His car had tinted windows—she was grateful for that small mercy as she slid into the backseat, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat. The leather was cool against her bare thighs. The privacy of the enclosed space felt like a sanctuary after the exposure of the restaurant.
Alexander didn’t get in beside her. He walked around to the driver’s side, opened the door, and leaned in to press a button on the console.
“Home,” he said. “Take the long route through Midtown.”
A voice came through the intercom. Professional. Discreet. “Yes, Mr. Kane.”
A driver. There was a driver.
She’d forgotten that he didn’t always drive himself. That a man of his wealth and position had staff for everything, including piloting his vehicle through Manhattan traffic. The realization hit he
