Shades of Trust

Chapter 10-1

Chapter 10

Gordon Ramsay at Claridge’s

12:55 p.m.

Sophia entered the restaurant trailing behind the maître d’. Alistair was already seated and waiting for her. She looked at her watch. Five minutes to one. More than punctual, Mr. MacCraig. I like this.

He flashed a white, even smile and beckoned her to him, as he rose and straightened to his full height. His dark blue double-breasted pinstripe suit molded his perfect body. As usual, a lock of his windswept hair fell on his forehead while another flipped over his left eye.

He again mesmerized her.

The same deep need to tangle her hands in his hair and yank his head down for a kiss made her head spin. She breathed in deep and squared her shoulders, aligning her spine.

Never clumsy, Sophia didn’t intend to start being so now.

His eyes…his forest-green eyes framed by those long, dark, and full lashes are beautiful. It should be forbidden for men to have such beautiful, hypnotizing eyes.

Sophia shivered as a disturbing feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. Oh, my God! This man is absolutely gorgeous. This isn’t a business lunch. Oh, God. What am I doing? Ethan is going to be furious.

Then she looked around, suddenly wary. And who said he needs to know? I’m doing nothing wrong and he doesn't control my life. Gabriel never did.

Alistair observed Sophia as she meandered her way through the restaurant. There’s something different about her. Something I can’t quite put my finger on. She’s…nervous! Out of her depth. Why?

She walked toward him, oblivious to the male gazes turned in her direction.

It’s as if she doesn’t know her own beauty. He took note of her dress. Red blooming roses were printed on her heavy black silk mid-thigh dress. Not too short, but not the conservative knee length either. And his gaze wandered down.

Christ! Daring, to say the least. Sheer black tights covered her long legs and her feet were encased in black leather high-heels, strapped at her ankles. Sexy. Hot. Too bloody hot!

A large red silk rose clasped her hair behind her head on the right, keeping it away from her face.

His breath hitched when with a flick of her hand, she tossed her hair over her shoulder and her red nails screamed against her raven hair. In an elegant movement, Sophia stretched out her hand to shake his.

The woman is married, Alistair Connor MacCraig! Control yourself. He held it between his for a moment beyond the usual, his eyes glued to hers. “Sophia, I was very pleased you accepted my invitation.”

The waiter pulled the table, so she could sit on the sofa next to him.

“May I call you Sophia?” Alistair’s gaze never left hers, a knowing smile on his lips.

“Yes,” she responded, her voice just a throaty murmur.

She adjusted her dress and shifted on the seat. Immediately, his scent enveloped Sophia. She felt dizzy for a second and looked at his face. “Creed.” The word was out of her mouth before she knew it. She flushed.

He startled. “Pardon?”

“It is Creed, isn’t it? Sublime Vanille. I love that perfume. I’m wearing it.”

“Aye, it’s Creed. I don’t normally wear Sublime Vanille—it’s sweet, more feminine. I prefer Spice and Wood.” But I’ll wear it from now on. He perused her face and boldly bent his head in her direction. “You don’t smell of it.” He closed his eyes and inhaled her fragrance deeply. “You…you smell like white roses in bloom and orange sorbet with drops of vanilla sauce. A dessert. Utterly fresh and sweet.” His dark, deep voice breathed the words near her ear.

Seemingly startled, she lifted her face to him. Her lips parted in ragged breaths, her eyes wide.

He opened his eyes, his face just inches from hers. He cleared his throat and adjusted the perfect Windsor knot in his dark-green silk tie. His eyes held an amused wicked gleam, but his voice sounded dry, saying, “Sophia, I don’t do married women.”

I need a glass of water, quick. I’m feeling hot. Too hot. A thrill tingled along her spine. She wasn’t even breathing. He had a slight, sexy Scottish accent she hadn’t noticed before. What is happening to me? Mr. I’m-so-handsome-and-I-know-it is turning me head-over-heels.

“I’m not married.” God, why did I just say that?

His brows rose. “Why do you insist on being called missus, then?”

“I was married.” Her response to him was terrifying. She never, ever felt such fierce awareness of a stranger before in her life. And at a loss for words. Damn.

“Have you been divorced long?”

She shook her head, too enthralled by his s****l power to do more than that.

“Nae, you’re not divorced, or nae, you haven’t been divorced long?”

“No.” Sophia felt herself falling down a never-ending abyss. “I’m not divorced.”

“Aye?” His eyes flashed flames and his brows rose higher. “So?”

“I’m a widow.”

His ink-black eyebrows furrowed tightly and a sad look took over his features. “You’re too young to be a widow.”

She pulled herself out of the reverie and harrumphed. “I keep hearing this, as if fate ought to have asked my age before…” She waved her hand in the air. Her sleeve fell.

He held her hand gently with his fingers, his eyes darkening. He scowled at her marked wrist and she tried to disengage her hand from his. His tender grip tightened. “Someone hurt you.”

It was a fierce statement with a touch of anger.

“It’s nothing. I bruise easily,” Sophia said, thoroughly embarrassed. First Edward, now Alistair. She frowned at her wrist still in his hand and touched the black-and-blue marks gingerly with her left fingers.

He grabbed the other one too.

His thumbs caressed the back of them and his gaze pierced her, searching for a clue. He deposited a kiss on each hand, his eyes bearing down on hers. “One should never mar a woman like you.”

“A woman like me?” Her low, bitter laugh astounded him. “Mr. Mac—”

“Alistair Connor. Call me Alistair or Alistair Connor, whichever you feel like.”

“I’m not special, Alistair.” She let his name roll off her tongue, tasting it. “No one is special. We’re all equals. I’ve had much worse and I don’t break easily.”

He squeezed her hands tenderly before signaling to the waiter. He looked down the wine list. “Red wine?”

She nodded, “Sure.” These British men are all trying to get me drunk during lunch.

“Have you seen the contract?” he asked in a businesslike manner masking the potent desire taking control of his mind and body.

She nodded and sipped her water, licking her lips. “I’ve approved it. I thank you, Mr. Mac—Alistair. The clauses were modified exactly as I had envisioned them.”

The sommelier brought a Portuguese wine, Quinta do Vale do Meão. He tasted it and served it to Alistair.

“Excellent. Thank you.”

She looked at Alistair’s large, long-fingered hand handling the delicate stem of the crystal glass. Her lips curled up.

“What’s so amusing?” he asked as the sommelier left them.

Sophia blinked, caught daydreaming about his hands. “If I didn’t know you worked in a bank, I’d say you were a doctor.”

He observed her closely. “Why?”

She couldn’t resist the temptation and the tips of her right fingers touched the back of his left hand. No ring. “Your hand. You have deft and elegant fingers. I can easily see you handling a scalpel.”

He suppressed his surprise. Smiling wickedly, looking deep into her eyes, he said in a deep murmur, “You don’t know how deft they can be.”

A sensation stirred inside her as her breath hitched. Dear God!

He raised his glass in a toast. “To a new…partnership.”

The last word, gliding over his tongue, had an ambiguity not lost on Sophia.

Their attraction was so strong she felt like she was being torn apart by sitting there controlled as they talked about business, each one of their words meaning something completely different.

She touched her glass to his and looked up. “To new partners,” she mumbled, and quickly drank a gulp of wine. “Have you been the bank’s CEO for long?”

“Since 2008, when I bought thirty-five percent and became the majority shareholder. Now I own sixty percent of it, and my brother and two other partners own the rest,” he boasted.

“Really?” She dismissed his accomplishment with raised brows and tilted her head to the side. “I would have imagined…”

“What?”

“That you were more than a CEO,” she said cryptically.

“What do you mean?”

Sophia waved her hand. “Well, don’t take this the wrong way, but your looks…”

He raised a dark eyebrow at her.

“I mean, comparing you to Edward, you’re quite the rebel.” She blushed at her bold commentary. Sophia. Did you lose your wits?

“Edward? You mean Davidoff?”

She nodded.

“Don’t judge the book by its cover.”

She smiled. “That’s just what everyone won’t do with me. Take you, for example. You judged me on your first impression.”

“Mea culpa.” He grinned, surprised she had realized it.

“I liked your praise of me in the letter you sent Ed—er, Mr. Davidoff.”

“Quite a sight to behold?”

“Ah, no.” Her hands were sweating and she twisted her napkin. “A shrewd businesswoman.”

Alistair shifted on the seat to face her better and draped his arm over the back of the sofa. “You’re much more than that. You’re an intriguing, ravishing, intelligent woman, Sophia.” He brushed her hair aside. Silk. And his fingers touched her nape. Velvet. “Quite a sight to behold.”

She shivered at the light contact.

Responsive. She’ll set my bed on fire. I just have to touch the right buttons. The marks on her wrists are not bondage marks. Fingers. Perhaps…is she a submissive?

Sophia breathed deeply and asked hoarsely, “Can we order? Please?”

He took pity on her and signaled for the waiter to bring the menus.

Sophia smiled at him after he took a perfunctory look and closed the menu. “What do you suggest? It’s quite a torture to choose from a menu like this.”

Torture is what I’m suffering under the pressure to maintain a tight leash on my desire. He looked down discretely at his pants and cursed inwardly.

The into-pain submissive wants a suggestion? My apartment; on the wall, on the floor, on the bed, in the tub; tied, blindfolded, gagged, and thoroughly f****d. Hard. Or maybe she’s up for a blowjob in the restaurant toilet…aye, that would be quite satisfactory to start with.

“Alistair?” She placed her hand on his forearm, his face captivating her.

Christ! What happened to her eyes? “Are you wearing lenses?” He frowned.

“Contact lenses, you mean?” She blinked. “No. I don’t need them.”

“Drugs?” He cupped her chin and moved her face upward to get a better look at her eyes, which widened at his blunt question. Oh, please, not another druggie. “Do you do drugs?”

“Seriously?” she snapped. “Do you, Mr. MacCraig?”

“Not Mr. MacCraig,” he breathed, amazed. “Alistair. Alistair Connor.” Fire! Her eyes are flames and I’m burning in them. “How do you change the color of your eyes like that?”

“I don’t.” She frowned at him. “They’re light brown. A very common color. Nothing special.”

He let go of her face with a soft stroke of his long fingers and repeated her words softly, “Nothing special…”

She looked baffled. “Have you decided? Do you have any suggestions?”

“Well, it depends.” He eyed her figure, measuring her lean body. “Are you only going to eat salad?”

“God, no. Why would I eat only salad?” She peered at him as if he were insane. “I love food. Especially desserts. I was wondering…is the spicy duck a good choice? What do you think?”

“A wonderful choice,” he answered, completely befuddled by the woman at his side. “I’ll have the salt cod brandade.

Alistair barely noticed the coming and going of the waiters. The two of them were attracting awe-filled, lustful stares. Their s****l tension radiated and disrupted even the most serious men at their business lunches.

He felt incapable of playing down his strained condition. She seemed more controlled, her movements light, whereas his were clipped. He dispensed with the bitter chocolate tartine he so liked. I want another dessert.

“Mmm…” Sophia closed her eyes as the lemon flavor of her dessert exploded on her tongue and slowly pulled the spoon out of her mouth. “This is absolutely delicious.”

Christ! This ought to be forbidden. She’s making love to her dessert. He wanted her on her knees and filling her mouth with him. Now!

To the utter desperation of the man beside her, Sophia licked her lips and gazed at him with her yellow-diamond eyes. “This is scrumptious. Do you want a taste?”

Alistair lost himself in the kiss-me-now look on her face. What did she ask?

“You want some?” she asked again.

He shook his head, but his eyes said yes. Aye, I want you.

“Coffee or tea?” he rasped when she finished her lemon tart. This lunch is going to win the prize of ‘Most Sensual Lunch of All Time’.

“Coffee, please,” she said, oblivious to her companion’s problem of disguising his huge erection.

Coffee arrived with chocolate truffles.

When she bit into one and closed her eyes, moaning, Alistair almost came then and there.

She cleaned her fingers on the napkin but couldn’t resist sucking her index finger.