Just Toying Around.... Rhonda Nelson
witnessed in ages, Nick obligingly pulled out her chair.
“What would you like to drink?” he asked.
“Chardonnay.”
“It’ll be quicker if I go to the bar.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Don’t go away.”
Like hell, Meg thought as she watched him cross the room. Once again she found herself thrown into the grip of another bout of yearning. The man walked with an economy of movement, languid yet purposeful. Nick Devereau was obviously a man who felt comfortable in his own skin.
Meg had always prided herself on her ability to size a person up. She read confidence in the breadth of his shoulders, a smidge of arrogance in the tilt of his jaw and—the most distracting of all—the invitation to sin in those warm, heavy-lidded butterscotch eyes.
While Desiree Moon might long to throw caution to the wind, Meg Sugarbaker was still more than a little gun-shy. She’d been burned before and repercussions for that one stupid mistake had blistered her enough to make her very cautious. The last time she’d dropped her guard she’d lost a scholarship that would have saved her thousands of dollars and garnered respect in the snobbish circles of haute cuisine. She’d also been made a laughingstock. Though she was more mature now and circumstances were different, old habits died hard. Meg chose her company carefully, kept her circle tight.
But hadn’t she decided not to worry about Meg’s concerns this week? Hadn’t she decided to be Desiree Moon? If that were the case, then she shouldn’t be bound by all the old doubts, reservations and insecurities. She should simply live in the moment and see where this week took her. And she’d only have this week. Once it was over, it would be back to good old Meg. The thought struck a curious pang of regret, but Meg forced it away and concentrated on the present.
After all, this was the first time she’d been out on anything that remotely resembled a date in ages, and Nick Devereau was by far the most handsome man she’d ever laid eyes on. She would simply enjoy herself and the rest would take care of itself.
Resigned to that end, Meg took a moment to survey the bar. Though relatively early, a sizable crowd had gathered. A soulful jazz tune emanated from hidden speakers, creating an intimate bare-your-soul atmosphere. A smoky haze swirled near the ceiling, casting an eerie glow in the dimly lit lounge.
Nick returned with their drinks. “Now where were we? Oh, yes. You were going to tell me about yourself.”
Her gaze tangled with his. “I was?”
“Certainly. We decided you were a more interesting topic of conversation than the weather.”
Meg grinned wryly. Aside from the fact that she was a sex-toy critic, there was absolutely nothing interesting about her life. She was a single, twenty-seven-year-old pastry chef, a frustrated semivirgin who owned a small patio home in a middle-class subdivision. Rather than succumb to the old-maid cat cliché, she’d bought a gerbil. Whoopee. Didn’t she live life in the fast lane?
Well, that would all change when she pulled together the tuition and travel fees for the school in Paris. Her dream was almost in reach. Just a few more months and she’d be a true cosmopolitan woman.
But she wasn’t yet.
“No,” she clarified, drawing in a cautious breath. “You decided I would be a more interesting topic of conversation.”
He shrugged noncommittally. “Semantics. Tell me about yourself.”
Another interesting discovery, Meg thought, unreasonably impressed. Nick Devereau didn’t seem to have any intention of dominating their conversation with the usual bullshit bravado men normally felt compelled to impart. He seemed genuinely interested in her. Meg couldn’t help but be impressed. “What do you want to know?” she asked.
“Everything.”
Meg chuckled. “Not much, eh?”
“Why don’t we do a little Q&A? Tit for tat, so to speak.” He stilled, studying her intently. “If I ask something that’s too personal or something you don’t want to answer, then just say ‘pass.’ I’ll do the same to any question you ask me.”
Meg mulled it over. “Okay,” she conceded grudgingly. “Sounds fair.”
“What do you do for a living?”
Hell. Meg mentally rolled her eyes. He would ask that first. While the sex-toy critic job was more interesting, it wasn’t her primary source of income. Besides, she didn’t know how to do the Heimlich and he’d probably choke if she imparted that little factoid. “I’m a pastry chef,” Meg answered. “What do you do?”
He sipped his whiskey. “I’m an attorney. A pastry chef,” he repeated, seemingly intrigued. “That’s a great deal more interesting than the weather. What restaurant?”
Hmmm. Too personal, Meg decided. Too risky as well. Though unlikely, she still might discover some hideous character flaw. She might not want him knowing where she worked. “Sorry, I’ll pass on that one,” she told him. An earlier suspicion surfaced and she regarded him shrewdly. “Are you gay?”
He strangled on his whiskey. “Wh-what? No! Why?” His brows winged up his forehead. “Do I— Do I act gay?”
“That’s two questions,” Meg pointed out as she resisted the urge to laugh. His abrupt, outraged, vehement “no” certainly left no doubt that he was straight. “I’ll answer the last question. No, you don’t act gay…but you seem too good to be true.” Meg narrowed her gaze, studied him thoughtfully. “Are you married?”
“No.” A hint of humor danced in his eyes and a bit of self-satisfaction clung to the edges of his halfhearted smile. “Why do you think I’m too good to be true?”
That had been too telling a remark, Meg thought ruefully. She’d have to watch herself. Pass or be forthright? She chose forthright. It seemed the Desiree thing to do. “Because you’re a seemingly sane, heterosexual, unmarried, attractive professional over thirty.” Meg leaned forward. “Do you live with your mother?”
A burst of laughter erupted from his chest. “No. Are you married?”
Meg shook her head. “Does mental illness run in your family?”
“No.” His gaze captured hers and he lowered his voice. “Do you realize you are the most entertaining woman I’ve met in a long time?”
Meg blushed, pleased at the unexpected compliment. “No, I didn’t. Are you currently taking any prescription medications, mood elevators, anti-depressants?”
The perpetual grin kicked up around the edges. “No. Would you like to dance?”
Meg’s drink stalled halfway to her mouth. “Er…” Meg glanced around the increasingly crowded room. Some industrious patrons had shoved several tables out of the way and had created a makeshift dance floor.
“Didn’t catch a ‘pass’ or a ‘no’, so I’ll take that as a yes.” Nick stood and drew her to her feet, then gently tugged her toward the dance floor. Within seconds, she found herself curled into his masculine embrace. His warm palms lay anchored at her hips and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to twine her arms around his neck. Her head fit perfectly in the hollow under his chin. His scent, a clean woodsy fragrance, swirled around her senses, enveloping her in a sensual haze. The music throbbed around them and for Meg, the rest of the room simply faded away.
For all intents and purposes, they were glued from the knee up, and the contact had all but set Meg aflame. Her blood pulsed warmly in her veins, pooled at her womanly center. The desire for release, the unequivocal need, spiraled inside her, an ever-tightening coil.
She felt his breath stir near her ear. “You’re a good dancer. And you smell wonderful.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, impossibly warming more with the compliment. “You dance well yourself.” She paused. “Did you learn how at your anger