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I concentrate on cutting up my chicken. “This is not an appropriate conversation for the dinner table.”
“That’s your father talking.”
“Please don’t talk about my father and sex in the same sentence.”
“Well, aren’t you being all prim and proper,” she says, amused. “Do they not talk about masturbation in your family?”
“Scarlett! For fuck’s sake.”
She giggles, which is such a delightful sound that it makes me smile.
“And no, we don’t talk about it in our family,” I reply. “And certainly not at dinner.”
She eats her risotto, her big brown eyes wide as she watches me.
“Stop it,” I scold, cutting another piece of chicken.
“What?”
“You know what. I can tell what you’re thinking.”
“I can’t help it. It’s just the thought of you… you know…”
I blow out a breath and try to concentrate on finishing off the potatoes. “I’m not listening.”
She continues to watch me curiously. “So you wouldn’t say you were close to your father?”
I shrug. “We’re notnotclose. He’s just not touchy feely. He told me when I was in my early twenties that I needed to be careful with relationships because of our wealth, and that I must never give in to my feelings.”
“He must think I’m after your money.”
“Well, you are,” I point out. “But at least you’re honest about it.”
She studies her plate. Then she lowers her fork onto it.
“Shit,” I say hastily, “I’m sorry. It was a bad joke.”
“No, you’re right.” She sits with her hands in her lap. She hesitates, then says, “George and Richard want me to get to know you better soI can try to convince you to pay the extra two and a half million. It’s why I agreed to come to dinner with you.”
“I know.”
She looks puzzled. “You know?”
“Of course I know.”
“Then… why did you ask me?”
I finish the last mouthful and put my cutlery down. I have a mouthful of champagne, then wipe my mouth with the serviette. Finally, I lean on the table, look into her eyes, and hold her gaze. She’s so fucking beautiful. I think about undressing her, about kissing her all over, and about sliding inside her and making her mine, and I know my thoughts are going to show in my eyes.
Slowly, her cheeks stain red.
“That’s why,” I say.
Somewhat smugly, I lean back and gesture at the waiter. “Let’s have a dessert,” I say to her. “They do a really nice Tiramisu here.”
Chapter Thirteen
Scarlett