Part 23 (1/2)
”Professors have a lot of power,” he said.
I almost smiled. ”Even medieval history professors?”
”Especially medieval history professors,” he a.s.sured me.
”Knights on horseback and all that?”
A responding smile tugged at his mouth. ”And damsels in distress.”
Ours wasn't a romance of c.o.c.ktails and silk sheets. Ours was a romance of library call numbers, coffee cake, rainy weekends, history textbooks, and boring foreign films. We might not have happened any other way.
Some things, I think, were clearly meant to be.
A s.h.i.+ver of awareness ripples over my skin.
I glance at the entrance to the bar. My breath catches in my throat. Dean is walking toward me, his stride long and a.s.sured, his muscular body sheathed in a navy tailored suit that fits him to perfection.
He's not just in full professor mode; he's in full Dean West mode with his perfectly knotted tie and air of complete authority. Other patrons glance at him as he crosses the room. The overhead lights burnish his hair and cast shadows on the masculine planes of his face.
My heart gives a wild, spinning leap. I turn on the barstool to watch him-my breathtakingly beautiful husband who commands attention like a king holding court, but whose eyes remain unwaveringly fixed on me.
Oh, Dean. I've missed you.
He stops in front of me and extends his hand. ”Dean West.”
I smile. ”Well, I know that.”
He raises an eyebrow, his hand still extended.
Oh!
”I'm Olivia... Winter.” I slip my hand into his. ”Pleasure to meet you.”
”Olivia Winter.” His deep voice envelops my name like dark chocolate spilling over a ripe cherry. ”Pretty.”
”Thanks.” I'm getting a little breathless.
Dean's fingers close around mine in a warm, secure handshake that sends a tingle clear up my arm. The scent of his shaving soap tickles my nose. I slip my hand slowly from his and gesture to the barstool beside me.
”Would you like to sit down?” I ask.
”Only if I can buy you a drink.”
”Okay.” I glance to the other end of the bar, where the bartender is still making my drink. ”I just ordered.”
”And so will I.” He sits beside me, his sleeve brus.h.i.+ng against mine.
My heart thumps with a slow, heavy beat. A hint of nervous excitement winds through me-as if he really is a strikingly handsome stranger whom I know nothing about except that I'm captivated by his presence.
”May I take your coat?” he asks, slanting his gaze over my body.
”Maybe later.” I give him a sultry, sidelong glance. ”Mr. West.”
”You can call me sir.”
Yes, I most certainly can.
”Maybe later,” I murmur. ”Sir.”
The bartender returns, faltering slightly when he sees Dean sitting beside me.
”Here you go, miss.” He sets a pretty, pink drink garnished with a cherry in front of me. ”Grapefruit juice, sparkling wine, a touch of syrup.”
”Put it on my tab,” Dean says.
”Yes, sir.”
”And I'll have a scotch on the rocks.”
”Yes, sir.” The bartender hurries to get the drink.
”So.” I s.h.i.+ft, letting the raincoat display a bit more of my stocking-clad leg. ”What do you do, sir?”
”I'm a venture capitalist and businessman,” he replies. ”I own an international conglomerate of companies branded under the name the Beauty Group.”
”I think I've heard of that.”
”We have about five hundred companies,” he continues, nodding his thanks as the bartender sets the scotch in front of him. ”Travel, multimedia, entertainment, finance, hotels.”
”Impressive,” I remark. ”You must be quite wealthy.”
He shrugs, like he can't be bothered to consider his billions-of-dollars net worth.
”And you?” he asks. ”What do you do, Miss Winter?”
”I'm an actress.”
”Really?” He turns to face me, resting an elbow on the bar. ”Stage or screen?”
”Stage, of course.” I toss my hair back over my shoulder. ”Movies are so pedestrian. Stage acting is so much more intimate and challenging. There's no room for error when you're on stage in front of a live audience.”
”Hmm. A risk-taker, are you?”
”Under the right circ.u.mstances, I can be.”
”Interesting.” Dean puts his warm hand beneath my chin, turning my face toward his. ”And what are the right circ.u.mstances?”
”Maybe...” I glance up at him from beneath my eyelashes. ”You, Mr. West.”
”Ah.” He brushes his thumb across my lips, his eyes gleaming with something dark and dangerous. ”Right or wrong, make no mistake, Miss Winter. I'm not a circ.u.mstance.”