Once Touched, Never Forgotten - By Natasha Tate Page 0,20
and kissed her glowing skin, making her look like a harvest goddess brought to life. She wore her hair up again, exposing the long line of her neck and making his fingers itch to unpin all those tawny curls. Tall, beautiful and vibrant, she looked better than every memory he’d ever had of her. And he had her all to himself for the afternoon.
“Did you find some times to meet with Genevieve?” he asked as he opened her door and gestured her forward.
“Yes,” she said in a guarded voice. Her gaze flicked from the interior of his silver Maserati to his braced arm and she stood immobile for a moment, hesitating as if she stood on the edge of a perilous cliff.
“Relax,” he told her, moving his free hand to graze the base of her spine. “I’m a safe driver.”
She lurched away from his touch and dropped into the cream leather seat without further urging, then reached to buckle her seatbelt. A hint of bare leg flashed before she tucked her skirt over her bent knees. Her spine was so tense it barely touched the back of his low seat.
Watching as she tried to hide from him, he felt a sudden urge roar through him to drag up her prim skirt and chart the constellation of new freckles he’d glimpsed.
He held himself in check, his muscles tightening to stone. He was not an unprincipled beast. He could control his baser instincts.
So Stephen closed her door with a soft click and dragged in a steadying breath, forcing his desire for Colette into submission. God, he wanted her. Despite everything, he still wanted her. He wanted her smooth skin, her mouth beneath his, her soft cries of completion. He wanted to watch her throat work while he pleasured her, to seat himself so deep between her thighs that neither of them knew where one ended and the other began.
He rounded the car and then slid into his own seat. The interior smelled faintly of her, of vanilla and a warm, spicy note of some tropical flower. Putting the car into gear, his big hand close to her bent legs, he eased out a breath as he inched his way out into the New York traffic. They drove in silence, he checking his GPS and she clutching her purse, until they arrived at the hotel housing Antoine’s, the small, intimate French patisserie. After leaving his car with the valet and escorting her to the boutique café, he directed her to a corner table for two that offered an unobstructed view of the display case.
“So, Colette,” he said, after ordering a sampler plate and espressos for them both. “You still haven’t told me why you left London.”
The fork she’d been fingering clattered to the table while a delicate flush painted her cheeks. Pressing her lips together and avoiding his eyes, she surveyed the small cafe and its clustered clientele. “The seating is a bit cramped, don’t you think?” she finally asked. “It feels like we’re sharing a table with twenty people instead of just two.”
He remained silent, waiting to see what other diversionary tactic she tried.
She collected her napkin from the table and smoothed it over her knees before bending to look at the menu. “But the menu’s excellent. It offers a good variety of choices and has a wonderful layout.”
“Impressive.” He allowed himself a small smile.
She cast him a questioning look without straightening from her perusal of the menu.
“I wouldn’t have thought it possible to be better at avoidance than you were five years ago.”
She inhaled sharply and then dropped her focus back to the menu. “I thought you wanted my opinion on the competition.”
“I do.” He leaned back in his chair, studying the off-center part of her tipped head. It was as if all the work he’d done breaking down her barriers five years ago didn’t matter. He had to start all over. Again. And the hell of it was, he had no idea why. Something had changed. Something big. Something that filled her eyes with nervous apprehension and made her act like a skittish mouse to his hawk. “Among other things,” he added.
She stiffened while fresh color seeped into her cheeks. “This is supposed to be a professional outing. Remember?”
“Yes,” he said as his gaze traced the line of her brow, her cheek, the narrow bridge of her freckled nose. “But I believe in multitasking. Surely you recall that about me?”
“And you wonder why I was reluctant to accompany you,” she