Sushi: A Forbidden Flowers Story Page 3

  She liked the way he said her name as if he had already claimed ownership of her. “I think you need to spell it out for me, Gabe.”

  Where had this daringly flirtatious vixen come from?

  “Meet me for a drink tonight, and maybe I will.”

  “Tonight?” She had her brother’s birthday dinner tonight. She couldn’t just bail on him.

  “Is that a problem?”

  “I already have plans tonight.”

  “Can you break them?”

  If only she could. “It’s a family dinner.”

  “I see.” He sounded disappointed. “That’s too bad. I really wanted to have that drink.”

  The way he said it made her wonder if having a drink was a metaphor for having hot, wild sex.

  “I can meet you after dinner, though,” she said before she could stop herself. “If that’s not too late for you.”

  He perked up. “When will you be done?”

  “Eight, maybe eight thirty.” Her mom liked to get to bed early. If dinner ran longer than eight o’clock, Jordan would be surprised.

  “Then I’ll pick you up at nine.”

  “Pick me up?” She hadn’t planned on giving him her address. At least not until she knew he wasn’t a psycho.

  “I can pick you up at Delaney’s, if that makes you more comfortable.”

  Delaney’s. The scene of the crime.

  “Fine. Nine o’clock at Delaney’s.”

  “It’s a date.”

  A date. She had a date with a man she barely knew who looked like he could be twice her age. She should have been weirded out by that, and yet she had never been more excited.

  “Oh, and Jordan?” he said, his voice commandingly self-assured.

  “Yes?”

  His voice lowered provocatively. “The next time we fuck each other, it won’t be from across the room.”

  With that, the line went dead.

  Chapter Three

  Her brother’s birthday dinner couldn’t have ended soon enough. Sure, she loved her brother, but Gabe’s words had hung in her mind all afternoon, sending butterflies through her stomach and a cascade of warmth down her thighs every time she replayed the memory of his voice caressing each salacious syllable.

  The next time we fuck each other, it won’t be from across the room.

  Those words should have scared her. They should have made her run in the opposite direction. Instead, she was more aroused than she had ever been. Something in his tone—a deep-seated hunger—had set a lit match to her libido and kept her body simmering for hours.

  If Gabe could do that to her with just his voice, imagine what he could do to her with his touch. His fingers. His mouth. Other parts of his body.

  At ten after eight, with her mother already cleaning up from dinner and talking about going to bed, Jordan kissed her on the cheek, wished her brother happy birthday one last time, and darted out the door.

  Stopping by her apartment, she quickly changed into strappy gold Jimmy Choos and her favorite Jovani curve-hugging party dress. The exquisite matte-black fabric was bedazzled with gold and silver beads set in asymmetrical patterns, and the halter bodice showed off her shoulders, which she’d spent all winter in the gym keeping in tank-top shape.

  After sweeping her hair up into a loose chignon and draping a delicately knitted wool wrap around her, she grabbed her matching beaded clutch and hurried out the door.

  She reached Delaney’s a few minutes before nine. There was no sign of the black Mercedes in the virtually empty parking lot, so she waited in her Lexus coupe, engine running, tapping her fingers nervously on the steering wheel in time with the song on the radio.

  A few minutes later, a sleek black Mercedes sedan pulled into the lot and slowly approached the front of the store. When it rolled to a stop, the back door opened, and there he was.

  Gabe, wearing a dark-gray suit that nicely accented his salt-and-pepper hair.

  He walked around the front of the car and into the store, head swiveling left and right, searching for her.

  Shutting off the coupe’s engine, Jordan climbed from the driver’s seat and started across the lot just as he came back outside, the heels of her Jimmy Choos clicking evenly on the pavement.

  The moment he saw her, he stopped in his tracks. A slow, appreciative grin spread over his mouth as his gaze traveled over her, and she had to force herself not to stumble as her knees turned to Jell-O.

  “You look very nice,” he said when she was only a few feet away.

  She came to a stop in front of him, trying not to smile too eagerly. “So do you.” She glanced down at the purple-and-black-silk tie perfectly knotted around the starched white collar of his shirt.

  He opened the rear door of the Mercedes and held her hand as she lowered herself into the back seat.

  Gabe had a driver. How interesting. Maybe that was why he’d been able to call her so quickly this afternoon.

  “What do you do for a living, Gabe?” she asked as he settled into the seat beside her and gestured to the driver with a curt nod to indicate they were both inside.

  The car pulled toward the exit.

  “I direct and produce movies,” he said without fanfare.

  “In New York?”

  New York City wasn’t exactly the hotbed of movie production.

  He unbuttoned and adjusted his suit jacket as he shifted and settled into the rich leather seat. “I lived in Los Angeles for a while, and still have a house in Malibu, but New York has always been home.” He glanced at her. “And my kids are here, so . . .”

  “Kids?” There it was, the inevitable reminder of Gabe’s age.

  “I have a son and a daughter.” He smiled warmly. “My son just got engaged, and my daughter just had a baby.”

  “Is that what brought you back?”

  He gave a friendly shake of his head. “No, I moved back years ago after missing way too much of their lives. I didn’t want to miss any more.”

  “I see.”

  Gabe had a grandchild.

  He was a grandfather.

  Their lunch affair had been exciting. The phone call afterward had made her pulse race. Now he was Grandpa Gabe.

  Had she made a horrible mistake thinking that the two of them could hold on to the magic they’d found during lunch when he was obviously so much older than she was? They were from different generations, for chrissakes!

  “What about you? Do you have any kids?” he asked.

  She glanced down at the beaded clutch her palms were hugging on her lap. “No, not yet.” She wanted to add that she was too young to have kids but thought better of it.

  With only three published books, she was just beginning her career as a writer. How could she even entertain the thought of having kids when she was juggling publishing deadlines for her next two books along with all the appearances being thrown onto her calendar for her upcoming release? She had momentum right now, and it was carrying her forward like a flash flood. She didn’t need to disrupt that with thoughts of having babies. She wouldn’t have time to think about starting a family until she was at least thirty, maybe even thirty-five.

  “They’re a lot of work,” he said, “but they’re worth it.”

  She raised her head and forced an awkward smile. “I wouldn’t know.”

  Sure, he was just making small talk, but could the conversation have shined a more glaring light on the age difference between them?

  “Never married?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “No.”

  She didn’t need to ask him if he’d ever been married. It was obvious he had.

  As if sensing their conversation had gotten off to a bad start, Gabe cleared his throat and changed the subject. “So, what do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a writer.”

  “Reporter? Journalist?”

  She shook her head. “Novelist.”

  “Ah.” His face brightened. A moment later, his eyes narrowed and he tilted his head in recognition. “
That’s where I’ve seen you before. I knew you looked familiar.” His smile grew wider. “Jordan Knight, right? I’m a big fan of your books.”

  She wasn’t sure what surprised her more: that he knew who she was or that he was a fan.

  “You read my books?”

  “Of course. As a movie producer, I’m always trolling the bestseller lists for a good story that can be turned into a blockbuster. And your books have that special something that could translate well to the big screen . . . or at least into a hit TV series.”

  She cocked her head, not sure whether he was being serious or just feeding her a line. “Oh really?”

  He laughed. “You doubt me?”

  “I don’t know you.”

  His gaze transformed into smoldering dark-blue flames. “You knew me well enough at lunch.” He rolled his bottom lip between his teeth and inched closer. “Well enough to accept my invitation tonight.” One side of his well-formed lips kicked upward.

  And there he was, the Gabe she’d met over sushi at Delaney’s. The confident, magnetic man who had awakened a lightning storm between her legs with twenty minutes of fuck-me eyes and one explosively well-timed sentence.

  He leaned back, his crooked grin spreading into an amused smile. “You really don’t recognize me, do you?”

  She frowned and gave him a closer look. He did look familiar, but she was confident she’d never met him before. “Should I?”

  He chuckled and glanced out the window. “Gabriel Stone.” His gaze skipped back to hers as if he wanted to witness the moment she put two and two together.

  Gabriel Stone?

  She sucked in her breath as recognition slapped her between the eyes. “You’re . . .” The breath whooshed from her lungs as words failed her.

  Gabriel Stone was an Academy Award–winning director and the president and CEO of Gold Stone Vision, a production company that had produced some of the biggest movies of the last twenty years. But while his name garnered household recognition, his face didn’t. He had become a notorious recluse as a producer and avoided both the red carpet and the spotlight, letting his films do the talking for him.

  Which was why he’d been able to eat a relatively uneventful lunch at Delaney’s without a crowd gathering to demand his autograph.

  His laughter deepened at her speechless reaction. “It’s okay. Very few people recognize me anymore.” He lifted his hand and ran his palm down his cheeks and chin. “Especially since I shaved off my beard.” He shot her a secret glance as he leaned into her like an old friend. “And, well, taking up yoga and going vegetarian three years ago helped.” He patted his stomach. “I lost about fifty pounds.”

  With some men who had lost a lot of weight, you could see the extra pounds they were hiding from their past in the way they carried themselves . . . like they knew it was all a mirage and that any moment, with the slightest lack of discipline, the weight would pile back on. As if the improvement on the outside of their bodies was unsustainable, because their insides were still burdened with out-of-control baggage and dripping with pessimistic sludge.

  Gabe didn’t hold himself that way. He carried his impressive physique with the kind of charisma you were raised with, not the kind born from hundreds of hours on a therapist’s couch. His inner well was overflowing with healthy self-esteem. His confidence was palpable, generating a gravitational pull impossible to resist.

  Even with fifty extra pounds on him, Gabe had probably carried himself like a stud. Not that he hadn’t looked good before. She’d seen pictures of Gabe when he’d been younger and still wore those extra pounds, and he’d been handsome enough, just a bit softer than the more mature, leaner, and beardless Gabriel Stone sitting beside her.

  “You look good for your age.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wished she could take them back.

  It was one thing to wonder silently if the age gap was too great to overcome, but another thing entirely to throw his age on the table like a royal flush to bitch-slap his four aces.

  She was about to apologize for her blunder when he smiled like she’d just paid him the best compliment of his life. “I’m flattered you think so.”

  Unable to let her gaff lie and die, she shook her head. “I didn’t mean to imply that you’re . . .”

  “Older?”

  Embarrassment heated her cheeks. “Yes.”

  He shrugged aloofly. “Why? I am older.”

  “But—”

  “Hey, don’t let my age fool you.” He raised one eyebrow, his gaze simmering as he gave her a look that screamed unbridled sexual prowess. “I think you’ll find that I’m like a really good wine. I get better with age.” He wound his fingers around hers and lifted her hand to his lips, kissing the backs of her knuckles.

  That deceptively simple but suggestive caress of his lips on her fingers wiped away all her concerns and insecurities. She would give this a chance, if only because his self-assurance was so damn intoxicating.

  And because what he’d said earlier still hung in her mind. The next time we fuck each other, it won’t be from across the room.

  Was that his intention for tonight?

  If it was, her intention was to let him act on his words.

  Chapter Four

  Gabe took Jordan to the best jazz club in New York. Zazbeaux. It was the kind of club you crossed the river for. Incredible live music, the best apple martini in the city, top-shelf liquor, and a clientele that represented the who’s who of not just New York, but also the world, every night.

  There was always a line around the block to get in.

  But Gabe and Jordan didn’t have to wait. The doorman ushered them to the front of the line the moment they stepped out of the Mercedes at the curb and even held the door open for them.

  She could get used to this kind of celebrity treatment. As a bestselling author, she had experienced her share of perks, but never anything as notable as being let into a hot spot like Zazbeaux without having to wait in line.

  A modelesque hostess wearing a shimmering black dress led them to a private booth in the VIP section. No doubt she walked runways for her day job, only working at Zazbeaux to pay the bills while rubbing elbows with movers and shakers who could give her the big break she’d worked her whole life for, propose marriage, or both. Two members of the security team stood guard at each short set of stairs leading into the more private space, ensuring no fawning fans or overeager autograph seekers got through.

  Gabe ordered them a bottle of champagne, tipping the server with a one-hundred-dollar bill after he did nothing more than fill two crystal flutes and stuff the bottle in a silver bucket of ice beside their table.

  “To sushi lunches,” he said, holding up his glass.

  She clinked his with hers. “To sushi lunches.”

  They drank. They enjoyed the best jazz New York had to offer. And when the live band played a slow song, she and Gabe danced cheek to cheek, bodies gently pressed together. His hands caressed her supple curves as her palms smoothed over the firm lines of his chest and arms.

  He felt so good. So solid and strong. Not like an old man at all. Sexier and more powerful than the hottest, hardest, muscled-up twentysomething at the gym. Those guys were little boys compared to Gabe. He was a man. Pure alpha male. The kind of male that made the perfect fictional hero. And she should know. Alpha male heroes were her specialty. It was why her books flew off the shelves and into the hands—and onto the e-readers—of over a million readers, mostly women, who basked in the glory of a well-developed leading man.

  By the third slow dance, the front of Gabe’s body was pressed snugly to the front of hers, the two of them swaying in time with the sultry beat, the temple of his forehead tipped to hers.

  “You feel good,” he said, angling his head so his mouth was beside her ear. His hands glided over her back.

  She dragged her palms down the lapels of his suit jacket, trying to imagine how the skin of the man would feel against that of the woman. “So do you.”
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  He pulled back, and, for a long moment, his gaze took a slow tour of her face, the low lighting making his dark eyes sparkle as they landed on her lips.

  Holding her breath, she tipped her chin up a fraction of an inch, unable to silence the universal body language that begged him to kiss her.

  The corners of his mouth lifted knowingly, catching the subtle way she leaned into him as her lips parted with anticipation.

  Pausing as if he wanted to draw out the suspense, he stopped swaying her from side to side and snaked his arm more securely around her waist. They remained like that for several long, endless seconds, the two of them a pillar of need in a sea of churning bodies. Then, with the agonizing self-control of a man not to be rushed, he smoothly, skillfully kissed her.

  The moment his lips closed over hers, the world stopped. There was no gravity, no air, no light, only the rush of blood in her veins as he angled his head, sliding his lips invitingly from one corner of her mouth to the other and back again.

  Their first kiss was everything she’d imagined it would be and more. Seductive, sensuous, a little playful, and just as confident as the rest of him.

  After curling her toes with the best kiss any man had ever given her, he paused, took a shallow breath, then swept his champagne-flavored tongue lightly over the seam of her mouth. She inhaled abruptly, her lips parting, then exhaled on a moan a moment later as he layered his mouth over hers and deepened the kiss, stealing what was left of her senses.

  Damn! Gabe could kiss!

  Over the next three hours, they finished the bottle of champagne, danced until her feet ached, and made out in the privacy of their VIP booth until her lips were raw and swollen. And yet it still wasn’t enough. For the hour-long drive back to Delaney’s and her car, their make-out session grew even more feverish.

  But that was as far as it went. He didn’t try to slide his hand under her dress or invite hers inside his fine, tailored trousers. The furthest he took things was to cup the bottom of her breast during a particularly vigorous, full-tongued kiss that left Jordan panting so hard she thought she might hyperventilate.