No Holding Back

“I don’t need to ask what you think, I can see it in your face.”

“I was that obvious? How unchic of me. But, yes.” She turned the glass reverently. “I’ll have to work not to guzzle.”

“Feel free.” One eyebrow quirked. “I enjoy watching that much pleasure.”

Ohh my. Except instead of arching an eyebrow back and saying something sultry like, I’d love to show you exactly how much pleasure I can feel, Jack, she gave a snort of nervous laughter and then made an even more revolting noise to get champagne out of her sinuses.

“You okay?”

“Mm, yeah. Sure. Fine.” She thumped her chest and took another more cautious sip.

“I’ll put the bottle where you can reach.” He took a slim elegant wine cooler from under the island and slid the champagne inside, putting it on the counter next to her. “There’s more where that came from.”

“Thank you.” There was more. More hundreds-of-dollars bottles of champagne. Not just this one, carefully saved for the occasion, of course not. The idea both thrilled and repelled her.

“Let’s see what’s in here.” He rummaged through his refrigerator, mumbling to himself—which tickled her since she did the same thing—occasionally withdrawing cans or jars or various other containers, and placing them on the counter next to him. Hannah’s bid to check out what billionaires had in their refrigerators besides not-Asti Spumante champagne was foiled when she couldn’t stop checking out the pull of his wide shoulders under the soft-looking shirt and the shape of his beautiful you-know-what—yes, they were Lee jeans and, oh, he did such lovely things for them. They should be grateful. She certainly was.

A few minutes slicing this and that, arranging that and the other, another few minutes at the gleaming toaster, then he loaded up his haul onto a large lacquered tray and bore it triumphantly to the island. “Seems we’ve done pretty well.”

“Um…yes.” She put down her champagne and gaped. Suffice to say what was in his refrigerator bore absolutely no resemblance to what she had in hers. A glass jar of foie gras with slices of toasted brioche and thin slices of what looked like apple or pear but wasn’t—maybe quince?; tins of osetra and beluga caviar to be served with delicate bone spoons alongside toasted pita bread squares, and a satiny white cream of some sort to spread over them; translucent slices of prosciutto next to a silver bowl of fresh green and black figs; cheeses whose names she didn’t know on a polished elegantly grained wooden tray; olives in three colors; flawless miniature vegetables—tiny carrots, yellow squash, cucumbers and elongated radishes—with a green creamy herb dip; perfect maroon grapes the size of peas, tangerines the size of golf balls; plump raspberries whose gorgeous perfume made her want to bury her face in them; assorted miniature pastries…

“Are you expecting a crowd?”

“You said you were hungry.”

“You eat like this all the time?”

He looked blank. “Doesn’t everyone?”

Billionaire Out of Touch With Reality. She was about to roll her eyes when he winked, and she blushed instead, because the wink made it seem as if they were alone in a highly intimate situation. The fact that they were alone in a highly intimate situation only made her blush harder. But that wink would do it even in a crowd of thousands. And yet…how could she eat this? Enough for twenty people. What would he do with the leftovers? Toss them? To waste money and food…she hated the idea of both. However, no, she couldn’t help herself. She was dying to try everything. Would he let her take some to share with Mom and Dad? With her friends. Her landlady? The whole block? Everyone should be able to eat like this.

“Now, the final touch.” He fumbled with buttons on an under-cabinet music system and soft jazz floated into the room. Oh my. Oh my my my. You could absolutely not beat the cheesesteaks at Jake’s Corner Bar, or the fresh almond cookies at Mama Fortunato’s Bakery, or the sizzling shrimp at Hu Min’s Dragon but…

Oh, but…

Mr. Amazing then rummaged in another three drawers before he found what he was looking for, which turned out to be candles. Candles. What kind of man thought of candles?

Perfection in a Male: My Evening with Jack Brattle.

Was this his typical evening at home? He couldn’t have been expecting her. Maybe just a typical New Year’s? But why would he haul it all out for her if he was planning a party later?

Was he…trying to seduce her?

She shouldn’t, but with half a glass of excellent champagne in her, on top of a couple of glasses of not-so-excellent champagne, and dazzled by the man and the occasion, she sort of hoped so. Not that she could give in and sleep with Jack Brattle when she was planning to publish an article about him. She had her limits. What fun though to hold this memory close to her heart, and place it reverently into her best friends’ voice mails and long e-mails to people she didn’t know that well, for the rest of her life.

“Do you often throw impromptu candlelight suppers in the middle of the night for strange women?”

“I might make it a habit after tonight.” He considered her carefully. “So far, no signs that you’re a deranged killer…are you?”

“Ah, no. I gave up deranged killing. Hell on a girl’s nails. And those dry-cleaning bills…” She made a tsk-tsk noise and shook her head.

“I hear you.” He pulled up another stool close to hers, so what could she do but wiggle around until she faced him? “I’m glad you showed up.”

“Really?” Fishing, fishing, she was shameless.

“Really.” He poured himself champagne, topped hers off and put the bottle back in the fancy chill-thing, which undoubtedly kept it at the perfect temperature. “Since I left my party early, the evening didn’t feel finished. I’m glad to have company to salvage it.”

I Need a Woman: Billionaire’s Sad Tale of Deprivation.

He clinked his glass to hers. “Dig in.”

Maybe she shouldn’t have, maybe she should have at least hesitated and spent another minute or two contemplating the plight of the poor, but she didn’t. She dug.

Oh my. Dug again. And again, and where was her shovel? If D. G. Jackson could see her, he’d never stop saying told-you-so. She’d deserve it, too.

“Caviar?” He passed it, amusement in his eyes.

Caviar…who knew? She’d had the jarred preserved stuff from the supermarket once and decided the fish should have been able to keep it.

“Foie gras?” The amusement became a smile.

Foie gras…she’d cheerfully gain forty pounds on the stuff given the chance.

“Prosciutto with figs?” This time he was outright smirking.

Prosciutto with fresh figs…sign her up for that action every day. And on and on, while they talked about the food she was eating: him discussing the various types of caviar, she bringing up overfishing in the Caspian Sea; he regaling her with memories of his first taste of foie gras, her mentioning the controversy involved in force-feeding the geese and ducks; him painting a picture of the summer he spent in Lebanon and the fig tree outside his bedroom window from which he could pick ripe figs first thing in the morning, to which she had no politically correct objections. All the while their champagne glasses were emptying and refilling until finally she couldn’t eat or drink another bite and what a horrible shame that was.

“I have reached my absolute limit.”

He drained the last of the bottle into her glass. “C’mon, I dare you.”

“Oh, you Satan.”

He picked up her practically licked-clean plate, grinning triumphantly. “Enjoyed it?”

“Ya think?” She gathered up dishes and bowls and placed them in the sink. “I’ve never had a feast like that. I’m not much of a luxury foods person.”

“Ah.”

Something about the way he spoke made her glance at him suspiciously, though he was concentrating apparently innocently, on rinsing plates. What was that about? Had she disgraced herself with her greed? Maybe, but everything was so good she couldn’t regret it. And he’d been eating quite healthily himself. Best of all, with Mr. Jack Brattle’s notorious aversion to publicity, this multidollar-binge could remain her guilty secret.

“I feel like I should run about five miles to atone for those calories.”

“There’s a pool if you want to do laps.”

Of course there was. “No suit.”

“I’m sure you’d look great in one of mine…”