Jennifer Labrecque - Better Than Chocolate...

“I don’t know that I’ve ever really tried.” But maybe I will now. The thought hung unspoken between them.

She shook her head, her hair brushing the slope of her shoulders. “It’s a shame to never reach your true potential. That’s what happens to people when things come too easy.”

Jasmine returned with their drinks and saved him having to answer. And quite frankly he was at a loss as to how to respond—an unusual state for him.

Jack studied the woman next to him. Not beautiful, but attractive. What was it about her that had gotten under his skin? In a flash, he realized it was her utter lack of coyness. One of the most boring aspects of the women he’d met lately was the studied coyness they adopted—Cosmo devotees who’d read that they should drop their head, bite their lips and then glance through lowered lashes up at their targeted man.

He recognized the moves because he skimmed Cosmo, along with a host of other magazines, on a regular basis to keep his finger on the consumer pulse. And because he was a detached observer of life and its participants.

“Can I get you anything else?” Jasmine asked.

“No,” they both demurred and, after a moment’s hesitation and another glance his way, Jasmine slipped away.

The woman lifted her glass and sipped. She had a wide, generous mouth, perhaps a shade too large, but still quite lovely with plump, full lips.

“Mmm. Very nice.”

Jack resisted the urge to lean forward and taste the Scotch on her lips.

Instead he contented himself with a sip from his glass. “There’s nothing quite like a good single-malt Scotch, is there?”

“I like it, but it is something of an acquired taste.” Her arms gleamed in the candlelight, the muscles still delineated from her earlier swim. She pushed her hair back from her face and a faint whiff of perfume teased from beneath the unmistakable chlorine clinging to her hair and skin.

Jack found it refreshing that the woman didn’t attempt to fill the silence with chatter.

He ran his finger along the smooth curve of the glass. “Have you been in Chicago very long?”

“No. I just arrived today. Tonight actually. How about you?”

“Tonight as well. I’m unwinding before a business meeting next week. I’m traveling alone,” he volunteered, anticipating she’d reciprocate the information.

“I could tell.”

He raised his brow questioningly.

“You haven’t glanced over your shoulder even once,” she said. “If you were here with someone, you would’ve checked to see if they’d shown up at some point.”

Clever. “Neither have you. So, you’re here alone as well?”

She finished her drink. “I’m here on business,” she answered. She motioned to Jasmine for her tab.

Did she dispense with everything with that same slight ruthlessness? Swimming laps. Her drink. Him.

Jack realized she was about to leave. And he didn’t want her to leave. Not only was he not used to being dismissed, he found her total lack of seduction, well, utterly seductive.

“There’s no jealous husband at home to mind if I ask you to join me for a late dinner?”

“And I presume you don’t have a wife who would object to you inviting a woman to dinner?”

Once again, she ignored his question and posed one of her own.

“She wouldn’t mind at all.” He smiled at her start of surprise, delighted he’d finally managed to get one up on her. Then he relented. “I’m not married. Or divorced. Or attached to a significant other.” Jasmine arrived with the bills and promptly left. The woman reached for one tab.

What was her name? Where was she from? And what did she look like in the light? She’d piqued his interest and that hadn’t happened in a long time. “Would you join me for dinner?”

She hesitated, obviously undecided. Women didn’t usually hesitate. It took Jack a second or so to realize the knot in the pit of his stomach was nervousness. He wanted her to say yes quite badly. “I promise I don’t bite,” he added.

“I’ll make a note of that. Actually, I need to shower and change out of this damp suit.” She signed her bill and tucked a copy into her bag.

“That’s not a problem.” In his head, he slowly peeled her suit off, over the curve of her breasts, along the line of her back, past the indent of her waist, beyond her hips, down those luscious legs.

She pushed away from the table. “Give me forty-five minutes.”

His usual dates would’ve demanded an hour and a half. Jack stood when she did. “The restaurant off of the lobby?”

“Yes.”

“Forty-five minutes then.”

She walked away and Jack realized he didn’t even know her name. “Wait.”

She turned around.

“What’s your name?”

“Eve,” she tossed over her shoulder. She didn’t ask for his name in return. Actually, she didn’t hang around long enough for him to tell her.

Eve?

She’d disappeared into the building and Jack pulled her bar tab into the light, checking the signature line where she’d signed for her drink.

Blue ink and plain, bold script.

Room 325.

Eve Carmichael.

ANDREA WOULD’VE FOUND something more exciting to wear, Eve acknowledged, checking her reflection in the elevator on her way down. But then again, Andrea wouldn’t have had to worry about the Monday meeting. Still, Eve should’ve listened to her friend and tossed in a couple of sexy outfits. Instead, she’d made the best of business casual, ditching the jacket that went with her dress.

At least the sleeveless, short black dress covered her Godiva thighs and showed off her taut arms and legs. Then again, Mr. Gorgeous had already seen her in a swimsuit, and a swim cap no less, and he’d still asked her to dinner. Stranger things could happen.

Eve stepped off the elevator. Her pumps clicked against the polished tile as she crossed the lobby to the restaurant. At least her shoes had a decent heel on them.

The man stood outside the restaurant, one shoulder casually propped against the wall, his legs crossed, his attention focused on a handheld piece of electronic equipment. Polished. Sophisticated. Remote.

He looked almost as good dressed in charcoal-gray slacks and a black silk polo as he had in swim trunks and a towel. Eve’s heart stalled a beat and then raced to catch up. Pull yourself together, girl. He put on his pants the same way any other man did—he just looked better doing it. Andrea’s latest hottie simile came to mind—yumm-o.

“Hello,” she said as she approached him.

He glanced up and a slow smile curled his lips. He pocketed his Blackberry. Another workaholic. She had, of course, checked her e-mails before she left her room.

“Eve.”

Her name rolled off his tongue and trailed warmth through her like a sip of smooth Scotch. His eyes held hers and the same attraction she’d felt earlier at the pool surged between them again. Was that a hint of relief in his eyes? Had he thought she’d stand him up? Amazing. Women didn’t stand up a man like him.

“Have you been waiting long?” she asked.

“Not at all.” He paused, his gaze sweeping her. “You’re lovely.”

His words trailed across her skin and shivered through her.

“Thank you. So are you,” she said, tossing the compliment, which was actually an understatement when she considered how gorgeous he was, back at him, determined not to be thrown off balance.

“Thanks.” She almost laughed at the surprise that flickered across his face.

“The high-maintenance women you date never tell you that?”

“No. Not in so many words.” He slanted his head to one side and looked at her, casual male elegance personified. The light gleamed in his dark hair. “Why do you think I date high-maintenance women?”