pants.
Unfortunately that didn’t stop her from studying his beautiful, elegant hands as he gestured to the server. It made her think of a quote she’d read in one of the tabloids while getting her hair done. One of Matteo’s exes—the curator of a Manhattan art gallery—had made an incredibly blunt comment about how he’d been the best she’d ever had. Then had gone on to suggest she’d like to sample him again—all while dating the studlike quarterback of New York’s pro football team.
He couldn’t be that good. Could he? Or would those gorgeous hands be the perfect instrument to seduce a woman slowly, taking the time to savor her?
“Quinn?”
Her gaze flew guiltily to his. “Sorry?”
The grooves on either side of his mouth deepened. “Crème caramel or chocolate torte for dessert? Personally, I think Guerino’s crème caramel is the best in Italy.”
“Definitely the crème caramel.” She might even manage to spoon some in her mouth before she did a face-plant in it.
Matteo relayed their choice to the server, then miraculously produced another bottle of Brunello. She held up a hand. “No more wine for me, thank you.”
“I’ll drink most of it,” he said smoothly. “Live a little.”
Her shoulders stiffened. Julian had said that to her all the time in that condescending, highbrow voice of his. “Live a little, Quinn. Show me you can have some fun or you might drive me elsewhere.”
“Just half a glass,” she said quietly.
“That was a joke, you know,” he murmured, his gaze on her face. “Although you are known to be a workaholic. Just as driven as your father, insiders say.”
Impossible. She’d never met a human being on this earth as driven as Warren. Her mouth twisted. “And what else did your intelligence turn up?”
“You made the top thirty under thirty business people in America this year. One of only two women. That must have made Warren proud.”
Questionable. He hadn’t much commented even though she’d been aching for him to. Quinn took a sip of the heady wine. Rolled it around her mouth and set the glass down. “No matter what people like to believe, there is still a glass ceiling for women. But I had advantages from the start.”
“ Si , but you’ve also had the disadvantage of being very beautiful. Many men don’t take that seriously.”
“Do you?”
His smile flashed white in the candlelight. “I’ve never underestimated a woman in my life, beautiful or otherwise. You would rule the world if men weren’t physically stronger.”
He looked genuine when he said that. Quinn had the ghastly idea she might actually like Matteo De Campo after these couple of days. Which was really, really not a good idea.
“So,” she murmured, taking another sip of her wine, “what else was in your report?”
“The usual. Harvard, your rapid climb up the corporate ladder...” An amused glitter entered his eyes. “I have to say, the graduate-level Krav Maga caught me off guard. Interesting choice.”
How had he found out about that? She never talked publicly about it. Went to the most discreet school in Chicago specifically to avoid that type of publicity.
She waved her hand at him, brushing it off. “It’s an outlet.”
“Hardly.” That smoky, perceptive gaze stayed on hers. “Krav Maga is a street-fighting martial art, Quinn. The Israeli army trains its soldiers in it. It’s hardly a casual outlet.”
She shifted in her seat. And lied. “A girlfriend was doing it. It suits my competitive personality.”
It would also make any man think twice about putting his hands on her ever again.
“Since we’re trading interesting facts about one another,” she said, changing the subject, “I’m intrigued by the tattoo. What does it mean?”
He touched his fingers to his biceps, as if he’d forgotten it was there. “It means ‘never forget.’”
“Never forget what?” The words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them.
Matteo’s gaze
Unfortunately that didn’t stop her from studying his beautiful, elegant hands as he gestured to the server. It made her think of a quote she’d read in one of the tabloids while getting her hair done. One of Matteo’s exes—the curator of a Manhattan art gallery—had made an incredibly blunt comment about how he’d been the best she’d ever had. Then had gone on to suggest she’d like to sample him again—all while dating the studlike quarterback of New York’s pro football team.
He couldn’t be that good. Could he? Or would those gorgeous hands be the perfect instrument to seduce a woman slowly, taking the time to savor her?
“Quinn?”
Her gaze flew guiltily to his. “Sorry?”
The grooves on either side of his mouth deepened. “Crème caramel or chocolate torte for dessert? Personally, I think Guerino’s crème caramel is the best in Italy.”
“Definitely the crème caramel.” She might even manage to spoon some in her mouth before she did a face-plant in it.
Matteo relayed their choice to the server, then miraculously produced another bottle of Brunello. She held up a hand. “No more wine for me, thank you.”
“I’ll drink most of it,” he said smoothly. “Live a little.”
Her shoulders stiffened. Julian had said that to her all the time in that condescending, highbrow voice of his. “Live a little, Quinn. Show me you can have some fun or you might drive me elsewhere.”
“Just half a glass,” she said quietly.
“That was a joke, you know,” he murmured, his gaze on her face. “Although you are known to be a workaholic. Just as driven as your father, insiders say.”
Impossible. She’d never met a human being on this earth as driven as Warren. Her mouth twisted. “And what else did your intelligence turn up?”
“You made the top thirty under thirty business people in America this year. One of only two women. That must have made Warren proud.”
Questionable. He hadn’t much commented even though she’d been aching for him to. Quinn took a sip of the heady wine. Rolled it around her mouth and set the glass down. “No matter what people like to believe, there is still a glass ceiling for women. But I had advantages from the start.”
“ Si , but you’ve also had the disadvantage of being very beautiful. Many men don’t take that seriously.”
“Do you?”
His smile flashed white in the candlelight. “I’ve never underestimated a woman in my life, beautiful or otherwise. You would rule the world if men weren’t physically stronger.”
He looked genuine when he said that. Quinn had the ghastly idea she might actually like Matteo De Campo after these couple of days. Which was really, really not a good idea.
“So,” she murmured, taking another sip of her wine, “what else was in your report?”
“The usual. Harvard, your rapid climb up the corporate ladder...” An amused glitter entered his eyes. “I have to say, the graduate-level Krav Maga caught me off guard. Interesting choice.”
How had he found out about that? She never talked publicly about it. Went to the most discreet school in Chicago specifically to avoid that type of publicity.
She waved her hand at him, brushing it off. “It’s an outlet.”
“Hardly.” That smoky, perceptive gaze stayed on hers. “Krav Maga is a street-fighting martial art, Quinn. The Israeli army trains its soldiers in it. It’s hardly a casual outlet.”
She shifted in her seat. And lied. “A girlfriend was doing it. It suits my competitive personality.”
It would also make any man think twice about putting his hands on her ever again.
“Since we’re trading interesting facts about one another,” she said, changing the subject, “I’m intrigued by the tattoo. What does it mean?”
He touched his fingers to his biceps, as if he’d forgotten it was there. “It means ‘never forget.’”
“Never forget what?” The words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them.
Matteo’s gaze
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