Bought: The Greek's Bride. Lucy Monroe
his slight Greek accent. Unlike others of different nationalities that she’d met through her father, Sandor did not speak with the flawless accent of an Englishman, trained by exacting teachers. He’d told her he’d learned most of his English after coming to live in the United States when he was a child. His mother still spoke with a heavy accent that required a lot of concentration to understand sometimes. Luckily it was something Ellie was good at.
“I’m glad and I’m sure Dad is pleased.”
“Yes, but we are not here tonight to discuss business.”
“We aren’t?”
“You know we are not.”
She laughed softly. “I won’t argue. I know more about my father’s business since we started dating than I ever knew before and everything I do know, I’ve learned from you. I’m not exactly the best choice for a partner in that kind of discussion.”
“But I think you are the ideal partner for other things.”
Was he teasing her again…about the sex thing that she was fairly certain he had no plans to act on? Or did he mean something else? She looked at him in confusion, but though the corner of his mouth tilted enigmatically, he said nothing.
The waiter arrived at their table and poured them each a glass of Sandor’s favorite wine. She liked it, too, and had never balked at his standing order for this particular predinner drink. But she was surprised when he confirmed their food order without asking her preference. He had never done that before. But then, both he and the waiter acted as if he’d ordered before even arriving at the restaurant.
That impression was further enforced when the waiter returned to their table seconds later with appetizers.
She sniffed appreciatively at the garlic baked shrimp dripping with melted butter and topped with a grated medley of three cheeses. “My favorite.”
“I know.” He put a piece of shrimp on a slice of baguette, carefully drizzling the garlicy butter over it and making sure there was just the right amount of melted cheese on top before handing it to her. “I know you very well, Eleanor.”
“Do you?”
“After three months, do you doubt it?”
“That depends on what you mean. I think you do know a lot about me, but I am not sure you know me.” Her dad would have known to order this appetizer, too, but that didn’t mean he knew what made her tick. As far as she could tell, Ellie’s dad had no desire to know her on any level but the surface.
She couldn’t stifle the hope that Sandor would be different.
“Is there a distinction between the two?”
“Yes.”
“If tonight goes as I plan, I will have a great deal of time to learn what you mean.”
“And how do you plan for tonight to go?” Was he finally going to make love to her? Was she ready for it?
She almost laughed aloud at her inner voice. Ready? She was desperate for him. She’d already decided she wanted him, but the possibility of actually having him was throwing her into mental chaos. Which was silly. She wanted this man and while she had no intention of telling him that at this very moment, she would not lie to herself and pretend differently. She refused to indulge in those kinds of games.
“Allow me to reveal my plans in sequence.”
She should have guessed he had an agenda of some sort. It was so like him. It was one of the more disconcerting ways he reminded her of her father. She didn’t dislike it exactly, but it worried her a little. Were his agendas as coldly determined as her father’s?
“By all means, I wouldn’t think of attempting to divert your schedule.”
He took a sip of wine, his dark eyes filled with mock menace. “Are you laughing at me?”
“Maybe, a little. Spontaneity is not your thing.”
“You know me well.”
“As well as can be expected after dating three months.”
“Well enough.” There was meaning behind his words, but she wasn’t sure what it was.
“Aren’t you going to have any of the shrimp?” she asked.
“I suppose, but the real pleasure comes from watching you eat them.”
She had just taken a bite and her eyes closed in bliss. Divine. “To each their own.”
He laughed. “I assure you, I am very happy with my own appetizer.”
They were sharing the shrimp and he wasn’t eating any, so it took her a second to understand his meaning. When she did, her eyes flew open. He was looking at her with a distinctly predatory light in eyes that had grown dangerously dark.
She took a deep breath, trying to calm the rapid pulse that was making her light-headed. Oh, my. When this man went for it, he held nothing back. She could not wait for later. Tonight, he would not leave her with a good-night kiss that made her toes curl and her body feel hollow with wanting. Not with that look in his eyes.
The appetizer was followed by butternut squash soup. She’d never had it at this particular restaurant before. “The chef must be trying something new.”
“At my request.”
“You did preorder the meal.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Tonight is special, I want every aspect to be right.”
“Special?”
“Yes.”
“I like the sound of that.” She smiled and took a bite of the soup he’d had one of the most temperamental chefs in Boston make just for her. “It’s delicious.”
“I would expect no less.”
“I’m surprised you talked the chef into trying something new for your benefit alone.”
“Money speaks most languages.”
“Even that of a temperamental chef?”
“As you see.” He indicated their twin bowls of the golden-orange soup. “But he did not make the soup for my benefit.”
“No?”
“No. He made it for yours.”
“At your request.”
“Yes.”
“Because tonight is special.”
“Very.”
She didn’t know what else she would have said because at that moment, two things happened that derailed any thoughts of talking on her part. The first was that a trio of violinists took up residence in a spot near them that had on the last occasion they’d eaten there held a table of other diners. The musicians began to play a piece she had always found emotionally evocative and soothing at the same time.
The second occurrence was that she was presented with two dozen long-stemmed red roses by the maître d’. She took them and inhaled the scent of the perfect blooms. The heady fragrance bathed her senses.
She looked at Sandor. “They’re beautiful.”
“You are so certain they are from me?”
She laughed, her voice surprisingly husky. “Of course.”
But she picked up the card to read anyway. It was small and white and read, “Sandor.” Nothing else. He’d signed it himself, however. She recognized the black slashing writing.
“Thank you,” she said, her face still buried in the roses. For some reason, she needed to hide there for a moment.
This was definitely more romance than