Just Desserts (20 page)

Remembering what Beverly and Fiona had said about Ryan, she wondered if her preconception of the gorilla bodyguard might be an ill-founded, stupid prejudice. One could always hope.

In the corner of the complex she found Stone’s apartment. The prime spot, she noted. Perfect view, close to the pool, a tad more secluded than the others. So, he had good taste in apartments. She still wasn’t ready to let go of her prejudices just yet.

As she neared the door she saw an off-white square, stuck into the jamb. It was an envelope. A beautiful, square piece of elegant stationery—with her name on it.

“Ms. Savannah Reid” had been written across the front in fine, sweeping penmanship with what appeared to be an antique fountain pen, judging from the distinct calligraphic quality of the strokes.

Ryan Stone, Bodyguard to the Rich and Fashionable, was a class act, she decided, no matter what he did for a living.

She rang the doorbell, then pulled the envelope from the jamb. If it had her name on it, it must be for her. As she waited, she didn’t really expect him to answer. Mr. Stone wasn’t at home. Or, if he was, he didn’t intend to make an appearance. This envelope, whatever it contained, was all she was going to get this time out.

Carefully, her curiosity rising by the moment, she opened the envelope and looked inside. It looked like ... yes, it was ... an engraved invitation.

The gracefully scripted words requested the pleasure of her company for dinner the following evening at Chez Antoine, her very favorite restaurant in the world.

Did he know somehow? Or had it been a lucky guess?

Her question was soon answered as her eyes skimmed the rest of the card, which went on to say that he had ordered the Salmon Mousse, prepared just the way she liked it, and her favorite bottle of Beaujolais.

Realizing that she had been standing there for several minutes with her mouth hanging open, Savannah shoved the card into its envelope and hurried back down the path toward her car.

As she drove away, her pulse was racing at a much higher speed than the brisk walk would have accounted for. She was both flattered and flabbergasted. Only this afternoon had she found out where this man lived. Last night she hadn’t even known his name. How the hell did he know her favorite restaurant, entrée, and wine? The thought was exciting, even titillating ... but unsettling, nevertheless.

What else did Ryan Stone know about her?

S
avannah sat up in bed and switched on the lamp, bathing the room in a romantic, rosy glow. Long ago she had discovered that a woman’s skin looked its best by candlelight, and second best was the soft light of a pink bulb.

Picking up a piece of paper that lay beside the phone, she ran her finger slowly along the edge. It was “his” number. She hadn’t called it earlier, because she had wanted to surprise Mr. Stone with her visit. And she hadn’t called when she had returned home because ...

Well, she wasn’t exactly sure why.

Several times she had dialed a couple of the numbers, then hung up the phone, like a shy eighth-grader too bashful to return a boy’s call.

This is dumb,
she told herself.
More accurately, you are dumb. He’s a lead in a murder investigation, for Pete’s sake, not your date for the prom. Just call him, accept the invitation, and be done with it.

After mentally rehearsing what she was going to say and clearing her throat a couple of times, she took the plunge and punched in the appropriate numbers.

After the fourth ring she heard the line pick up and a deep, wonderfully sexy voice say, “Hi ...”

“Hi,” she replied quickly and efficiently—except for that one damned croak in the middle of the word. Those cursed frogs always appeared in her throat when she was nervous.

She started to tell him who she was, but she was cut off by the rest of his sentence, “... this is Ryan Stone. Sorry I missed your call, but leave a message at the beep and I’ll get back to you.”

Damn. A stupid answering machine.

She was sitting here in her bed with sweaty pits, cold palms, and a dry mouth ... for a machine.

After waiting through what she thought must be the longest beep in the history of the modern world she cleared her throat again and said, “Yes, ah ... hello, Mr. Stone—croak, gulp—I’d be glad to meet you tomorrow evening at Chez Antoine for dinner. See you then.”

It was only
after
she had hung up that she realized she hadn’t told him who she was. Oh, well, he could figure it out. How many women had he invited to Chez Antoine tomorrow night?

The moment she turned out the lamp, the phone rang, scaring her half to death. She scrambled for the light, reached for the receiver, then froze. Something told her it was “him.” But it couldn’t be. He didn’t have her unlisted number ... did he?

Bounding out of bed, she grabbed her robe and hurried downstairs, trying not to wake Atlanta, who was in the guest room. She’d let her own machine answer it and she would listen in.

By the time she reached the kitchen, her message had finished. After the tone the deepest, sexiest voice she had ever heard reached for her ... stroked her ... velvet smooth in the darkness.

“I’m so glad you called, Savannah,” he said, verbally caressing her name. “I’ll be looking forward to spending some time with you. I’m sure we’ll have many things to talk about. I’ll send a car for you a little before eight. Until then, good night. Sleep well.”

She paused and leaned against the doorframe, her knees weak, her blood having rushed to the nether regions of her body. Dear God, a man with a voice like that could simply talk her into an orgasm.

Sleep well? Not bloody likely after hearing that!

She flipped on the light, rummaged around in a drawer, and pulled out a couple of C batteries. The two cats stood at her feet, looking up at her with confused and eager eyes.

“No, it isn’t dinnertime,” she said. “Go back to sleep. You two shouldn’t have any problem; you’ve both been spayed.” She tossed one of the batteries toward the ceiling, then snatched it out of the air. “While I, on the other hand, have all my parts, and they are in excellent working order. Unfortunately, tonight ...” it she added with a sigh.

Tuming out the light, she headed up the stairs, fresh batteries in hand and the residue of Ryan Stone’s deep, sexy voice still running hot and liquid through her body.

Savannah wondered when Stone’s driver would call to get her address. But as the vintage silver Bentley pulled into her driveway at seven-forty-five the next evening, she realized ... among the other bits of information he had compiled about her, Ryan Stone knew where she lived.

The elderly driver, dressed in full chauffeur livery, stepped out of the car and hurried up the walk to greet her. Doffing his cap, he revealed a head full of hair as sleek and silver as the automobile he drove. Although he wore no trace of a smile beneath his neatly clipped gray mustache, his pale blue eyes twinkled as he greeted her.

“Good evening, madame,” he said in a melodic, if a bit theatrical, British accent.

Stifling a giggle, Savannah thought he sounded like the proverbial butler who always did “it” in the old mystery movies. “Good e-e-evening,” she replied, trying to mimic his accent, but what came out resembled a bad impression of Boris Karloff.

“My name is Gibson, madame, John Gibson. Mr. Stone has asked me to escort you to the restaurant. Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?” he added as he opened the door and graciously handed her into the backseat.

“Ah ... no, thanks. This is fine,” she said, sliding across the soft, supple leather. As she settled back against the cushioned seat, she breathed in the scents of leather, something rather masculine that might have been the chauffeur’s cologne, and the distinct perfume of a rose.

To her right she saw the source, a beautiful white rose in full bloom, tucked into the gold-plated bud vase attached to the win-dowpost of the car. Nice touch.

The driver climbed into the front seat, manipulated a few buttons on the burled wood dash, and started the engine. It purred, barely audible above the soft classical music that filled the car.

“Just relax then, madame,” he said, “and enjoy the ride.”

“Oh, I will,” she replied as she sank lower into the seat and closed her eyes, allowing her spirit to float and absorb the elegance, the ambience. For the next fifteen minutes she intended to forget all about Jonathan Winston, his murderer, and asinine departmental politics. She slipped off her high heels and buried her toes into the plush gray carpet. “Ah, yes, Gibson,” she said, “I most certainly will.”

“Savannah! You look
wonderful
this evening. What have you done to yourself, mademoiselle?” Antoine exclaimed as she entered the foyer of the restaurant and walked over to the reservations desk.

Antoine was a tiny man, barely a few inches over five feet, with suspiciously black hair and a pinched face. Definitely not a handsome man, by European or American standards. But what he lacked in stature and good looks he more than made up in vibrancy. Over the years that she had frequented his restaurant they had built quite a rapport, based upon mutual admiration, harmless flirtation, and a common love of great food.

“You are meeting a lover tonight, no?” he said, his eyes trailing down the front of her dress. She had especially chosen this silk wraparound because the sapphire blue accented her eyes and the deep vee gave a hint of softly rounded femininity. She had a great set of boobs and didn’t mind who knew it—one of the advantages of being a bit overweight.

“No, Antoine,” she said, “I am not meeting a lover. This dinner is strictly business.”

He shook his head and clucked his tongue. “What a shame! What a terrible, terrible waste!” The playful gleam in his eyes told her he didn’t believe her. Perhaps the corresponding glint in her own eyes had given her away. The French could always tell.

“And who is the lucky man who gets to do ‘business’ with you tonight, Savannah?” he asked as he offered his arm and escorted her in courtly fashion toward the dining room.

“Who said it’s a man?”

“You would not wear that dress for another woman,” Antoine replied assuredly. “I am right, no?”

She laughed. “You are right, yes.” Looking for a man who might be classified as “gorgeous,” she peered between the potted palms and around partitions of sparkling beveled glass and brass, into the cozy cubicles that encouraged intimacy and fostered romance.

“Actually,” she said, “I’m supposed to meet a Mr. Ryan Stone. He may be here already.”

“Ah, Mr. Stone,” Antoine said, nodding with a sage smile. “Of course. He arrived half an hour ago. He is there, at the end of the bar.”

With her pulse pounding in her ears, Savannah could hardly hear Antoine as he told her that he would prepare her favorite table and seat them right away. Nor did she feel the light kiss he pressed to her knuckles before taking his leave.

At the far end of the highly polished, inlaid oak bar sat the man Antoine had indicated. Had Savannah been looking at him through a telescope, her tunnel vision wouldn’t have been more complete. The world narrowed down to that one figure—that very tall, moderately dark, and excruciatingly handsome figure—who was turning his head in her direction.

Their eyes met, a silent introduction was made, he rose from his stool and began to walk toward her.

It was when he touched her hand that Savannah fell absolutely, positively, completely ass-over-tea-kettle in lust.

“How did you know where I live?” she asked. Now that she had seen him, she was more curious than indignant. He could know what bra size she wore and she wouldn’t give a damn. In fact, she would be glad to tell him ...
show
him.

He leaned one elbow on the table with all the casual grace of an aristocrat who had arrived at such a high pinnacle of society that he no longer needed to obey its rules.

“I followed you home from the station,” he said, his green eyes twinkling with mischief.

“You tailed me?” In spite of the blinding infatuation, her professional ego was wounded. She had always prided herself on being able to spot a tail.

“That’s right.” He reached for his wineglass and took a sip. She tried not to think about how full and sensuous his lower lip was, or how nice it would be to feel it against her ...

“And my phone number?” she pressed, trying to distract herself.

He laughed. Damn, he had dimples, too; cute, deep dimples. Even cuter than hers, she had to admit. And that jawline! He could model for a shaving commercial with a chin like that.

“Actually,” he said, “I don’t have your phone number.”

“But you called me after I—”

“Yes, but I have that new call-back feature from the phone company. You know, you punch the right buttons and you can call the person who most recently phoned you.”

“That’s cheating.”

“True, but how about you? I suppose you used the Department of Motor Vehicles to find out where I live. Cops have it easy; all those resources at their fingertips.”

Savannah bit her lower lip and toyed with the handle of her fork. “I’m not a cop at the moment,” she said. “I’m on sort of a permanent suspension, so I don’t have all those great resources either.”