Kitty Valentine dates a Billionaire Page 8

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Are you flipping serious?”

  Probably not the smoothest thing that could’ve come from my mouth. Not even close really. But how else am I supposed to react when we pull up beside a sleek jet?

  Blake laughs. “I love how open you are.”

  “You do?” I feel a little skeptical. I’m the girl who’s constantly putting her foot in her mouth.

  “Sure. It’s refreshing. You’re refreshing.” He pats my exposed knee, and I notice the way he lets his hand linger just a second longer than it needs to.

  Not that I mind. Not even a little bit. He looks and smells so delicious; it’s taking a great deal of my self-control to keep from jumping into his lap. I mean, while I need things to go in that direction—a peck on the cheek isn’t much to work with, and that’s all I’ve gotten so far—I can’t imagine him taking it well.

  Refreshing or not.

  “You didn’t tell me we were flying somewhere,” I point out while climbing from the car.

  “I wanted it to be a surprise. Besides”—he grins, taking my hand and leading me to the stairs—“it’s not like we’re going halfway around the world. Don’t worry. I’ll have you back safe and sound.”

  “Who’s worried?” I laugh, though it sounds shaky, even to my ears.

  “You are. I can tell.”

  He stops before we reach the bottom stair and turns to me, taking my other hand so he’s holding both. He has a firm grip but a gentle one. I can’t help but remember how heroic he was when I fell and how safe I felt, thanks to him.

  “This was just an idea, you know. You said you needed information on how wealthy people lived. Research, right? But if you’re feeling nervous, it’s okay. You can take a look around inside the jet, jot down a few notes for reference, and then we can go someplace else.” His thumbs slide over my knuckles. “Whatever you want.”

  No, we cannot do whatever I want since what I want when he murmurs that way and looks down at me with those twinkling eyes of his is to drag him up the stairs and join the Mile-High Club, though I suppose we’d have to leave the ground to make it official.

  Is it possible? Could he be as perfect as he seems? “I want to see what you have planned for this evening,” I decide. After all, nobody ever got anywhere by being too cautious. And in spite of myself, I can’t help but look back and recognize how cautious I’ve been. Cautious to the point of coasting on my past success, unwilling to stretch and grow. This is as good a start as any.

  That is how I end up seated in a butter-soft leather chair beside Blake, sipping champagne, which just so happened to be chilled and waiting for us.

  “It’s incredible,” I murmur, looking around.

  “The champagne or the jet?” he jokes, winking.

  “Both, smarty-pants. Is this good champagne since I’m such a plebeian when it comes to these things?” I tease right back.

  He holds up the glass like he’s examining the contents. “This is a 2008 vintage,” he explains. “That was a very good year—one of the two best years of the aughts.”

  “I should be taking notes, shouldn’t I?”

  “I’d be glad to remind you whenever you’d like.”

  His eyes meet mine as he takes a sip of the fizzy liquid. Now, I feel all fizzy inside too. He has that effect on me.

  “I’ll have to take you up on that.” I finish off the glass just as we’re about to take off. Good thing, too, since I can’t hold a champagne flute while gripping the armrests like my life depends on it.

  “Oh no. You’re afraid of flying? Why didn’t you say so?” Blake asks, concerned and clearly upset.

  “It’s not the flying that bothers me,” I confess, eyes closed. “It’s the taking off and landing. Those are the two most dangerous times.”

  “For what it’s worth, I spend a ridiculous amount of time in the air, and I’m still here.” One of his hands closes over one of mine. “We’ll be okay.”

  And I believe him. He has a way about him, an energy that instantly calms me. Maybe it’s his confidence, his self-assuredness.

  “Have you always been this way?” I ask through clenched teeth as the world pulls away from us—or rather, as we pull away from the world.

  “What way?”

  “So sure of yourself? Does that come with success, or is it the other way around?”

  “You mean, has my attitude led to success?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I mean.”

  “That’s a funny question.”

  I have to open one eye to look at him. “I hope I didn’t insult you.”

  “No, not one bit.” Though the creases in his normally smooth forehead say otherwise. “It’s just that I’ve never thought about it before. I guess my personality is what it’s always been. Yes, to a degree, I’ve always been sure of myself. I knew I was going to be successful.”

  “Did you imagine this level of success though? I’m sorry if I’m asking too many questions,” I add in a hurry. “Sometimes, my curiosity runs away from me. You don’t have to answer anything you don’t want to.”

  “Why would I not want to? Now, if your idea of getting to know me better involves sharing my Social Security number, that’s when we’ll have a problem.” He snickers.

  “Hold on. Let me make a note of that …” I mime writing a note on my palm. “No … Social … Security … number. You know this is going to make my life a lot harder, don’t you?”

  “Cute. But I mean it. You don’t have to feel sorry for being curious. I’m curious about you too.”

  “Yeah, but you can go into my records with the publisher and learn just about everything you want to know. Including my Social Security number.”

  “Oh, I already have,” he assures me with a wave of his hand.

  “Good luck with trying to steal anything.” I laugh. “You won’t get far.” Besides, I’m sure that the savings I’ve worked so hard to put aside would be like a drop in the bucket for somebody in his position.

  “That’s not the same as knowing a person though,” he points out, and he’s serious now. “Learning what a person likes and what they don’t. Where they’ve always dreamed of visiting. What the name of their imaginary friend was when they were a kid, if they had one.”

  “Emily,” I confide without blinking.

  “Mine was Fred. I used to talk to him before going to sleep at night,” he replies. “I think he lived inside the wall next to my bed, but I’m not sure. I was never clear on it. Anyway, that’s the sort of stuff I want to know about you.”

  “I have to admit, I’m finding it hard to believe you’d want to know anything about me. No, I’m not fishing for compliments,” I add when he scoffs a little. “I’m a normal person. I’m not that special.”

  “Not that special? A number one New York Times best-seller six times over by the time you turned twenty-five? You don’t think that’s special?” The corners of his mouth twist upward. “Trust me. I’ve seen more failures and fizzles than you could ever imagine. Do you have any idea how unique you are?”

  “Okay, when you put it that way, I sound completely out of touch, like I take my success for granted,” I admit. It doesn’t make me feel very good either.

  “I’m sure you don’t. You’re too down-to-earth. But not everybody lives on the Upper West Side. I mean, I grew up just outside Philly. Mom would’ve stayed there if the doctor hadn’t told her she’d do better to live in a drier, warmer climate. I’m still a Philly boy at heart, right down to the teams I follow. And I’ve eaten in five-star restaurants around the world, but there’s nothing so good as a cheesesteak from Jim’s.”

  “I’ve never had one,” I admit.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not.”

  “We’ll have to change that.”

  “I can hardly wait.” And that’s a fact. I’d go just about anywhere with him. Which brings me back to the present moment. “Where are we going?” I have to ask. “You never did say.”

&nbs
p; “Oh, right.” He laughs. “I thought we could have dinner in Chicago.”

  “Chicago! You can do that? Just decide on a city where you want to have dinner?”

  “Sure.” He shrugs like it’s completely normal. “I have an apartment there for work anyway, and one of my close friends is the executive chef at probably my favorite steakhouse in the entire world. I hope you’re in the mood for meat.”

  Lord, how my cheeks burn. For somebody who hates writing about graphic sex, I sure do have a dirty mind. If he notices, he’s nice enough not to make a big deal about it.

  “Yes, I could go for … meat,” I manage to say before my throat closes up.

  Wait a second. Did he just say he has an apartment in Chicago? Is that the endgame? Inviting me to spend the night?

  It occurs to me that I wouldn’t mind. Not one bit. And not only because I need to research.

  When he offers more champagne, I can’t help but accept. It’s time for Kitty Valentine to stop writing about exciting romance and start living it for herself.

  Even if I accidentally dribble some champagne down my chin when Blake’s not looking. I’m nothing if not consistent.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “I’m going to have to get a thesaurus,” I whisper.

  “Why?” Blake asks with a smile.

  “Because I need new words to describe everything you’re showing me. Amazing, incredible, awesome … I’m getting tired of hearing myself say the same thing over and over.”

  But I can’t help it.

  The restaurant is located in the basement of an old hotel, where it used to function as a speakeasy back in the days of Al Capone.

  “This was a favorite hangout of his,” Blake explains when we pull up in front of the grand, old building with its wrought iron railings and elaborate plasterwork decorating the front.

  Rather than go in through the double doors, we take a narrow flight of stairs down to the basement and are greeted by a beaming young man introduced as the restaurant’s executive chef. He gives us what he promises is the best table, situated in the back corner of the room. It’s intimate for sure, a high-backed booth that leaves us semi-removed from the rest of the diners.

  “Does this seem commonplace to you?” I ask once the wine is poured and we’re alone again. A nice, full-bodied red to complement the steaks we haven’t ordered yet but probably will. The aroma of seared beef is just about enough to knock me sideways.

  “Not even a little bit,” Blake assures me, raising his glass. “Especially when I get to show it all to you. I guess even the coolest, most exciting things would get boring without somebody like you to share them with.”

  There I go, blushing again. “By all means, show me whatever you want.”

  “Oh, I will.” He grins with a wicked gleam in his eye.

  For Pete’s sake, will I ever stop walking into the double entendres? At least I manage not to choke on my wine. Barely.

  I turn to the menu, looking for an escape or at least a change in subject. “Blake?” I whisper, glancing up at him.

  “Yeah?”

  “There aren’t prices next to anything.” Craning my neck to peek at his menu tells me I didn’t get a misprint—unless we both did.

  “I know.”

  “So, how do you know how much you’re going to pay for things?”

  He’s such a sweetheart, trying so hard not to laugh out loud at how ignorant I am. “Here’s a secret about restaurants like this one: if you have to ask, you probably can’t afford it.”

  “Oh.” I feel roughly two inches tall now.

  “Not to brag or anything like that,” he continues. “You know how I hate it. But that’s the way it is. And if you think this is something, wait until I take you to a chef’s tasting. There’s a restaurant back in Philly that I absolutely adore. Thirteen courses, beautifully plated, just exquisite.”

  “Thirteen? I feel full, just thinking about it. How long does it take?”

  “Three or four hours, typically. You sit at the chef’s table inside the kitchen and watch each course as it’s prepared. It’s an experience from beginning to end. I think you’d love it.”

  “I bet I would.”

  What I really love is knowing he’s planning future dates. Sure, we started this from a sort of professional angle. He’s scratching my back, and he knows it.

  But he’s interested in me and interested in going out again. I can’t pretend not to be flattered.

  “Tell me a little more about you,” he urges, leaning in ever so slightly.

  We’re in a rounded booth instead of one that leaves us facing each other, and there are only a few inches between us.

  Is it the champagne from the jet that has my head spinning a little? Or maybe it’s the sense of so many new, exciting things happening at once. There’s a definite energy in this underground space with its exposed brick walls and crystal chandeliers. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if the ghost of Al Capone himself walked by, a cigar hanging from his mouth and a moll on one arm.

  More likely, the spinning head has to do with the man sitting next to me. He looks good enough to eat, and I’m not only thinking that because I’m starved. Tonight, he’s wearing a well-fitted black button-down, snug against the muscles of his biceps and chest. I have to remind myself not to lick my lips as my gaze travels over him.

  “What’s there to say?” I ask, shrugging a little.

  “You already told me why you started writing romance,” he muses in a soft voice. “Where do you come from? What’s your best friend’s name? What do you like to do on a rainy day?”

  “I grew up in New York,” I explain. “I can’t imagine living anywhere else in the world. It’s messy, yeah, and noisy and crowded. But I’d probably lose my mind if I lived someplace quiet. No traffic, no voices.” It’s enough to make me shudder.

  “I completely agree.” He nods.

  “My grandmother’s family is old money,” I admit. Why does it make me uncomfortable to talk about this? “She sort of disowned my mom when she and Dad eloped. He was working-class, and my grandma hated that. We lived in a two-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn until I was ten. Dad got a promotion, and we moved into our own house. It was great. I think Grandma Cecile got over it after a while once she saw how hard he was willing to work to provide a good life for us. Plus, it helped that Mom had named me after my great-grandmother, who was the family matriarch.”

  “Her name was Kitty?”

  “Kathryn,” I correct. “Kathryn Antoinette.”

  His mouth twitches. “That’s quite a name.”

  “I’ve never gone by it, except in Grandma’s presence. Mom always called me Kitty. Anyway, Grandma was generous enough to set me up with a fund for college. I know how lucky I am. Between that and the book deal I got straight after graduation, it’s practically a fairy tale.”

  “You’re remarkably well-adjusted, and you have a good head on your shoulders when it comes to your work,” he says, swirling the wine in his glass. “You didn’t let it get to you, being such a smash hit.”

  “I know success can disappear”—I snap my fingers—“just like that. Especially in this industry. But more than that, the economy can take a turn, or a person can get sick. Life changes in ways we can’t predict. I won’t let today’s success go to my head.”

  “I knew you were something special as soon as we met.”

  I know he means it in the nicest way possible, but that doesn’t stop me from snorting. “When I was on my hands and knees in the hallway? Wanting to cry but wanting to save myself from looking like even more of a mess?”

  “You know what I mean.” His hand finds mine just before he lifts it, pressing his lips to the backs of my fingers and basically turning me into a puddle of melted Kitty. “I knew you were the real deal.”

  This probably isn’t the best time to remind him that he also thought I was only using him, so I keep that fun fact to myself and choose to revel in his sweetness. “I didn’t know they made men lik
e you anymore,” I admit. It sounds corny as Kansas in springtime, but it’s true.

  “Like me? What’s that mean?” he asks with a note of humor in his voice.

  “Chivalrous and kind and thoughtful. You know what I’m trying to say. You’re pretty special too.”

  “Even without the billions to my name?” He winks.

  If he sounded even a tiny bit serious, it would turn my stomach. The fact that he’s obviously making fun of himself and of what people typically think of him is the saving grace.

  “Let’s face it.” I shrug with a smirk. “If you weren’t who you are, there wouldn’t have been any reason for us to meet each other. So, I guess I’ll have to accept that you’re fabulously wealthy and move on.”

  Our meals arrive and just in the nick of time. My stomach hasn’t stopped rumbling since we walked through the door. Thick cuts of prime rib cooked medium-rare, creamed spinach, scalloped potatoes, roasted onions and mushrooms. Another bottle of wine, too, and a basket of steaming rolls.

  “This looks fabulous, but what do you plan on eating?” I ask, and his laughter rings out in the otherwise quiet room.

  “Another thing I like about you,” he observes after a few minutes of gorging ourselves.

  “What’s that?”

  “You don’t shy away from eating on a date.”

  Well, why not tell me I’m acting like a pig?

  I put my fork and knife down for the first time since I picked them up and touch my napkin to my mouth. “Sorry. I was so hungry.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, eat,” he urges. “I was being sincere. Enjoy the food. I’m sure they worked hard on it, and I brought you here because it’s one of my favorites. I hate few things more than watching a woman wish she could enjoy something but stopping herself anyway.”

  “How can you tell she’s only wishing she could enjoy it?” I ask before spearing my steak again. To hell with it. I’m going to enjoy it, just like he thinks I should.

  His mouth screws up in a smirk. “There’s a longing in the eyes that’s hard to miss. I see it a lot in people who hold themselves back from what they really want in life. It’s a hunger that goes beyond the physical. I decided a long time ago that I didn’t want to be that person. I don’t want to wander through my life with that sort of hunger always gnawing at me, you know?”