Resisting Mr. Kane (London Mister #2)(51)

The fluttery feeling swirls in my stomach. Never a good thing for a bowel disease sufferer visiting a lavish restaurant with the casting member of their raunchy dreams.

What if I'm not dressed fancy enough for this place? I'm wearing a flowing dress and dressy sneakers. Sneakers are acceptable now so long as you don't actually do sports in them, right?

Tristan leans over and takes my hand. “Elly, tonight, I want you to forget I own Madison. I’m just the guy you met on holidays. A guy that has given you no reason not to trust him. Can you do that?”

I look back into those intense eyes and read a hint of vulnerability there. “Yes,” I answer and I mean it.

We pull up outside the unassuming grey doorway on a quiet side street just off Clapham High Street. You would be forgiven for mistaking it for a warehouse rather than an exclusive and hideously expensive high-toned French restaurant.

As we get out of the car, a hostess appears from out of nowhere. She flashes a predatory smile at Tristan and puts her hand on his lower back, ignoring me. “Mr. Kane,” she purrs. “Right this way.”

My hackles rise.

Taking my hand in his, he leads me down the stairs lit only by candlelight to the restaurant in the basement.

It's not often a restaurant makes me horny, but this is the sexiest damn restaurant I've ever set foot in.

I enter first, his hand on the small of my back as he follows behind me. It's hard to miss the heads turning at each table as we walk through the dimly lit basement. Whether they recognise him or are just blown away by the broad-shouldered, ridiculously handsome bloke, it's hard to tell. If he notices the attention, he doesn't let on.

I scan the sea of heads and see some vaguely familiar faces. Is that guy from The Apprentice? More importantly, I make a mental note of where the toilets are.

We stop at dark red velvet curtains.

“This way, sir.” Eye-fucking Tristan, the hostess pulls up the curtains to reveal a door underneath and pushes it open. We walk into a room that is all darkness, mirrors and candles with a single table for two in the middle.

I look around, bewildered. "Are we the only ones in here?”

“The private room is by request,” Tristan explains casually as we are led to the table.

He pulls out a chair for me, and I sit down.

“Let me take your coat, sir,” the hostess says in her phone-sex voice. In the process of pushing his coat down and off his shoulders, she gives him an unnecessary rubdown that airport security staff would be proud of.

He pulls out the chair opposite, inches it closer to mine, then sits down.

“How did you get a table here last minute?” I ask as three waiters fuss over us, pouring water and fluffing napkins. "Isn't it notorious for being booked up months in advance?”

He leans back in his seat, his legs spreading so that our knees touch under the table.

“I own the restaurant with Danny.”

I pinch my eyes shut in confusion. “You own…this place?”

“Yup.”

I'm rendered speechless for a moment. I look around the room lit entirely by candlelight. “The building insurance must be astronomical.”

He lets out a loud laugh.

“Christ, Tristan, we are worlds apart.” I look at him doubtfully. “I don't even own my own car yet. The only thing Megan and I can afford to buy together is a bottle of wine. We aren’t on an even keel here.”

“It’s okay.” He winks. “Next time you can cook me dinner.”

“Champagne, miss?” Two glasses of champagne materialise in front of us.

“Yes, thank you.” I smile politely. The wall-to-ceiling mirror lit with candles creates the illusion that there is an army of servers serving us. Will they be here the whole time, watching and listening to us? The room is so echoey with just the two of us.

Tristan raises his glass, and I clink mine with his. I take a sip, and it's delicious. It tastes expensive.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Tristan comments. “Clean, crisp…you can really taste the honey, can’t you?”

That’s nice. My only requirement with champagne is that it doesn’t leave me bent over with trapped wind. I make a mental note to learn some swanky phrases about champagne.

I nod, making a deep hmmm sound.

“The French chef is known for his creative style of cooking.” He grins as he follows my gaze to the menu. "It's why we chose him. Some of the dishes aren't for the faint-hearted.”

Escargots. They’re quite nice, I can handle those.

Sauteed frog legs. Mmm, guess I could give one a go.

Tagine of Goat! I could pretend it’s chicken.

“Tartare de Cheval?” I say loudly. “Is that…”

Holy Mary, Mother of -

“Horse tartare,” he finishes, giving me a wicked smile.

I swallow hard. I'll have to subtly check my phone to see if these things trigger irritable bowel symptoms.

“Anything can taste amazing if it’s cooked right.” His eyes twinkle. "I’m very adventurous. You were warned.”

Are we still talking about food?

“I ordered last time," I say, feeling brave. I close the menu. "You have carte blanche to order whatever you want for both of us. Except for the horse. Anything but horse."