experience. After they’d both showered in separate bathrooms, he’d reappeared, looking extremely handsome in a pair of gray pants that highlighted his long legs and narrow hips, a light blue button-down shirt and sport jacket.
“Are you ready? We’re having dinner at Le Cinq,” he said, standing in the entry to the bedroom suite.
She gasped and looked down at herself in alarm. “I thought we were ordering food here in the suite. I can’t go to Le Cinq dressed like this!” she exclaimed, recalling everything she’d read and heard about the exclusive restaurant housed in the hotel. Why had Ian changed their plans? He’d said they’d just order the food in. Did he perhaps think that the atmosphere of the private suite was suddenly too intimate?
“Certainly you can,” he’d said, his manner all brisk British aristocrat. He’d held out his hand expectantly before he registered her disbelief. “I’ve requested a private outdoor terrace for us.”
“Ian, I can’t! Not like this,” she’d protested, sweeping her hand over her attire.
“You
will
,” he’d said, giving her an amused glance. “We won’t be seen by the other patrons. And if a single nose is turned up at your Cubs T-shirt, I’ll deal with the offending nose personally.”
What he’d said had been assuring, and even sweet, but with her growing awareness of him, Francesca still sensed the distant preoccupation that had descended upon him after their electric, erotic encounter earlier.
Feeling extremely doubtful, she’d hurried into her shoes upon Ian’s request, and put her hand in his. She’d trailed him into the elevator and down corridors, the whole time hissing worried protests behind him that they’d kick her out of the luxurious restaurant for showing up in jeans and a T-shirt. Ian had never replied, just led her on without comment.
The smiling maître d’ of the posh restaurant had greeted Ian like an old friend. Francesca had stood there awkwardly while the two men exchanged conversation in rapid French, wishing the sleek marble floor would open up and swallow her. The maître d’ had only smiled broadly at her, however, when Ian introduced her, making her blush when he took her hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles like she was Cinderella on the night of the ball instead of awkward, T-shirt-wearing Francesca Arno.
She’d stared in openmouthed amazement a moment later when the maître d’ led them onto a candlelit private terrace with a stunning view of the glowing lacework steel Eiffel Tower. Two heat lamps had warmed the pleasant, cool autumn evening. The table had been a glittering visual delight of flame, crystal, and gold dinnerware and a lush flower arrangement of white hydrangeas.
She’d looked over at Ian in surprise and saw that the maître d’ had left. They were alone on the terrace, and Ian was holding her chair for her.
“Did you arrange all this?” she’d asked him, looking over her shoulder to hold his stare.
“Yes,” he’d said, seating her.
“You should have let me dress for dinner.”
“I told you once before that a woman wears the clothes, Francesca,” he’d said as he sat across the table from her. His eyes had been the color of the midnight-blue sky in the candlelight. “If a woman recognizes her power, she can present herself in rags and people will recognize her as a queen.”
She’d scoffed. “That sounds like the type of thing an earl’s grandson would be taught. I’m afraid I live in a different world, Ian.”
They’d eaten a luxurious meal, exchanging conversation, sipping red wine, and sampling items from the sumptuous gourmet tasting menu, being waited on hand and foot by not one but two waiters, neither one of which so much as blinked an eye at Francesca’s apparel. Apparently, being Ian’s guest conferred a special status. When she’d shivered at a brisk breeze, Ian had stood and removed his jacket, insisting that she put it on.
Anybody else would
“Are you ready? We’re having dinner at Le Cinq,” he said, standing in the entry to the bedroom suite.
She gasped and looked down at herself in alarm. “I thought we were ordering food here in the suite. I can’t go to Le Cinq dressed like this!” she exclaimed, recalling everything she’d read and heard about the exclusive restaurant housed in the hotel. Why had Ian changed their plans? He’d said they’d just order the food in. Did he perhaps think that the atmosphere of the private suite was suddenly too intimate?
“Certainly you can,” he’d said, his manner all brisk British aristocrat. He’d held out his hand expectantly before he registered her disbelief. “I’ve requested a private outdoor terrace for us.”
“Ian, I can’t! Not like this,” she’d protested, sweeping her hand over her attire.
“You
will
,” he’d said, giving her an amused glance. “We won’t be seen by the other patrons. And if a single nose is turned up at your Cubs T-shirt, I’ll deal with the offending nose personally.”
What he’d said had been assuring, and even sweet, but with her growing awareness of him, Francesca still sensed the distant preoccupation that had descended upon him after their electric, erotic encounter earlier.
Feeling extremely doubtful, she’d hurried into her shoes upon Ian’s request, and put her hand in his. She’d trailed him into the elevator and down corridors, the whole time hissing worried protests behind him that they’d kick her out of the luxurious restaurant for showing up in jeans and a T-shirt. Ian had never replied, just led her on without comment.
The smiling maître d’ of the posh restaurant had greeted Ian like an old friend. Francesca had stood there awkwardly while the two men exchanged conversation in rapid French, wishing the sleek marble floor would open up and swallow her. The maître d’ had only smiled broadly at her, however, when Ian introduced her, making her blush when he took her hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles like she was Cinderella on the night of the ball instead of awkward, T-shirt-wearing Francesca Arno.
She’d stared in openmouthed amazement a moment later when the maître d’ led them onto a candlelit private terrace with a stunning view of the glowing lacework steel Eiffel Tower. Two heat lamps had warmed the pleasant, cool autumn evening. The table had been a glittering visual delight of flame, crystal, and gold dinnerware and a lush flower arrangement of white hydrangeas.
She’d looked over at Ian in surprise and saw that the maître d’ had left. They were alone on the terrace, and Ian was holding her chair for her.
“Did you arrange all this?” she’d asked him, looking over her shoulder to hold his stare.
“Yes,” he’d said, seating her.
“You should have let me dress for dinner.”
“I told you once before that a woman wears the clothes, Francesca,” he’d said as he sat across the table from her. His eyes had been the color of the midnight-blue sky in the candlelight. “If a woman recognizes her power, she can present herself in rags and people will recognize her as a queen.”
She’d scoffed. “That sounds like the type of thing an earl’s grandson would be taught. I’m afraid I live in a different world, Ian.”
They’d eaten a luxurious meal, exchanging conversation, sipping red wine, and sampling items from the sumptuous gourmet tasting menu, being waited on hand and foot by not one but two waiters, neither one of which so much as blinked an eye at Francesca’s apparel. Apparently, being Ian’s guest conferred a special status. When she’d shivered at a brisk breeze, Ian had stood and removed his jacket, insisting that she put it on.
Anybody else would
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