Free Skin Tight by Ava Gray Page B

become someone she didn’t recognize. Tonight he seemed . . . playful, and it unnerved her.
    “Maybe you had a bottle while you were waiting for me,” she muttered.
    He shook his head, tapping the lemon and ice water before him. “If memory serves, I owe you another quote, do I not?”
    She narrowed her eyes. “Sometimes, the way you speak, it’s as though English isn’t your first language.”
    “You are clever,” he said, as if she’d delighted him.
    “That’s no answer.” Or rather, it was, but not as specific as she’d wanted.
    Damn him, she deserved his secrets. After leaving her in the hands of men who’d scared her to death and left her tied up for twenty-four hours, he owed her. She was still working out what she’d do with the information. Her feelings wavered between fierce antipathy and reluctant fascination, for she’d never known anyone remotely like him.
    “It’s all the answer you’re going to get, min skat .”
    No, it wasn’t. That, too, was a clue. He’d offered it intentionally, another little test.
    And she recognized the language; she’d worked there for six months.
    “You’re originally from Denmark.”
    At her quick reply, he folded his hands on the table. She read subtle surprise in his storm gray eyes. “Not quite.”
    “Your parents, then.”
    “You shouldn’t dig,” he said quietly. “You won’t like what you find.”
    Mia leaned forward, eyes on his. “There’s something you should know about me. When I want something—whether it’s a job, information, or some material comfort—I don’t stop until I’ve achieved my goal.”
    “Is that a warning or a promise?”
    She smiled despite herself. “I suppose that depends on my intentions.”
    “Should I ask what those are?”
    “I think I’d rather surprise you.”
    “You constantly do.”
    Her heart lurched. In melting contrast to his usual ice, warmth blazed from him, so keen she wondered if he meant the invitation in the curve of his mouth and the brightness of his eyes. No man had ever looked at her like that, not even ones who’d claimed to love her.
    Before she could reply, the waitress returned with their wine, two glasses, plates, and a platter of steaming stuffed mushrooms. She set the tray down on a folding stand and then started serving. “Are you ready to order, or do you need a few minutes?”
    Mia realized she’d hardly taken her eyes off him; she hadn’t picked up her menu. “We need a few.”
    “No problem,” the girl chirped. “I’ll be back in five to check on you.”
    He deftly slid a mushroom onto each plate and decanted the wine. She liked his hands. Bony wrists flared to broad palms topped with long, tapered fingers. Hands like that would feel good on a woman’s body, full of strength and assurance. A shiver rolled through her, and with effort, she forced herself to look away and open her menu.
    Focus. You can’t afford to lose track of why you’re here.
    With this appetizer, she didn’t need a big entrée. According to the guidebook in the glove compartment of her car, the Village Inn had a delicious berry cobbler. Quickly, she decided on the potato soup and a house salad, so she could save room for dessert. He took a little longer, perusing each page of the menu with such deliberation that you’d have thought lives hung in the balance.
    When he looked up at last, she asked, “What’re you getting?”
    “Rosemary chicken.”
    “Ah.” She laced her fingers in her lap to still their trembling.
    Why was she so nervous? Her heart hadn’t behaved this way since college, since she had her first real kiss, her first real boyfriend—the one she’d loved for years after he left her, despite the fact that he was married and had three kids. Right now, she was having a hard time remembering his name, let alone his face. That was a good thing; it was about time she got over him, but she didn’t want to replace . . . Mark—that was his name—with another unattainable