Dating Games(123)

“You?” I asked, wondering how I hadn’t noticed this man until the twelve-hour flight was nearly over. Then again, my mind had been a bit preoccupied. I’d boarded at the last possible minute, then proceeded to consume two glasses of champagne prior to takeoff. By the time the plane had hit its cruising altitude, enough alcohol flowed through my veins that the panic of what I’d done was momentarily forgotten.

“Same.” He leaned across the aisle. “I like to include a bit of pleasure in all I do.” Raising his eyebrows, he licked his lips.

I inwardly groaned at his arrogance. If all Italians were like this, I had a feeling my trip would be very short.

“Where is your fiancé?”

His question caught me off guard. “What?”

He gestured to my ring. “Why isn’t he with you?”

“Oh.” I blinked repeatedly. “He’s not my fiancé,” I responded, flustered.

“I thought—”

“I couldn’t go through with the wedding,” I interrupted. I didn’t know why I felt compelled to explain myself, especially to a stranger, but I couldn’t stop the words from rolling off my tongue. “Instead of showing up at the church, I skipped town and ended up on this flight. I haven’t been able to take the ring off just yet.”

“Sorry to have brought him up.”

I gave him a terse smile, then faced forward, assuming our brief conversation was at an end.

“If you ask me,” he continued after a brief pause. I snapped my head to my right. “He’s a fool for letting you slip out of his hands.”

I studied him with a furrowed brow. “What makes you say that? You don’t even know me. I could have some weird habits no man in their right mind would be able to put up with. Like not putting my clothes in the hamper or forgetting to run the dishwasher.” I chewed on the inside of my cheek, recalling two heated arguments Brock and I had gotten into over those exact things.

“I could be wrong,” he said smoothly, “but I don’t think that’s the case. I’ve been known to be a pretty good judge of character.”

“Based on just two minutes of conversation across the aisle of an airplane we’ve both been on for nearly twelve hours?” I smirked, lightening my expression. “I didn’t know jet lag could produce such riveting dialogue.”

“You just said it yourself.” A smug look crossed his face. He appeared to be surprisingly awake and composed, despite it being the end of a rather long flight.

I briefly tore my gaze from him, surveying everyone else in the cabin. Eyes drooped. Travelers ran their hands over weary faces. Coffee was consumed as if we were on a lifeboat and it was the only source of sustenance. Despite the comfort of flying in the first-class cabin with flatbed seats, nothing compared to a soft bed to stretch out in. Regardless, this man appeared refreshed, like he had just spent the night in the most luxurious bed known to man. I surmised he must travel often.

“It’s been a long flight,” he continued. “You don’t need to talk to someone to learn about them.”

“I find it helps.”

He shrugged. “For some people.”

“But not you?” I lifted a brow, leering at him with slight disapproval.

“In my line of work—”

“What is it you do exactly?” I interrupted.

He studied me, his hooded eyes unnerving in the way they seemed to rake over every inch of me, piercing me. I’d been with Brock for ten years. I’d never so much as fantasized about another man. Now that I didn’t have my parents looking over my shoulder, telling me how to behave, I actually found myself peering into this man’s mysterious eyes with intrigue and perhaps a bit of longing.

“That’s not important,” he answered after much thought. “Suffice it to say, it’s part of my profession to anticipate people’s wants and needs, to be able to read them by just one look.”

I lowered my voice. “Are you a gigolo?” The combination of his words and rugged confidence left me no other option but to think that.

His heated expression turned jovial and he chuckled. The lines around his eyes wrinkled with amusement. I couldn’t remember the last time I had such an easy, unstilted conversation with another man. With Brock, most of our discussions revolved around how the Democrats were ruining our country. I never got too involved. After one particularly tumultuous argument, I’d learned to simply keep my political opinions to myself. I had a feeling my father would disown me if he found out I had secretly campaigned for a Democrat in the last presidential election.

“No, definitely not a gigolo.” His scruff voice cut through my memories. “But thank you for your vote of confidence, Miss…” He paused, lifting his brows.

“Eleanor. Ellie.”

“Dante.” Smiling, he held his hand toward me.

I reached for it and he clasped his fingers around mine. His skin was rough, warm, inviting. They were the hands of a man. Hands that didn’t have a problem getting dirty. Hands that didn’t go for a spa manicure on a weekly basis.

Dante turned my hand over and raised it to his mouth, planting a light kiss on it. “Piacere di conoscerti,” he murmured against my skin.

“Piacere di conoscerti,” I offered in response, barely able to speak through the strange sensations flowing through me as I savored the feel of this man’s — this stranger’s — lips on my flesh.