Virtuous(15)

I watch as her sleek legs propel her up and out of the car, my mouth going dry at the thought of touching those well-defined muscles.

When she runs a hand over her skirt, I discover I’m staring and force myself to look at her face and not at the rest of her. I close the door and lock the car out of habit, not out of fear of it being stolen from a garage only I have access to. As I lead her to the elevator, I continue to hold her hand and consider it a small victory that she doesn’t pull away from me.

In the elevator, I insert the keycard that takes us to the top floor. She’s quiet on the short ride, but observant, her gaze darting around to take in the details of the well-appointed elevator but steering clear of me. For some reason, I find her reaction to me amusing and endearing and more than a little refreshing. Women tend to be silly around me. They talk constantly. They fill every silence with chatter, as if they fear I’ll lose interest if they aren’t endlessly entertaining and charming.

Natalie fills the silence with more silence, and I find myself desperately trying to think of something to say that will engage her and keep her interested in me. I’m humbled to admit I’m way out of my league with this woman, which only makes me more determined to know her.

Before I can be charming or witty, the elevator dings, and we arrive at my top-floor apartment. The doors open, and I lead Natalie into the foyer.

“Can I take your coat?”

“Sure, thanks.”

I release her hand to help with her coat.

“May I?” She gestures to the rooms beyond the foyer.

“Of course. Make yourself at home.”

She wanders into the living room and gravitates toward the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook Central Park and Fifth Avenue. “This view is incredible. You can see the skating rink and the boathouse.”

“The view sold me on the place.”

She turns away from the window to take a look at the rest of the apartment, which consists of a spacious living room, a kitchen I rarely use, an office where I spend most of my time when I’m in New York, and the bedroom and master bathroom.

“Want to see the rest?”

“I’d love to.”

I take her into my office, where she spends a few minutes looking at the photos of family and friends I’ve put up on the wall over my desk, which is covered with scripts that threaten to avalanche onto my laptop. I need to clean this place up one of these days.

When she’s looked her fill, we cross the hall to the bedroom, and she surprises me when she steps inside for a better look at my king-size bed and the photos of my nieces and nephews on the bedside table. “Bathroom is in there.”

As she opens the door to take a peek, I’m grateful I took the time this afternoon to make the bed and pick up the towels from the floor.

“I love your tub,” she says when she rejoins me in the bedroom. “If I had a tub like that, I’d take bubble baths every night.”

The image of her in my tub surrounded by bubbles has me swallowing hard and forcing thoughts of anything other than her naked body into my mind, so I don’t embarrass myself—and her—with a predictable reaction. “Feel free to come over and take a soak any time you want to.”

“Sure,” she says with a laugh. “I’ll just pop over for a bubble bath.”

“My tub is your tub.”

“Be careful making promises you have no intention of keeping.”

I’m surprisingly wounded by her certainty that I’m being insincere. I cross the room to my dresser and return to her with a keycard that I hand to her. “Any time you want.”

“I was joking,” she says as a flush of color overtakes her cheeks.

“I wasn’t.” Nothing about the way I feel when she’s in the room is a joke to me. I’ve lived long enough, dated enough women, slept with more of them than I probably should have, to know when something is different, special and unique. Natalie is all those things.

She tries to give the key back to me. “You shouldn’t give someone you barely know a key to your home. Don’t you have security people to tell you things like that?”

Her indignant reply makes me laugh, which seems to annoy her. “Are you telling me you can’t be trusted with my key?”

“I’m telling you that you shouldn’t be so cavalier with your security. How do you know I’m not a crazy stalker fan girl?”

“Are you?” I ask with mock concern. Somehow I already know I can trust this woman with everything I have.