The Billionaire Game(19)
“Thanks,” I said. “You’re not looking so bad yourself.”
He was actually looking good enough to eat, in a navy blue suit with a silk shirt and green pocket handkerchief that matched his eyes, the shirt unbuttoned just a little for another tantalizing hint of collarbone. The pants were formal but tight enough that they didn’t leave anything to the imagination. Barney the Dinosaur and his friends might have been disappointed, but I most certainly was not.
Focus, Kate! It was turning into my mantra around this man.
Asher’s eyes traveled up and down the length of my body again, and he flashed a grin so wicked you could have arrested him for it. “I like this business proposal already.”
“The business proposal’s up here, Romeo,” I said, tapping the side of my head.
“Of course,” he said graciously. “And now, if you’ll follow me, your chariot awaits.”
He gestured towards his car, which was a little less chariot and a little more spaceship, all sleek modern silver lines except for a couple of retro fins.
“I had it refitted to run entirely on vegetable oil,” he said proudly, patting its bumper like it was a particularly precocious puppy.
“Did you steal this off the set of a 1950s Flash Gordon serial?” I cracked.
Asher looked sheepish, and scuffed his foot along the ground. “Uh, Doctor Who prop auction actually.”
And just like that, Mr. Business Mogul got so much less intimidating. I practically shrieked with hilarity and delight. “Neeeeeeeeeeerd alert! Nerd alert! Raise the shields!”
“That’s Star Trek,” he shot back defensively, still laughing a little, though probably more at my reaction than at my joke. “Completely wrong reference—besides, it was being a nerd that got me my first billion. If I hadn’t known Cathy Bateson in college games club and been able to invest in her imaging technology for films—why are you still laughing?”
I shook my head, mentally comparing this side of Asher to my own dorky tendencies. The tension was broken. There was still a little nervous flutter in my stomach as our space-car wended its way through the streets of San Francisco and we shot teasing repartee back and forth, but it was a good nervous flutter, full of promise.
This just might work out after all.
#
Asher pulled into a parking lot for a helipad and I turned to stare at him.
“Uh, maybe you want to upgrade your GPS on the starship Asher,” I said, “because I’m pretty sure this place doesn’t have waiters.”
Asher just grinned, cockier than a rooster in a henhouse. “And you might want to check your assumptions. Who said this restaurant was in San Francisco?”
Does this man know how to do anything small?
I looked up at the helicopter and resigned myself to my fate. And by ‘resigned,’ I mean ‘barely restrained myself from whooping with excitement.’ “Well, what are we waiting for? Beam me up, Scotty.”
#
The second surprise after the helicopter was that there was no hired pilot—Asher would be driving himself. He handled it deftly, so smoothly I almost couldn’t believe we had left the ground until I saw it dropping away below me. The chopper swooped out over the sapphire blue sea before circling back inland. Gradually skyscrapers melted away into small towns and the countryside, vineyards and fields ringed by green mountains. We cracked jokes at each other until the roar of the helicopter meant that we couldn’t hear each other anymore, and then I just enjoyed the scenery.
And I don’t just mean the scenery outside the window.
There was something about the confidence and grace with which Asher operated the controls, flicking switches, pulling levers, and consulting a truly dizzying array of dials, that made me want to jump his bones mid-air, and damn the consequences and my resolution to remain professional. Was it the way he’d rolled up his shirtsleeves, revealing ripped arm muscles? Was it the elegance of his hands as they danced across the controls? The way the wind ruffled his dark hair, curls tumbling in front of those dazzling green eyes?
I think it might have been the fire in his eyes as he hit the throttle and we went hurtling forward at an even greater speed, and the way he leaned forward in excitement as the sun began to paint the mountains in gold and purple. That utter air of absorption, at once relaxed and at home, yet keyed up and thrilling to the pursuit of adventure.
Before I knew it he was guiding us downward into what he informed me was the San Ysidro ranch, acres upon acres of rolling lawns and manicured gardens of groomed pines, lilacs, and lavender around ponds, fountains, and pathways.
“Like it?” he asked smugly, giving me his hand to help me out of my seat.
I stumbled from the helicopter, trying to find my land-legs and slow my speeding heart. I tossed my windblown hair back, exhilarated. “Dude, you are so teaching me to fly that thing!”
Asher raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t even heard your business proposal yet.”
“Well, I’m making that stipulation one on the contract.”
“Noted.” He took my hand again. Was it the lingering exhilaration of the ride or the touch of his skin that was making my heart race madly and my skin sing the Hallelujah chorus, my cheeks flushing?
I let him lead me to a quaint, beautiful old building with a tile roof and whitewashed walls. Despite the clean simplicity of its lines, it was plain that great care had been taken with the selection of the materials and the construction itself. We came to a stop out on the balcony, where dinner was already laid out for us, an upscale take on Tex-Mex: saffron rice, white beans cooked with bacon and caramelized onions, lamb and veal enchiladas drizzled with a ghost pepper sauce, chilled fruit juices and cucumber water, sangria, a fancy red wine with more French on the label than I remembered from four years of high school classes.