Rachel allowed the little man to take her hand, supremely conscious when Joe’s fingers moved against her skin. If his intention was to ensure she was aware of him, he was wasting his time. She’d been aware of no one else since he’d arrived at the clinic.
The restaurant was through opaque glass doors, and it was instantly cooler once the doors closed behind them. Henri offered them a drink at the adjoining bar, and Joe asked her if she’d like a cocktail. ‘You must try Antonio’s margaritas,’ he said, nodding to the barman. ‘He makes the best cocktails in the city.’
Rachel was helped onto a stool at the bar, and presently a broad-rimmed glass was set in front of her. ‘Try it,’ Joe said, watching her. ‘I’ve told Antonio to hold the salt.’
The tequila caught the back of Rachel’s throat, and for a moment she felt as if she couldn’t get her breath. Then the alcohol found its way to her stomach and she took a steadying gulp of air. The last thing she needed was to get tipsy, she thought. Being with Joe was intoxicating enough as it was.
Leaving her glass on the bar, she half turned to survey the room behind her. From what she could see, the restaurant was small and intimate, lamplit booths and carefully arranged trellises of greenery providing both privacy and anonymity for the guests. Which was probably why Joe liked it, she reflected a little cynically. A man of his wealth and power was bound to attract attention wherever he went. Yet, despite his obvious attraction for women, he didn’t strike her as the kind of man who would court notoriety.
‘Don’t you like it?’
Joe, who she noticed had accepted only a soft drink, drew her attention, and she swung round again, bumping her knees against his. ‘Oh, sorry,’ she said as he parted his legs to accommodate her. But instead of allowing her to move back to the bar, he imprisoned her knees between both of his.
‘My pleasure,’ he said. ‘So, tell me, do you like the margarita?’
Rachel glanced at the drink. ‘It’s very nice,’ she said breathily. Then, in an effort to distract herself, ‘You’re only drinking tonic.’
‘I need to keep my head around you,’ said Joe huskily. His eyes darkened as they rested on her mouth. A tiny drop of liquid rested on her lower lip, and before he could stop himself he’d leant forward and captured it with his tongue. ‘Have you any idea how good you taste?’
Rachel swallowed. ‘I don’t think you should make fun of me,’ she protested, and Joe stifled a rueful laugh.
‘Oh, baby,’ he said. ‘I’m not making fun of you.’ He hesitated, and then continued roughly, ‘Myself, maybe. I’m the one who’s drowning here.’
Rachel shook her head. ‘You don’t have to flatter me.’
‘For God’s sake!’ Joe swore then. ‘I’m not flattering you, damn it.’ His hands dug into her knees for a moment and then he released her. ‘Hell, that ex-husband of yours did some number on you, didn’t he?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Rachel reached for the margarita again, needing the punch of the alcohol to steady her nerves.
‘Sure you do,’ said Joe, his expression sardonic. ‘But okay, we’ll play it your way. For the time being, at least.’
Thankfully, Henri returned to offer them menus, and then later to ask what they’d like for dinner, and for the next few minutes Rachel was able to pretend she wasn’t out of her depth. But she had to admit that Joe’s analogy had been apt—though she was the one who was drowning, not him.
Eventually, they were shown to a table by the windows. The lamplight was reflected in the glass and Rachel realised why the restaurant was called the Sea House. Their booth overlooked a rocky promontory, and discreetly placed lights illuminated the water below. There was no moon, but the restless waves lapping against the shoreline were distinctly audible.
She ate scallops with tempura vegetables, and an escalope of seared sea bass with a delicate truffle sauce. The food, as Joe had told her, was delicious, and despite her nerves Rachel found herself enjoying it.
Joe chose the wine, and if she’d reserved judgment about the margarita she had no such doubts about the smooth Chablis. It slid effortlessly down her throat, and she hardly noticed that the waiter refilled her glass several times throughout the meal. It was all wonderful, and unbelievably relaxed, and she was sorry when the time came for them to leave.
‘I’ve had such a good time,’ she said, regarding Joe with shining eyes. ‘I don’t know what else to say.’
‘You could say you’ll accept my offer of the house on Biscayne Bay,’ Joe murmured, capturing her hand that was lying beside her plate. His thumb probed the sensitive veins on the inner side of her wrist before sliding down to caress her palm. ‘I really wish you would.’
Rachel sucked in a breath. ‘And what would you do?’
‘Me?’ Joe lifted her hand and rubbed his lips against her knuckles. ‘You don’t think I’m suggesting we should share the place, do you?’
Rachel hesitated, her stomach fluttering nervously. ‘You—you’re not?’
‘No.’ Joe regarded her over her quivering fingers. ‘I told you, I have a condo on Miami Beach. The house on Biscayne Bay has been in my family for years. My sister used to live there before she moved to Los Angeles. I never have.’
‘Oh!’ Rachel was nonplussed.
‘Does it make a difference?’
It shouldn’t have, really, but she couldn’t deny it did. If Daisy had to stay in the United States for a while, it would be so much better for her than living at the Park Plaza hotel.
‘Maybe,’ she said at last, withdrawing her hand as Joe got to his feet. ‘Can I think about it?’
Joe shrugged, but Henri Libre was at his elbow, and he didn’t say anything more until they were outside the building. Then, as the valet went to get his car, he bent his lips to her ear. ‘Why don’t I show you the place? It might help you make up your mind.’
A particularly strong breeze caused Rachel to sway a little, and she wasn’t sure if it was the wind or the amount of wine she’d consumed that made her feel so unsteady suddenly. But when Joe stepped closer, and slipped a protective arm around her waist, she knew she didn’t want the evening to end.
‘Yes,’ she said, barely audibly, and wondered exactly what she was agreeing to.
The valet reappeared with Joe’s car, and after brief farewells they were on their way. It was quite late; after midnight, Rachel guessed—but there was still plenty of traffic on the main highway.
She leaned her head back against the soft leather squabs and closed her eyes for a moment. It had been a wonderful evening, she thought, guiltily aware that she’d only thought of her daughter very fleetingly. But it was so long since she’d allowed herself any real indulgence whatsoever.
An awareness that the sound of the traffic was fading caused her to open her eyes again, and they widened in dismay when she realised they were heading in the wrong direction. She was sure they’d driven south from Palm Cove, and they were still driving south, with the lights of the city behind them.
She was about to voice her concerns when Joe took the offramp into a residential suburb. Here the streets were quieter, even deserted at times. Houses sheltered behind iron gates and high stone walls that were overhung with vines and bougainvillea. Some of the roads were lined with trees, palms and live oaks, the scents of night-blooming stocks mingling with the tang of the sea. Their exotic fragrance invaded the car, a heady mix of salt and sweetness.
‘Where are we?’ she exclaimed, not exactly worried, but not exactly relaxed either. She was sure this wasn’t the way back to her hotel.
‘We’re in Coral Gables,’ replied Joe casually as they negotiated