Entry-Level Mistress - By Sabrina Darby Page 0,43
ran my tongue along the edge, and then, caught his eye and closed my lips down over the length of his finger.
His look said everything I wanted it to say, and after I released his hand, I slanted him that smile.
Daniel pulled the car up to a valet zone and a waiting attendant opened the door for me. I stepped carefully out of the low car, and then up onto the sidewalk, where Daniel waited for me. With the hot press of his body against mine, his arm holding me close to him, and the brief touch of his mouth against my ear a whispered promise, I was only peripherally aware of my surroundings. There was a glass wall through which I could see crowded tables, a pale blue door, and people milling about on the sidewalk. None of it mattered.
Once we crossed the threshold of the restaurant, the deafening soundscape added to the blurriness of the night. It was as if I’d been handed a Renoir filter with which to experience the world. As the hostess led us through a maze of tables to one in a more secluded corner, I was vaguely aware that people were watching us. Here and there Daniel nodded and offered a polite smile, but I only had the briefest impressions of the people he greeted. By the time we reached our table, I wondered if he knew everyone in the Hamptons.
Halfway through dessert a woman—blonde, pink silk tunic, very tan legs—approached our table.
“Daniel Hartmann, you didn’t tell anyone you were coming this weekend.”
He laughed but I thought he didn’t seem particularly amused by the interruption.
“If Stacia Klein knows you are in town, she’ll be devastated if you don’t come to her party tomorrow night. Did you really think you could have a tête-à-tête and we wouldn’t know? Who is your friend?”
Suddenly I was the focus of the woman’s brilliant green stare.
“Emily, meet Gretchen Lawrence. Gretchen, this is Emily. She’s a very talented sculptor.” It felt strange hearing him introduce me that way. Pleasurable for an instant, until I wondered if he was complimenting me only for show.
But the way the woman looked at me, I had the distinct impression she thought Daniel appreciated my other talents. Which he did. I laughed, and met the woman’s eyes in acknowledgment.
“I am good with my hands.”
The woman laughed. “I do hope you’ll come! Fitzi should be there.” I blinked once at the casual dropping of the name of Manhattan’s breakout pop-fashion artist. “You can talk art.”
“Fitzi? Really? I think we have to go then.” I turned to Daniel, wide-eyed.
“Excellent! Stacia will be thrilled!” Gretchen enthused. Then she leaned a hand out, touched Daniel lightly on the forearm. “Your girlfriend is a doll.”
The word girlfriend lingered in the air and I savored it with surprised pleasure. Daniel’s lack of comment was almost a tacit acknowledgment.
“You’re quite a fighter,” Daniel murmured when we were alone. “I had no idea.”
“I wasn’t fighting,” I corrected him. “I just didn’t hide.” I was proud of myself for that. It made me feel good. And it contrasted greatly with all the other parts of my life that were hidden. After all, I was likely going to have to come clean to my father next week. “Thank you for dinner,” I added softly as I watched Daniel sign the check.
“You’re more than welcome,” he returned and then stood. I stood as well, half tipsy on wine, delicious food and the unreality of this night, so out of time and space from my usual days. He took my hand and, safe in that warm connection, I followed him outside.
“Are you sure you want to go tomorrow?”
The night air had picked up a stronger breeze, and I wrapped my arms around myself, shivering.
“Why not? You can introduce me to all your fabulous friends. Weren’t you going to find me another job?” I shot him a teasing glance. “I’m good with my hands … ”
He grabbed those hands and pulled me toward him. I sucked in my breath at his expression. “Emily—”
“Emily Anderson!”
I looked up sharply at my name sounded by a female voice. Daniel shifted, pulled me tight against his side, his arm around my waist. A tall, willowy woman with slim hips and glossy, long black hair that swung with each step, strode toward us, effortless in her high-heeled sandals.
“I haven’t seen you in forever, not since … ” the woman trailed off. Lila Lee, the name came to mind, and I started to