Thief (Love Me With Lies #3)(43)

Her face looks even more startled than a second ago. She spins to walk away, but I catch her and pull her against me.

“You’re wearing that dress simply because you like it. You don’t dress to make men look at you — you hate men. But, your body is ridiculous and it happens anyway. You walk and your hips sway from side to side, but you don’t walk that way to get attention, it’s just the way you move — and everyone looks. Everyone. And when you listen to people speak, you unconsciously bite your lower lip and then let your teeth slide across it. And when you order wine at dinner, you play with the stem of your wine glass. You run your fingers up and down. You are sex and you don’t even know it. Which makes you even sexier. So, when I think dirty thoughts, forgive me. I’m just under your spell like everyone else.”

She’s breathing hard when she nods. I let her go and lead her out of the room and to our minivan.



She has not lost her childlike awe. When she sees something that has never crossed her vision before, she becomes entranced — parted lips, wide eyes.

We step into the large foyer of the restaurant holding pinkies, and her speaking stills. To our left is the hostess stand, and in front of us the room opens up to two stories of red wall, decorated in gilded gold mirrors. It’s a spacious receptacle into the restaurant doors leading off into different directions, and her head swivels around to take it all in. The bulbs they use to light the room are red. Everything glows in red luminescence. The room reminds me of old class and sex.

“Drake,” I say to a tall blonde standing behind the desk. She smiles, nods and looks for my reservation.

Olivia has let go of my pinkie and has grasped my whole hand. I wonder if she’s afraid — perhaps intimidated.

I bend down to her ear.

“Okay, love?”

She nods.

“This looks like the red room of pain,” she says.

My mouth drops open. My little prude has been expanding her reading horizons. I choke on my laugh, and a couple of people turn to look at us. I narrow my eyes.

“You read Fifty?” I ask quietly. She blushes. Amazing! — the woman is capable of blushing.

“Everyone was reading it,” she says, defensively. Then she looks up at me with big eyes.

“You?”

“I wanted to see what all the hype was about.”

She does that blink, blink, blink thing with her eyelashes.

“Did you pick up any new techniques?” she says, without looking at me.

I squeeze her hand. “Would you like to try me out and see?”

She turns her face away, pressing her lips together — horribly embarrassed.

“Caleb Drake,” the hostess says, interrupting our whispering. “Right this way.”

I lift my eyebrows at Olivia, and we follow the hostess through a door at the rear of the room. We are led through a series of dim hallways until we enter another decadently red room — red chairs, red walls, red carpet. The tablecloths are mercifully white, breaking the continuity of the color. Olivia takes a seat, I follow.

The server approaches our table moments later. I watch her face as he guides her through a wine menu that is the size of a dictionary. She is overwhelmed after a few seconds, and I speak up.

“A bottle of the Bertani Amarone della Valpolicella, two thousand and one.”

Olivia scans the menu. I know she’s trying to find the price tag. The server nods my way in approval.

“A rare choice,” he says. “Aged for a minimum of two years, the Bertani hails from Italy. The grapes are grown in soil that is composed of volcanic limestone. The grapes are then dried until they are raisins, which results in a wine that is dry and higher than most in alcohol content.”

When he retreats from our table, I smile at her.

“I’ve already slept with you, you don’t have to order the most expensive wine on the menu to impress me.”

I grin at her. “Duchess, the most expensive wine on this menu is six figures. I ordered what I enjoy.”

She bites her top lip and seems to shrink into her seat.

“What’s the matter?”

“I always wanted this — to come to restaurants that raise their own cows and mortgage bottles of wine. But, it makes me feel insecure — reminds me that I’m really just poor, white trash with a good job.”

I reach for her hand. “Aside from your notably filthy mouth, you are the single classiest woman I have ever met.”

She smiles weakly like she doesn’t believe me. That’s okay. I’ll spend the rest of forever convincing her of her worth.

I order her the New York Strip. She only ever eats the filet, because that’s what she thinks she’s supposed to do.

“It’s not as tender, but it is more flavorful. It’s the steak version of you,” I tell her.

“Why are you forever comparing me to animals and shoes and food?”

“Because, I see the world in different shades of Olivia. I’m comparing them to you — not the other way around.”

“Wow,” she says, taking a sip of her wine. “You’ve got it bad.”

I start singing a rendition of Usher’s “You Got it Bad” and she shushes me, looking around embarrassed.

“Singing is something you should never do,” she smiles, “but, maybe if you translated some of those lyrics into French…”