countered smoothly, fixing his gaze on hers. "Because I know exactly what I want."
A surge of heat hummed through her at his softly uttered assurance, and she had no idea how to respond. All she could do was damn Lauren anyway for using up all the good repartee hours ago.
Thankfully, their server arrived with the drinks they had ordered—or, rather, that Adam Darien had ordered. God forbid he should consult her first, after all, she thought, as the waiter placed a glass of very expensive Merlot in front of her. "It was cold walking here, and you need warming" had been his reason for ordering red wine instead of the iced cappuccino he had promised her earlier. The way he'd voiced the "you need warming" part, however, had gone a loooong way toward remedying that particular problem. Still, there was no reason he had to know that.
Dorsey mumbled her thanks to the server and, resigned to her fate, lifted the glass to her lips for an idle sip. The wine was dark, smooth, and mellow, and she had to admit that it felt good going down. But it was nowhere near as intoxicating as the dark, smooth, mellow look in his eyes. And she couldn't help wondering if he'd feel just as good going—
Uh-oh.
Their waiter hastily scribbled down their dinner orders as they gave them—an amazing feat, as far as Dorsey was concerned, seeing as how she herself couldn't understand a word of what she said in that regard—then conveniently disappeared. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, that might do something, anything, to alleviate the frantic heat arcing between them—or, at the very least, the frantic heat smacking her upside the head—when Adam took matters out of her hands by speaking first.
And, oh, what a speech it was.
"So, Mack, tell me about this husband of yours."
It was the last thing Dorsey had expected to hear from him. Although he had commented once or twice at Drake's on her phony marital status, it had always been some silly little flirtatious thing that meant nothing. "Mack, if you weren't a married woman, I'd take you away from all of this" or some such thing. He had never actually asked her about her husband. And why the subject should come up now she couldn't imagine.
She remembered then that her wedding ring—the one her nonexistent husband had allegedly slipped over her finger on their imaginary wedding day—was currently lying on the top shelf of her locker at Drake's. Hoping Adam didn't notice, she slowly withdrew her left hand from the table and tucked it between her leg and the chair.
And just when had she taken the next, Herculean step, toward thinking of him as Adam instead of Mr. Darien? she wondered. Unfortunately, she couldn't find an adequate answer to her own question. Nor could she find one for his. So she answered him with one of her own.
"Why do you ask?" she replied.
He lifted his shoulders and let them fall in a shrug that was in no way casual. "You mentioned once in conversation that you thought money could solve all of a woman's problems." He leaned forward, resting both elbows on the table, folding his arms one over the other. It was a harmless action that seemed very intimidating somehow. "If that's true," he continued, "then why didn't you marry for money? Why didn't you go out and trap yourself a tycoon? Seems like that would have made your life a whole lot easier."
"Who says I didn't marry for money?" she replied evasively.
Adam chuckled low, a wonderfully masculine sound that seemed to meander indolently through her entire body. And oh, boy, did it feel good.
"Well, there's the fact that you attend Severn ," he said, "a college whose student body is comprised of those less financially endowed than others. And there's also the small matter of your job at Drake's," he added. "Call me presumptuous, but I'd think that had you gone to all the trouble to find a rich man, you probably wouldn't have been admitted to Severn , and you probably wouldn't be tending bar to supplement your
A surge of heat hummed through her at his softly uttered assurance, and she had no idea how to respond. All she could do was damn Lauren anyway for using up all the good repartee hours ago.
Thankfully, their server arrived with the drinks they had ordered—or, rather, that Adam Darien had ordered. God forbid he should consult her first, after all, she thought, as the waiter placed a glass of very expensive Merlot in front of her. "It was cold walking here, and you need warming" had been his reason for ordering red wine instead of the iced cappuccino he had promised her earlier. The way he'd voiced the "you need warming" part, however, had gone a loooong way toward remedying that particular problem. Still, there was no reason he had to know that.
Dorsey mumbled her thanks to the server and, resigned to her fate, lifted the glass to her lips for an idle sip. The wine was dark, smooth, and mellow, and she had to admit that it felt good going down. But it was nowhere near as intoxicating as the dark, smooth, mellow look in his eyes. And she couldn't help wondering if he'd feel just as good going—
Uh-oh.
Their waiter hastily scribbled down their dinner orders as they gave them—an amazing feat, as far as Dorsey was concerned, seeing as how she herself couldn't understand a word of what she said in that regard—then conveniently disappeared. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, that might do something, anything, to alleviate the frantic heat arcing between them—or, at the very least, the frantic heat smacking her upside the head—when Adam took matters out of her hands by speaking first.
And, oh, what a speech it was.
"So, Mack, tell me about this husband of yours."
It was the last thing Dorsey had expected to hear from him. Although he had commented once or twice at Drake's on her phony marital status, it had always been some silly little flirtatious thing that meant nothing. "Mack, if you weren't a married woman, I'd take you away from all of this" or some such thing. He had never actually asked her about her husband. And why the subject should come up now she couldn't imagine.
She remembered then that her wedding ring—the one her nonexistent husband had allegedly slipped over her finger on their imaginary wedding day—was currently lying on the top shelf of her locker at Drake's. Hoping Adam didn't notice, she slowly withdrew her left hand from the table and tucked it between her leg and the chair.
And just when had she taken the next, Herculean step, toward thinking of him as Adam instead of Mr. Darien? she wondered. Unfortunately, she couldn't find an adequate answer to her own question. Nor could she find one for his. So she answered him with one of her own.
"Why do you ask?" she replied.
He lifted his shoulders and let them fall in a shrug that was in no way casual. "You mentioned once in conversation that you thought money could solve all of a woman's problems." He leaned forward, resting both elbows on the table, folding his arms one over the other. It was a harmless action that seemed very intimidating somehow. "If that's true," he continued, "then why didn't you marry for money? Why didn't you go out and trap yourself a tycoon? Seems like that would have made your life a whole lot easier."
"Who says I didn't marry for money?" she replied evasively.
Adam chuckled low, a wonderfully masculine sound that seemed to meander indolently through her entire body. And oh, boy, did it feel good.
"Well, there's the fact that you attend Severn ," he said, "a college whose student body is comprised of those less financially endowed than others. And there's also the small matter of your job at Drake's," he added. "Call me presumptuous, but I'd think that had you gone to all the trouble to find a rich man, you probably wouldn't have been admitted to Severn , and you probably wouldn't be tending bar to supplement your
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