been to having money was when she received the full academic scholarship to college.
"My mother comes from old Southern money."
Must be nice. "What about your dad?"
"He's retired Navy."
Bree stared at Drew. His face was impassive, but she knew he was hiding something. She mulled it over. Navy. Whitcomb. "Oh my gosh! You're dad's not…?"
"Admiral Andrew Jackson Whitcomb the Third. Yeah, that's my old man."
Bree sank against the padded chair back. Holy smoke. Everyone in Washington, D.C. knew Admiral Whitcomb and his Southern socialite wife. Their parties were written up in all the papers and talked about in offices all over the District. "That makes you…?"
"A screw-up," he offered.
He couldn't be serious, but the expression on his face said he was. "I was going to say, Andrew Jackson the Fourth."
"I'm that, too. I did what was expected of me, went to Annapolis just like all the Whitcomb men for the last hundred years or so, but I'm not cut out for the political side of the Navy. Dad almost had heart failure when I went into SEAL training instead of playing the promotion game. Then, when I went over to the DIA, I think he would have disowned me if he could have done so. Fortunately for me, I'd already come into the trust funds my grandparents set up for me when I was a kid."
"Funds? As in more than one?"
"Yeah, more than one." He sat up, crossed his forearms on the edge of the table, and leaned into them. "What about you?"
Bree wanted to crawl under the table and disappear rather than tell him about herself. "Not much to tell."
"Oh, come on. There's got to be something. I told you my deep dark secret, so now you have to tell me yours."
"I don't have any secrets." That wasn't strictly true, but she wasn't about to tell Drew anything, especially now.
"Then tell me something that isn't a secret." His eyes twinkled and a wicked grin split his face. "Help me out here. I just confessed, and I'm dyin'."
No way was she telling Drew how she'd grown up living one day to the next, their meals dependent on whether her mother could keep her job long enough to collect a paycheck. All things considered, she and her younger sister Kayla had done all right for themselves, but she wasn't going to get into that with Drew. Not in this kind of restaurant, the kind her mother could never have gotten a waitressing job at, much less eaten at. Bree did the only thing she could. She changed the subject.
"Okay, I'll tell you something that's not a secret." She leaned in, crooking her finger to signal Drew to come closer. "I'm going to have you for dessert." Drew's eyes grew dark, and his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. He wasn't thinking about his family, or hers. Not anymore, and that was a good thing.
"I'm going to taste every last bit of you." She ran her tongue over the curve of her top lip, then reached for her wine glass and sat back. Drew remained hunched over the table, staring at her with a blank, glazed look. A sense of power and not a little feminine satisfaction washed over her.
The waiter setting their plates on the table snapped Drew back to reality. Bree smiled to herself as Drew attacked his food as if someone might take it from him any minute.
She took her time, savoring every morsel for the enjoyment of the exquisite meal, and also to torture Drew. He'd cleaned his plate and sat back, once again eyeing her as if she had morphed into an alien bent on abducting him. Bree leisurely cut a morsel of chicken and brought it to her mouth. She placed it on her tongue and closed her lips over the tines of the fork. A groan came from the other side of the table as she slid the fork from her mouth and savored the tender chicken. She swallowed and flicked her tongue out to capture an imaginary bit of flavor from the corner of her mouth.
"Christ. If you keep that up, I'm going to die right here."
"Keep what up?"
"Don't pretend you aren't doing that on purpose." He shifted in his seat, one hand beneath the
"My mother comes from old Southern money."
Must be nice. "What about your dad?"
"He's retired Navy."
Bree stared at Drew. His face was impassive, but she knew he was hiding something. She mulled it over. Navy. Whitcomb. "Oh my gosh! You're dad's not…?"
"Admiral Andrew Jackson Whitcomb the Third. Yeah, that's my old man."
Bree sank against the padded chair back. Holy smoke. Everyone in Washington, D.C. knew Admiral Whitcomb and his Southern socialite wife. Their parties were written up in all the papers and talked about in offices all over the District. "That makes you…?"
"A screw-up," he offered.
He couldn't be serious, but the expression on his face said he was. "I was going to say, Andrew Jackson the Fourth."
"I'm that, too. I did what was expected of me, went to Annapolis just like all the Whitcomb men for the last hundred years or so, but I'm not cut out for the political side of the Navy. Dad almost had heart failure when I went into SEAL training instead of playing the promotion game. Then, when I went over to the DIA, I think he would have disowned me if he could have done so. Fortunately for me, I'd already come into the trust funds my grandparents set up for me when I was a kid."
"Funds? As in more than one?"
"Yeah, more than one." He sat up, crossed his forearms on the edge of the table, and leaned into them. "What about you?"
Bree wanted to crawl under the table and disappear rather than tell him about herself. "Not much to tell."
"Oh, come on. There's got to be something. I told you my deep dark secret, so now you have to tell me yours."
"I don't have any secrets." That wasn't strictly true, but she wasn't about to tell Drew anything, especially now.
"Then tell me something that isn't a secret." His eyes twinkled and a wicked grin split his face. "Help me out here. I just confessed, and I'm dyin'."
No way was she telling Drew how she'd grown up living one day to the next, their meals dependent on whether her mother could keep her job long enough to collect a paycheck. All things considered, she and her younger sister Kayla had done all right for themselves, but she wasn't going to get into that with Drew. Not in this kind of restaurant, the kind her mother could never have gotten a waitressing job at, much less eaten at. Bree did the only thing she could. She changed the subject.
"Okay, I'll tell you something that's not a secret." She leaned in, crooking her finger to signal Drew to come closer. "I'm going to have you for dessert." Drew's eyes grew dark, and his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. He wasn't thinking about his family, or hers. Not anymore, and that was a good thing.
"I'm going to taste every last bit of you." She ran her tongue over the curve of her top lip, then reached for her wine glass and sat back. Drew remained hunched over the table, staring at her with a blank, glazed look. A sense of power and not a little feminine satisfaction washed over her.
The waiter setting their plates on the table snapped Drew back to reality. Bree smiled to herself as Drew attacked his food as if someone might take it from him any minute.
She took her time, savoring every morsel for the enjoyment of the exquisite meal, and also to torture Drew. He'd cleaned his plate and sat back, once again eyeing her as if she had morphed into an alien bent on abducting him. Bree leisurely cut a morsel of chicken and brought it to her mouth. She placed it on her tongue and closed her lips over the tines of the fork. A groan came from the other side of the table as she slid the fork from her mouth and savored the tender chicken. She swallowed and flicked her tongue out to capture an imaginary bit of flavor from the corner of her mouth.
"Christ. If you keep that up, I'm going to die right here."
"Keep what up?"
"Don't pretend you aren't doing that on purpose." He shifted in his seat, one hand beneath the
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