the raphis palm near the table, his eyes troubled.
She looked up at him, surprised by his height and his sudden proximity. He gazed down at her intently, his hand still reaching toward her arm. The intoxicating and eerily familiar scent of spice and night air and virile man swirled around her, filling her nose.
“The ’61 Latour was my father’s favorite wine,” Leander murmured. His eyes gleamed in the low light like polished gems. “He served it at his wedding to my mother, thirty-five years ago.”
He inhaled and lightly brushed her bare arm with his fingertips, which sent a current of heat zinging through every nerve. “They were both killed in a car accident three years past. On the rare occasion I find it on a wine list, I order it in memory of them.”
Jenna momentarily lost the power of speech. She was, however, acutely aware of his fingers on her skin, the heat and tension that ached between them, and the curious eyes of everyone in the restaurant.
“Oh—I...I’m so—I’m so sorry,” she stammered, blushing. His fingers kept a light, distracting pressure on her arm. She confounded herself by blurting out, “My parents are both gone too.”
Jenna hadn’t spoken of this to anyone in years.
In response, he simply murmured, “Yes.”
And then she was falling into his eyes, sucked into their bottomless emerald depths like a swimmer losing the fight against a riptide, a swimmer who
wanted
to drown. A dark, startling rush of déjà vu swept through her, so strong and clear she felt overwhelmed by it.
Yes
, her mind echoed.
Yes
.
“Do I know you?” she whispered, urgent. “Have we met somewhere before?”
He remained perfectly still, so motionless and coiled he seemed otherworldly, like he was carved from stone, a piece of marble with incandescent eyes.
He increased the pressure on her arm by a fraction yet didn’t speak. “It was
you
in the parking lot at the store, wasn’t it? I saw you there...didn’t I?” she pressed, breathless. Her heart leapt as their eyes clung
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