CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX CECI
Chapter Twenty-Six
Ceci
Ceci sat alone as Clarke posed for a photo with some fans at another table in the restaurant.
Was she sorry her ploy with Rocco’s nieces hadn’t succeeded in getting her out of this date tonight?
Not really.
But why did Rocco’s nieces have to bring up all that crap about knights?
Okay, so she dreamt about the man. But when she did, they were dancing or racing karts.
There were some kisses, but they were chaste and the dream always ended before anything else could happen.
But last night when she’d dreamt of him it didn’t end.
What’s more, everything had gotten twisted around.
It wasn’t like it had been in the men’s room of the Royal Horseguards Hotel.
She wasn’t Prince Charming and he wasn’t Sleeping Beauty.
The roles had been reversed. She wasn’t reviving him.
He was reviving her. And it wasn’t just kissing he used as a means to bring her back to life.
It was all sorts of things. Things she shouldn’t be thinking of now as she watched another group of fans drag him over to their table for a photo.
It was in the low sixties outside and she was wearing a halter dress, leaving her arms bare. Shouldn’t she be cold? The temperature was dipping lower out there, but in here, in her, it was rising. She ran a finger over the beads of sweat above her lip.
She felt overdressed for this place. He, however, in black slacks and a white shirt sans tie seemed perfectly suited to it.
Odd, given it wasn’t his kind of place. At least, she didn’t think so.
Dinner, she’d expected. But she’d imagined they would eat at a more formal, stuffy restaurant.
Not the noisy, friendly, and raucous one they were at now—where the owner, cook, staff, and patrons seemed like one big family.
She sipped her glass of red wine.
Of course, the waiter had given Clarke a chef’s kiss when he’d ordered it, saying it was the best Spain had to offer.
Even the chef had come out to commend his impeccable taste when it came to pairing wine with food, not knowing the diner that had impressed him was Sir Clarke, winner of the Spanish Grand Prix.
He’d driven a brilliant race. His precision in positioning, braking, and car control—not to mention defensive tactics—was impeccable.
Yes, perfect. All the more astounding because Anker was driving the faster car.
Anker should have passed him, more than once.
Put any other driver ahead of Anker, and he would have.
The way Clarke handled the pressure, held him off, and defended his position showed not only incredible physical talent and ability but a mental strength that was almost beyond human.
It reminded her of the Clarke of old. Was he back? Was he going to perform like this the rest of the season? If so, he could be a lock on that trophy.
There was still that moment’s hesitation at the final turn, but by then he’d locked down the win. Anker, desperate, had gone for too much and had spun out of control, allowing Nico and Rocco to pass him and ruin his shot at any spot on the podium.
Thinking about the race, she couldn’t help but think about the future, her future and that phone call from her father.
Next season, she could be driving—F3 or maybe even F2.
But the thrill she felt came with a healthy dose of trepidation.
She remembered what it had been like driving for her father’s team in the past and remembered why she’d left.
Maybe this time would be different. Back then, he’d taken her on reluctantly, but this time on the phone, he’d sounded like he really wanted her on the team.
He’d made a point of telling her she needed to get behind the wheel and practice, get into the simulator and train so that she’d be ready to show the team what she’s got before the final decision.
Is it because of Clarke? Father definitely likes him.
Did Clarke say something to him?
Maybe it wasn’t anything he said but his presence alone—the fact that he was there, with her.
But he’s not actually with me.
She watched as another group of fans posed for a photo with Clarke. She thought about the deal she’d made with Roxanne. It was supposed to improve his persona off the track, not his performance on it.
When he returned to their table, the waiter brought over a bottle of vintage champagne.
“Compliments of the chef.”
He started to unwrap the foil but Clarke stopped him. “I’ll do it.”
The waiter nodded and walked away.
“You didn’t get enough drenching today?” she asked. “Or perhaps your plan is to drench me.”
Those warm caramel eyes flickered as they drifted down her throat and the plunging neckline of her dress, only stopping when they could go no further. A shiver followed the path of his gaze.
“Much as I might enjoy the sight given what you’re wearing, no, that is not my plan.” He paused. “What you’re wearing is actually perfect for what I have planned tonight.”
She blinked. That shiver shattered, and a sudden warmth spread between her thighs.
When she looked back at him with a puzzled expression, one eyebrow hiked up his forehead. “I’m referring to that slit in your skirt that runs all the way up your thigh.”
Her breath caught, and she immediately clamped her mouth shut because it had been too audible for him not to hear. If she had any doubt whether or not he did, the grin that slithered up his cheeks gave her a definitive answer.
Did Sir Stick Up His Ass really just say that?
It wasn’t just what he said but how he said it. His voice was not only cool but confident, and … sexy.
She preferred the stuffy, pompous one. The shy and stilted one. This voice made it sound as if he was in the driver’s seat.
“I’d actually like some water,” she said, looking around for the waiter.
“You’re thirsty?” he asked.
She noticed him staring at her lips.
She was. Her mouth had suddenly become very dry.
She knew adrenaline could do that. But why would I be pumping adrenaline right now? she thought as she stared back at him, noticing there was one particular area of her that was not dry, but quite the opposite.
He looked around and then suddenly stood up and walked to the back of the restaurant.
He returned carrying a bottle of water and poured a glass for her before he sat back down.
Why was he acting so not like Sir Stick Up His Ass? But then, there were quite a few times he’d been un-Sir Stick Up His Assish: in Montana, in Austin, with Sofia and Beatrice, etc.
She drank the entire glass before she set it back down.
He picked up the bottle of champagne, placing his right hand over the cork. “Sometimes, the thing to do isn’t the obvious thing. Most people make the mistake of turning the cork. But if you don’t want to lose any champagne, you should hold the cork and turn the bottle.”
The cork emitted the faintest pop.
Not one drop spilled.
Perfection.
Fucking Sir Galahad.
Once they left the restaurant, he steered her around a corner, down a dark alleyway. She was just about to ask where they were going when they reached a courtyard nestled by buildings on all sides.
It had rained earlier in the evening, and the air, crisp and fresh, carried the scent of damp earth and citrus blossoms. The walls of the buildings surrounding the courtyard were adorned with creeping ivy.
Embedded in the intermingling vines were small lights that looked like twinkling stars.
Out beyond the walls, the sound of distant chatter from nearby cafes drifted through the night air.
But here, in this hidden courtyard, there was a quiet peace, as if the rain had momentarily washed the world away.
In the center was a scattering of tables with mosaic-tiled surfaces. Those with people sitting at them were dry, but a few of the tables still held the faint shimmer of raindrops.
She watched as a man quickly swept the water from one of the small ones, placed dry cushions on the two chairs, and then invited them to sit down. Clarke held up two fingers and said, “Sol y Sombra.” The waiter nodded.
The table was clearly meant for two lovers or at the very least two people out on a romantic date. Rather than place her legs under it where they were sure to make contact with his, she positioned them at an angle to the right.
She watched his gaze track that slit up her skirt, and her mouth returned to the Sahara while her pussy journeyed to the tropics. During monsoon season.
“What did you order?” Ceci asked, in an effort to distract herself as much as him.
“It’s a digestif—brandy and anise. It’s good for the stomach. It aids in digestion.”
“Is your stomach bothering you?”
“No. But you should always follow a meal like the one we just had with a digestif. It’s good for balance.”
The waiter returned with two brandy snifters.
“No toast?” she asked, watching him about to take a sip.
He hesitated. After a moment’s pause, he said. “May we always have the wisdom to know what matters, the courage to pursue it, and the good fortune to toast to it. Often.”
The last drops of rain that had clung to the awnings splashed on the cobblestones as he touched her glass with his.
A perfect toast.
Had she ever heard one better?
She peered at him. “Do you always do what you should do?”
“I try to.”
“What about what you shouldn’t do?”
His eyes slivered as one corner of his lip twitched before rising. “Occasionally.” He took another sip. “It would seem more often than not when I’m around you.”
“What do you—”
He held his index finger to her lips. “Shhh.”
Ceci froze. Her eyes ballooned.
Where is Sir Stick Up His Ass? And what have you done with him?
He drew her attention to a small stage. On it were musicians who began to play. And then the dancers came out—flamenco dancers.
It was exciting and exhilarating to watch.