Satisfaction Guaranteed(43)

She spins around on her heel and leaves.

Maybe something is in the air here.

It makes me start to wonder. To wonder how to have something I shouldn’t.

As I move through the day treating patients, I start to imagine another alternate universe.

One where we aren’t just going to Tahiti for a week.

Fact is, I’m dying to know what she has planned tonight, but she doesn’t need to seduce me. She already has.

That feels like a good thing, but it’s a hell of a problem too.





35





She waits for me at the Lincoln Center fountain, perched on the stone edge, the water arcing behind her in moonlit choreography.

Her foot swings back and forth, a red high-heeled shoe drawing me like a beacon. My eyes drink up the view of her blonde hair cascading down her bare shoulders, her light-blue dress both hinting at and hiding the lush body that lies beneath. She’s never been flashy in her clothes—she always shows just enough to light my imagination.

As I walk toward her, her eyes stroll up and down my frame, giving me the same treatment I did her: a comprehensive checking out. Good thing I’m dressed the way she likes me best—tailored slacks, a dress shirt, and a tie.

It also helps that I can follow instructions like it’s my fucking job, since she texted me and told me the attire.

When I reach her, she gives me a final survey then a low, appreciative whistle. Standing, she reaches for my tie and yanks me in close with it. “You look hot as hell,” she says, and before I can even murmur a thank you, she claims me.

She kisses me hard. Possessively. Blotting out all the patrons at Lincoln Center. Hell, she erases the rest of the city as she consumes my lips and turns my body white-hot.

I cup her cheek, clasp her face, and kiss her back with the same ferocity. When we separate, she wobbles, and I steady her, reaching for her elbow.

“Why, yes, I do believe we’re on the express train to Summit Town tonight,” she murmurs.

Laughing, I drape an arm around her and gesture to the buildings that house the arts. “And I’ll be your conductor. But first, sherpa me.”

She leans her shoulder against mine, smiling. “The place I had in mind is about fifteen blocks away. On Amsterdam. I just wanted to meet here because I like these fountains.”

I glance at the sprays of water tangoing brightly behind us. “They’re quite romantic.”

Her eyes widen and her tone is laced with worry. “Is that bad?”

My brow knits. “No. Not at all. Why would that be bad?”

She fidgets with her earring. “Just didn’t want to imply anything.”

Is the idea of romance anathema to her? Is she against relationships? Maybe she’s so damn focused on work and her rescue she’s not even thinking of romance. Hell, maybe I’m the only one who’s let his mind wander down that path.

Then I kick myself.

You’re not going to have a romance with her. You work with her father. You work with her. It doesn’t matter how easy Jonathan and Sam make it seem to have an office relationship. That doesn’t mean a romantic relationship will work for you. The only romance you should be thinking of is the kind that’s part of the seduction. That kind is one of the key tools to help her reach the peak. You’re her guide.

Just guide her.

I run my fingers over a few strands of her hair. “The fountains are beautiful. And you looked even prettier framed by them.” There’s some romance for her, safely couched as a compliment. We walk down the steps. “Now tell me about the place you’ve picked for tonight.”

“I think you’re going to love it. I asked Piper for advice—she’s an elite wedding planner, and she knows everything about the city. She said there’s a great underground lounge with hipster drinks and red curtains and purple couches that looks like something you’d find in a New Orleans speakeasy, and there’s an up-and-coming singer named Delilah who puts the torch in torch singer. She’ll be performing tonight.”

“What does she sing?”

“Billie. Linda. Norah. You’ll love her.”

I hum my enthusiasm. “Linda. Damn, woman. Now you’re taking me to O Town.”

She laughs. “I had a feeling you might like Linda Ronstadt.”

“And I’m man enough to admit it to anyone.” We reach the crosswalk and stop.

She shoots me a saucy look, her eyes narrowing. “Do it. Proclaim your love for Linda.”

I scoff. “Please. That’s easy.” I hold my hands out wide, turning 180 degrees and shouting loud and proud, “Linda Ronstadt is a goddess.”

A guy across the block with a hoodie and a knit cap gives a rocker salute. “Right back at you, man.”

An older woman laden with a canvas bag bursting with books pats my elbow. “Bless your heart. A young man with taste is a rare breed these days.”

“Thank you,” I say with a smile.

“He does have great taste,” Sloane adds. “He’s a Sinatra man too.”

The woman raises her salt-and-pepper eyebrows. “If he’s good in bed and treats you right, then you should keep him.”

The lady turns the corner, leaving her wisdom wafting in the evening breeze.

Sloane whips her gaze to me, a hint of a smile crossing her lips. I’m not entirely sure where to go after that last comment, so I sidestep it. “Looks like I just launched an impromptu Linda Ronstadt fan club.”