Chapter 16
M arcus
Emma is quiet during the short ride to her place, her gaze trained on the streets outside the window and her luscious little butt positioned as far away from me as the car’s width allows.
I let her be, though the temptation to touch her, to remind her of the scorching chemistry between us, is nearly impossible to resist. But resist it I do, because I promised not to pressure her into something she’s not ready for.
It’s bad enough I came on to her like a barbarian, all my hard-earned social graces decimated by a toxic mix of lust and confused anger.
I asked her on a date, and she paid for herself.
She paid for her own fucking pizza.
Even now, I can’t believe she did that—or that I let her.
It’s just that she caught me off-guard, grabbing the check so quickly and with so little hesitation.
Normally, when a woman offers to split the bill or pay for her own portion, it’s done more as a courtesy gesture, a nod to the modern times and the women’s liberation movement.
It’s a woman’s way of showing that she doesn’t really need a man to pay for her, though, of course, she’s secretly quite pleased if he doesn’t accept her half-hearted offer and pays anyway.
At least that’s how it was when I was a student and didn’t have two nickels to rub together.
Once I started earning real money, the half-hearted offers petered out, and by the time I made my first ten million, I forgot what it was like to have my dates play that game.
Women now just assume that I will pay, both because I’m a man and because I’m filthy rich, and I don’t mind.
It’s as it should be: if I’m with a woman, I take care of her.
Not with Emma, though. She didn’t make that assumption—nor did it feel like a game with her.
She didn’t offer to pay; she simply did it, plopping down her cash before I could so much as look at the check.
She was deadly earnest about it, too. It wasn’t a joke; for whatever reason, it mattered to her.
I take a calming breath and try to talk myself into looking away from her delicate profile.
She’s still gazing out the window, her small hands clenched tightly in her lap and her curls wild and unruly around her freckled face.
I don’t understand her, and I don’t understand my reaction to her.
I want to reach over and scoop her up, to put her on my lap so I can feel the soft curve of her shapely ass against my groin.
I want to tangle my fingers in that wild mane of hair and arch her head back, so I can kiss the pale white flesh of her throat, taste the pulse throbbing underneath that translucent-looking skin.
How have I not realized before how sexy petite, lushly curved women can be?
When she was standing there, at the coat check, looking up at me with those startled gray eyes, it was all I could do not to bend down and grab her.
To just lift her and carry her off like the delicious little prize she is.
No other woman has ever elicited that urge in me—and certainly not Emmeline, with her sleek, elegant beauty.
I suck in another breath and finally succeed in dragging my gaze away from Emma.
It’s pointless to compare the two women, because what I want from them is so different.
Emma is a whim, an anomaly in a lifetime of self-discipline and rigid planning, while Emmeline is what I’ve always wanted, what I’ve worked toward since I was a little boy.
Since I made a vow to myself to never, ever fall for a woman like my mother.
Not that Emma is like her—at least as far as I can tell from our short acquaintance.
My mother was impulsive and selfish, and I see little evidence of those traits in my companion.
Nor is Emma an alcoholic. All she had to drink at dinner was water—a choice I heartily approve.
I have nothing against moderate social drinking, but I can’t deny that when I see a woman imbibe more than a couple of glasses of wine, I get uncomfortable flashbacks to my vodka-and-vomit-soaked childhood.
To this day, I can’t stand vodka, even of the upscale variety.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out, glancing at the screen.
Fuck.
My inbox is blowing up with urgent messages from Jarrod Lee, my Chief Investment Officer.
I must’ve forgotten to check my phone during dinner because there are five emails in a row.
An opportunity to invest in high-risk municipal bonds has fallen into our lap, and he needs to know if we should pull the trigger, given our views on interest rates.
I swiftly review the bond specs and fire off a reply authorizing the $700 million investment.
Our analysts expect the municipality to have a successful capital raise before the next Fed meeting, which means our investment should double in value before the bond market tanks on the interest rate hike.
I finish with the emails just as the car pulls up to the curb in front of Emma’s apartment.
Getting out, I open the door on her side and help her out.
Her hand lightly touches mine as she climbs out of the car, and I can’t help closing my fingers around that small palm, then holding it a second too long.
Her startled gaze flies up to mine again, and I feel a tremor pass through her as she pulls her hand away. “Marcus…” Her voice is decidedly unsteady. “I really need to—”
“Of course.” I give her a smile as I walk her to the door, though the newly awakened caveman inside me howls in frustration. “You have to go. I understand.”
She nods, fumbling inside her bag as we stop in front of the door. Extracting her keys, she looks up, adorably flushed. “I do. My cats need to be fed, and I have to get up early for work tomorrow, and—”
“Emma.” I stop her rambling with another deceptively calm smile. “Say no more. I promised not to pressure you, and I won’t.”
Her flush intensifies. “Oh. Well, thank you. I had a great time.”
“Me too. What are you doing tomorrow night?”
She blinks up at me. “Tomorrow?”
“Friday,” I say helpfully. “You know, the day before the weekend?”
“Oh, I—” She stops and bites her lip. “You want to see me tomorrow?”
“I do.” And the day after, and the one after that, I realize to my shock. This dinner was far too short to satisfy my curiosity about Emma and her effect on me. I want to fuck her, yes, but I’m also intrigued by her.
I want to understand what makes her tick, and why that matters to me.
“I guess…” She hesitates, then blurts, “I guess that would be okay.”
“Excellent.” It takes everything I have to conceal my savage satisfaction. “Any specific food preference?”
“I’m not picky about food, but I do have a budget preference,” she says, and I sigh, realizing we’re going to fight that battle all over again.
Now is not the time for it, though, so I just nod and say, “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind. Pick you up at seven?”
“Okay.” She smiles up at me. “Seven it is. Thanks again.”
And before I can so much as kiss her cheek, she turns around, opens the door, and disappears inside to a chorus of outraged meows.