Читать книгу A Lick and a Promise - Jo Leigh - Страница 11

DANIEL THREW HIS JACKET on the back of the couch and walked straight to the kitchen. It was almost eight, and he’d thought he’d never get out of the office. Edgar had wanted to talk about the new building. And talk. All Daniel had wanted to do was go home.

Tired, that’s all. He pulled a beer out of the fridge, popped the top, but stopped short of drinking. He would just go up and get the jacket he’d left at Margot’s. No big deal. She was probably just as tired as he was, and like him, she would want to make it an early, easy night. He wouldn’t bother her. Except to get the jacket, of course. Just that.

He put the beer down on the counter and went toward the door. She might not even be home. She had that TV commercial and all, which probably kept her busy until late.

The whole way up the stairs he debated turning around. Until he actually knocked, he wasn’t completely sure he would. But then the door opened, and there was Margot, and she broke into a smile that made him feel like the king of the world.

“You’re just on time,” she said, stepping back so he could walk inside.

“For what?”

“Dinner.”

“Oh, no.” He watched as she shut the door, his gaze meandering down the silky orange tunic that covered her curves. It was tighter across her breasts, just enough for him to get a teasing image of their shape. “My jacket.”

“Is right over there,” she said, pointing to an ottoman at the far end of the room.

Things had changed since last night. There were big pillows on the floor next to the low teak coffee table. There was a big ceramic pitcher on the table with a raised picture of an Egyptian cat. There were two plates, two bowls, two napkins, both in gold rings, two wine-glasses. “You’re expecting someone.”

Margot came to his side. “Sit down. It’s almost ready.”

He turned to face her.

She smiled serenely, nodding twice. “On the pillow,” she said. Then she pointed to the cushion closest to the couch.

He didn’t understand, which, it seemed, was par for the course with Margot. He sat, awkwardly, trying to fold his legs underneath the table, his shoes getting in the way.

By the time he was settled, Margot had disappeared into the kitchen. He looked again at the table. She’d set it for two, but she couldn’t have known he was coming over. Could she?

She came back, her skirt flowing, her long hair pulled back into a loose ponytail that hung down her back. There was a flower, the same orange as her dress, behind her right ear. Her lips looked smooth and creamy, although he wasn’t sure if she had lipstick on, or if they were dewy from her tongue’s ministrations. His throat felt dry and he was glad to see the wine bottle in her hand.

She showed him the label, but he didn’t even glance at it. He didn’t look at his glass when she poured, either. He just kept staring at her mouth.

Her smile brought him back from wherever he’d been, and he gave himself a mental shake. “I’m…”

“What?” she asked, moving to the other side of the table. She picked up the pitcher, brought it to her face and took a long, closed-eyes breath. Then she leaned across the table. “Put your hands over the bowl,” she said in a smoky whisper that went straight to his groin.

He obeyed mindlessly, his gaze captured not by her mouth but by the sight of her breasts. The tops, to be precise, revealed as the silk of her dress fell open and he was allowed a forbidden glimpse. They were perfect, pale, rounded. His hands, held over the wooden bowls, ached to cross the distance between them.

He jumped when he felt the water. She was pouring water over his fingers. It was warm, and it smelled like flowers.

Her soft chuckle brought his gaze to meet hers. What he saw there was more than amusement. There was an invitation in her eyes that had nothing to do with dinner.

Which was good, because he doubted he could eat.

She put the pitcher on the table, leaned over with her hand on his shoulder, and whispered, “I’ll be right back.”

What the hell was happening to him? This was nuts. Completely. He got near Margot and his brain turned to mush. The lower part of his body had the opposite problem. Jeez, he was hard. Sitting on this incredibly uncomfortable pillow, with his left foot falling asleep, something poking into the small of his back, he was unmistakably erect. Thank goodness he was hidden under the table, because his pants weren’t up to the task of disguising the issue.

And he could probably take his hands away from the bowl now.

Okay, he was blushing. He felt the blood in his cheeks, and it made him almost as uncomfortable as the stupidity of his dick. He sighed as he pulled the napkin from the ring and dried off.

He should have stuck with the plan. Gotten his jacket and left. But she’d done something to him, spiked the air, hypnotized him.

He’d never reacted this way before. Not that he hadn’t been attracted to women, but no one had ever turned him into a blabbering idiot like this. He couldn’t speak, he couldn’t stop staring at her, he clearly couldn’t control his body. It was…

“This is bstilla,” she said.

He jumped again, completely surprised that she was standing at his side. “What?

“Bstilla,” she repeated, putting a plate down on the table. “And these are lamb kabobs.”

He looked at the second platter. That one he sort of recognized, although he’d always seen kabobs on skewers. These were bits of lamb on small beds of green. But the first dish was a mystery. It looked like very thinly rolled pastry with some kind of filling. All bite-size.

“It’s a traditional Moroccan first course,” she said as she gracefully lowered herself to the cushion across from him, “although I’m serving them as an amuse bouche.”

“Amuse…?”

“Little bites that delight the mouth. After this, we’ll have tajine, batinjaan, couscous and khubz. For dessert, there’s fruit and pastry with mint tea. We eat everything with our fingers.” She demonstrated by taking one of the bstilla between her finger and thumb and popping it in her mouth. Her eyes closed as she chewed. Her low moan made him think of something completely inappropriate. Finally, she looked at him again. “Go on.”

He took one, still hot from the oven. He ate it whole and his mouth filled with spice and chicken. He swallowed hard as his eyes filled with tears. He made a sound, hoping she wouldn’t be insulted when he died.

In an instant, she was on her feet. She disappeared while he was trying to wave the flames shooting out of his mouth. But then she was back, handing him a glass of milk.

He drank, the cool liquid putting out the fire like magic. “Thank you.”

“Little too spicy there, Daniel?”

“A bit.”

“I tend to go a little nuts. I have a really high tolerance for heat. I’m sorry. I should have warned you.”

“It was good,” he said, his voice only cracking a little.

Her right eyebrow rose.

“No, really. There was some definite flavor in there. Right before the incredible pain.”

When she laughed, her face became a work of art. She was beautiful anyway, but the laughter made everything shine. He couldn’t resist joining her, and then when calmed, she sipped some wine, and he did that with her, too.

“Nothing else is that spicy,” she said. “The tajine isn’t bland, but it’s not too bad. Try a little first.”

He nodded and reached for the kebab. The meat smelled great. He took a tentative bite, but this was pure pleasure, no agony at all. He realized how hungry he was as he lifted another morsel from the plate.

She ate another b-thingy and seemed to enjoy it tremendously. Her gaze was on his, never wavering, and it was weird, because it wasn’t awkward at all. He watched her, she watched him, and they enjoyed the food and the scents and the push and pull that wafted over the table. His fingers got messy, but it felt right, and then when he dipped them in the water, he wondered why there weren’t finger bowls with every meal.

“How did it go?” she asked him.