J. Geissinger - Shadow’s Edge

A man—tall and dark-haired—stood looking around the restaurant, letting his gaze rove over the graceful interior as if he were looking for someone. He handed over his coat without glancing at the eager hostess who appeared before him to take it.

His suit alone was worth admiring. Precisely cut to showcase broad shoulders, trim waist, long, well-muscled legs, it was a fitted charcoal-gray pinstripe and had the look of absurdly expensive bespoke. He wore beneath a snowy white button-down shirt, open at the collar to reveal a hint of tawny skin at his throat.

But it wasn’t his elegant suit that made the chic and sophisticated patrons of Mélisse sit up and take notice of this gorgeous new arrival. It was the unstudied air of confidence and privilege and raw magnetism that surrounded him that drew the eye, the way he simply took the room by standing within it.

The maître d’, a haughty man named Geoffrey with stooped shoulders and hairy wrists that showed below the starched white cuffs of his shirt, appeared at his side and exchanged a few words with the man. He gave him a curious, low bow.

Jenna lifted an eyebrow at this and watched in curiosity as Geoffrey led his elegant charge to a reserved table at the back—the best table—a graceful curved banquette of dove-gray leather ensconced against walls painted smoky plum.

He seated himself with the lithe movements of a dancer and accepted the menu and wine list from the waiter who materialized at his table. He spoke a few words to Geoffrey, who then scurried away like a terrified rodent, shooing the waiter along before him as he fled.

Then, with slow deliberation and the barest hint of a smile lifting his cheek, the man raised his head and met Jenna’s gaze in the mirror.

Under lashes long and black as soot, his eyes were sharp and very green. She saw their phosphorescence through the dim, candlelit air and froze on a breath.

His smile deepened, a slow, slow burn. He did not blink.

“Oh, God.” Jenna dropped her gaze and felt heat creep up her neck and flood her cheeks. Her heart began to pound.

The ghosted memory of the vivid dream flitted back to tease her. The hands and lips and tongue.

“It’s him .”

“Him who?”

“I know that man. I’ve seen him before,” she murmured to Becky, trying to speak without moving her lips. She had the uncanny feeling he would be able to read them.

“In the restaurant?” Becky replied, surprised. “I don’t remember him.” She ran a hand over her unruly red hair, then smoothed it down the curve of her waist, flattening the wrinkled black apron. “I’d definitely remember him.”

“ Shhh !” Jenna scowled down at the granite bar top. “He’ll hear you!”

Becky finally lifted the wineglass above her head and slid it into the hanging wire rack. “Please. He’s all the way across the restaurant, Jenna. He’s not going to hear me.”

Jenna shifted her weight from left foot to right and began shredding a paper cocktail napkin to pieces. She became acutely aware of her body, her bare legs, the warm air on her skin. In spite of the simple black cocktail dress she wore, she suddenly felt very naked.

Her pulse had doubled in the space of thirty seconds.

“How do you know him?” Becky asked. She turned to mix a martini for one of the waiters.

Jenna didn’t dare lift her eyes to the mirror. The heat that flooded her cheeks had begun to pulse throughout her body. The same throbbing burn she had felt in the grocery store.

This was not good. What the hell was the matter with her?

She inhaled a long, steadying breath, squeezing her hands into fists so they wouldn’t shake, and counted to ten before answering.

“I saw him before, I was at the store—”

“Uh-oh,” Becky interrupted, her voice turning sour. “Batten down the hatches, here comes Napoleon.”

Before Jenna could ask, a voice hissed into her right ear.

“Earl McLoughlin is requesting the sommelier’s assistance with his wine selection— let’s not keep him waiting !” The reek of garlic and dried sweat stung her nose.

Jenna ground her teeth together and exchanged glances with Becky. “I thought we weren’t using the first names of the clientele, Geoffrey? Because you think it’s ‘ très gauche ’?”

Next to Jenna’s elbow, Geoffrey practically vibrated with smothered apoplexy.

“Earl is not his name , you twit, it’s his title !” he spat. “The concierge from the Four Seasons called in the reservation! He’s an aristocrat, for God’s sake !”

Before she could catch herself, Jenna’s gaze flew up to the mirror. Across the restaurant, the earl was studying the wine list—brows stern, face neutral—but she sensed the stifled laughter yearning to break free from his full lips, which were pressed together with firm intent.

“You may refer to him as Your Grace or Your Majesty, but either way, be professional, be smiling, and be gone !”

He flapped his hands at her and made shooing noises, as if she were a pigeon begging for crumbs on a park bench.

Jenna didn’t budge.

“One does not refer to an earl as Your Grace, Geoffrey, nor does one call him Your Majesty. Those titles are reserved for a duke and a king, respectively,” she said coolly, looking down on his balding head.

Geoffrey’s mouth formed a startled, moist O, but he didn’t reply. He did begin to blink quite rapidly, however. Becky coughed into her hand to hide her laugh and turned away.

In addition to the enjoyment of fine wine, Mrs. Colfax had taught Jenna a few other things about high society.

“I will call him Lord McLoughlin or sir, as is proper etiquette, unless he asks me to call him by his first name, whatever that may be, as it would be ‘ très gauche ’ to continue on with the ridiculous business of titles after that.”

Jenna enjoyed the mottled shade of crimson that stained Geoffrey’s cheeks. She turned on her heel and walked without hurry across the restaurant and over to the table that housed Lord McLoughlin, trying all the while to force the blood back out of her own cheeks and keep her breathing even.

The earl didn’t look up from the wine list as she paused at the edge of the table. For one swift moment she allowed her gaze to linger on the long, tapered fingers that held the leather-bound book. They were tanned, strong, and elegant, like the rest of him.

A fine, humming current took up residence in her abdomen.

“Lord McLoughlin,” she said, raising her eyes to his handsome face. “Welcome to Mélisse. How may I be of service?”

With a smooth motion of his arm, he lowered the wine list to the table, then met her gaze. He smiled—a true smile, admiring—and the din of the restaurant seemed to recede abruptly into a bank of muffled fog, leaving the two of them alone together.

“Please, call me Leander.”

That voice like velvet, sending a wash of honeyed warmth throughout her body. The glossy fringe of his hair was longer than she remembered, almost brushing the tops of his shoulders, thick and shining jet. The barest hint of stubble glinted copper along his jaw.

Tell me you want me...

“Leander,” Jenna repeated, liking the way his name felt on her tongue.

Impossible , she thought. Too far away. But still...

She tilted her head and gave him a sidelong look from under her lashes. “Not Your Grace? Your Highness?” she said lightly, testing him.

His answering smile was proof enough, but his words were total confirmation.

“Why bother with the ridiculous business of titles? It’s all so...” He snapped his fingers, searching for a word. “Gauche . Très gauche , in fact...wouldn’t you agree?”