I frowned and peered in the front window. The restaurant was dark and the tables unset. There was no noise emanating from the place, but light seeped out from under a door at the back. I stepped away, checked that I did indeed have the right place, then got out my phone and rang Lucian.
"Don't tell me you can't make it," he said, by way of answering. "Not when I've gone to the trouble of preparing a rather amazing Italian beef stew for you."
"A proper Italian beef stew needs to be simmered for at least an hour and a half," I said, smiling. "Did I not mention the fact that I own a restaurant and know a little about cooking myself?"
"Oh blast, caught out." His smile was wide and not in the least repentant. "I shall have to admit that I merely reheat it, but that makes it no less amazing. And the bread is fresh and hot."
"None of which will do me any good if you don't tell me where you actually are. I'm at the door, the restaurant is closed, and you're nowhere in sight."
He laughed. "In my eagerness to impress you, I forgot to open the door. Forgive me."
He hung up, and a moment later he appeared, sauntering toward the door, the grace and economy of his movements only emphasizing the dangerous power that seemed to reside within him. A power I could feel, even from out on the street.
Again that odd mix of excitement and fear swirled through me, and for a brief moment the itch to flee arose. Then I thrust the fear away and walked across to the door as he opened it.
His gaze swept me, then rose to meet mine, alive with desire and approval. The force of it vibrated through me, making my senses hum in pleasure. "You look lovely," he said, kissing each cheek then stepping aside and motioning me in. "Perhaps we should skip the main meal and go straight to dessert."
Yes, please, I thought. Because if that smile was any indication, dessert was me.
But all I said was, "Do you own Alimento?"
"No." He locked the door behind us then touched his hand lightly against my spine. The heat of it travelled all the way down to my toes. "But the friend I'm staying with does. His apartment is upstairs."
So I'd been right. He did live close. Really close. I licked lips suddenly dry with excitement and said, "And he allows you to cook in his kitchen when they're preparing for the evening sitting?"
He pushed open the metal swing door, guiding me into a kitchen that was small, neat, and extremely clean. Even the huge exhaust hood sparkled, and I knew from experience how hard those were to keep spotless.
It was also very empty.