Page 15 of Tempting Frankie (Lust & Luxury #1)

Francesca

T he sleek black car pulls up to the curb, and I take a deep breath, steeling myself for whatever Alexander has planned. The door opens, and I step out, my heels clicking against the pavement. The slit in my dress does its job, giving everyone an eyeful as I emerge.

And there he is.

Alexander stands tall and imposing, his broad shoulders filling out his bespoke suit in a way that makes my mouth water. He looks like sin incarnate. His hair is perfectly styled, and his green eyes lock on me with an intensity that sends shivers down my spine.

“Francesca,” he breathes, his voice a low rumble that I feel in my bones. Not once has he ever called me Frankie. The way he says my name has me falling in love with it. Like it’s decadent and I deserve to have it.

An insane thought, thinking someone doesn’t deserve the name they have.

He leans in, his lips brushing against my cheek in a kiss that's far too chaste for us. “You look ravishing.”

His hand finds the small of my back, dominating and warm through the thin fabric of my dress. I lean into his touch, craving more even as I remind myself to play it cool.

“You clean up nice yourself, Daddy Warbucks,” I quip, earning a low chuckle that makes my insides liquify.

Alexander guides me toward the entrance of Le Vernardin, because of course he'd choose one of the most exclusive restaurants in the city.

The ma?tre d' practically trips over himself to greet us, all fawning smiles and “Mr. Steele, so wonderful to see you again. Your table is empty and waiting for you as usual, sir.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Of course he has a usual table. Probably comes with its own zip code and personal sommelier. Instead, I plaster on my sweetest smile, playing the role of arm candy to perfection. It's a dance I'm far too good at.

We're led to a secluded table in the back, tucked away from prying eyes. Not that it matters because half the room is already stealing glances our way. I can practically hear their whispers.

Who's that young thing with Alexander Steele?

Must be a secret daughter.

No, look at the way he's touching her—definitely not his daughter.

I toss my hair back, meeting their stares head-on. Let them look. Let them wonder. I'm here, in this dress with a man who could buy and sell this entire restaurant without blinking an eye.

Alexander pulls out my chair, ever the gentleman. As I sit, his fingers trail along my bare shoulder, leaving goosebumps in their wake. It's a reminder, a claim.

You're mine.

The waiter appears, nervous and shaking in his crispy white shirt. “Good evening, Mr. Steele. May I start you off with something to drink?”

Alexander doesn't even look at the wine list. “The Domaine de la Romanée-Conti La Tache, 2015.”

I barely contain my snort. Of course, he'd casually order a bottle of wine that costs more than a car. The waiter's eyes widen slightly, but he recovers quickly. “An excellent choice, sir.”

Alexander waves the waiter away with a flick of his wrist, his eyes never leaving mine. The intensity of his gaze makes me squirm in my seat. I feel like a butterfly under a microscope, every flaw and imperfection laid bare. I reach for my water glass, desperate for something to do with my hands.

“Nervous, Francesca?” he purrs, a hint of amusement in his voice.

“You wish,” I shoot back, but my voice lacks its usual bite.

His lips quirk up in that infuriating smirk. “Oh, I do wish. I love watching you squirm.”

Heat floods my cheeks, and I clench my thighs together under the table. Fuck, how does he do this to me with just a look?

The silence stretches between us. I find myself cataloging every detail of his face. The slight crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the strong line of his jaw. My gaze drops to his mouth, and I can't help but remember how those lips felt against my skin last night, trailing fire down my body.

Just as I'm about to combust from the sheer intensity of it all, the waiter returns with our wine. He presents the bottle to Alexander, who nods his approval without taking his eyes off me.

The waiter pours a small amount for Alexander to taste. He swirls it in the glass, inhaling deeply before taking a sip. His throat bobs as he swallows, and I find myself transfixed by the movement.

“Acceptable,” Alexander declares, and the waiter pours us each a full glass.

As soon as we're alone again, Alexander raises his glass. “Tell me, Francesca,” he says, rolling my name around in his mouth like he's savoring it. “What do you think of the wine?”

I take a sip before answering. I consider bullshitting some pretentious answer about notes of oak and hints of berry. But fuck it. If he wanted arm candy with a sommelier's palate, he picked the wrong girl.

“Tastes expensive,” I reply with a shrug. “But I bet you could make me see stars with something a hell of a lot cheaper.”

His eyes darken at my words, pupils blown wide with desire. “Oh, I intend to make you see entire galaxies before the night is through, little one. And not a drop of wine will be necessary.”

Alexander leans back in his chair, looking every inch the powerful man he is. “Do you know why I brought you here tonight, Francesca?”

I arch an eyebrow. “To show off your impressive wine knowledge and make me feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman again?”

He laughs, the sound sending a shiver down my spine. “Not quite, though I do enjoy spoiling you.” His expression turns serious. “I've noticed you seem restless lately, bored even.”

I let out a humorless laugh. “What gave it away? The fact that I've reorganized your library three times or that I've binged every trashy reality show known to mankind?”

He doesn't rise to my bait, just keeps looking at me with that piercing gaze. I feel exposed, like he can see right through me.

“The first week or two, it was nice,” I admit, swirling the ridiculously expensive wine in my glass.

“Not having to work, not worrying about bills or my apartment. Just lounging by the pool, getting pampered. But now?” I shrug, trying to play it casual even as the words pour out of me.

“Now I'm climbing the walls. There's only so many times I can wander around that mansion or hang out with Kat before I start to feel like a caged animal.”

Alexander nods, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I thought as much.”

“So what, you brought me here to tell me you're cutting me loose?” The words come out sharper than I intended, laced with a fear I didn't even know I had.

His hand shoots out, gripping my hand with a strength that makes heat pool right in my panties. “Never,” he growls, and fuck if that one word doesn't make me wet. “You're mine, Francesca. I have no intention of letting you out of our deal.”

I swallow hard, my heart pounding. “Then what?”

Alexander's thumb traces lazy circles on the inside of my wrist, and I have to bite back a moan. “I have a proposition for you,” he says, his voice low and husky. “One that I think will solve your boredom problem and give you a taste of something you might come to crave.”

My breath catches in my throat. “I'm listening.”

He leans in close, his breath hot against my ear. “I want you to come work for me,” he murmurs. “At Steele Enterprises.”

I pull back, searching his face for any sign he's joking. “You can't be serious.”

“Oh, I'm very serious,” Alexander says, his eyes dark with promise. “You're smart, Francesca. Resourceful. I've seen how quickly you pick things up. I want that mind of yours working for me.”

My head is spinning. “But what about us? Won't people talk?”

He smirks, trailing a finger along my collarbone. “Let them talk. I don't give a fuck what anyone thinks. You'll start in a junior position, of course. But I have no doubt you'll climb the ranks quickly.”

I can't deny the thrill that runs through me at his words. The idea of proving myself, of having something that's mine beyond just being Alexander's kept woman.

People will talk, but people already talk. I can handle it and if I keep myself separate from him while at work…

I'm still reeling from Alexander's job offer when our waiter materializes, carrying two plates that look like edible modern art.

“When the hell did you order?” I hiss, realizing I was so caught up in my thoughts I didn't even notice.

Alexander's lips quirk up in that infuriating smirk. “I didn't. There is no menu here, Francesca. Every night is a different culinary experience, carefully curated by the chef. It's the only thing served.”

Of fucking course. Leave it to Alexander to bring me somewhere so fancy they don't even let you choose your own damn food.

The waiter places our plates down with a flourish. “Tonight, we begin with a deconstructed Caprese salad featuring heirloom tomato spheres, buffalo mozzarella foam, and basil-infused caviar, accompanied by a balsamic reduction painted on the plate.”

I stare at the dish, trying to make sense of the colorful blobs and squiggles. It looks like something a toddler would finger paint, only with food. Expensive, pretentious food.

“Enjoy,” the waiter says with a bow before disappearing.

I pick up my fork, poking at one of the tomato spheres suspiciously. I bring it to my mouth and bite. It bursts, releasing an intense flavor that floods my taste buds. Okay, I'll admit that it's pretty fucking delicious.

Alexander watches me with amusement, his eyes dark with something that makes my heart beat a little faster. “So,” he says, his voice low and husky. “What do you think of my proposition?”

I take another bite, buying myself time to think. The flavors explode on my tongue—creamy mozzarella, tangy tomato, the pop of what I guess is the basil caviar. It's good, but my mind is racing with the implications of Alexander's offer.

“I think,” I say slowly, licking a drop of balsamic from my lip and watching his eyes track the movement, “that it's a dangerous game we're playing.”