But he was getting way ahead of himself. Anything in the bedroom with this woman was still, oh … hours away.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked. “I think you already have.”
He feigned surprise. “So I have. Then you’ll have to let me buy you a drink.”
She opened her mouth to reply and, for a moment, he feared she would decline his offer. Another new experience for Marcus. Not only fearing a woman would turn him down—since that almost never happened—but also feeling a knot of disappointment in his chest at the possibility. On those rare occasions when a woman did turn him down, he simply shrugged it off and moved to the next one. Because, inevitably, there was always a next one. With this woman, however …
Well, he couldn’t imagine a next one. Not even with Cynthia Harrison falling out of her dress less than ten feet away.
“All right,” she finally said, as Stu arrived at their table. She looked at the bartender. “I’ll have a glass of champagne, please.”
“Bring a bottle,” Marcus instructed before the bartender had a chance to get away. “The Perrier-Jouët Cuvée Belle Epoque. 2002.”
“Really, that’s not necessary… .” she began, her voice trailing off on the last word.
Deciding it was because she didn’t know how to address him—and because he wanted to give her his name so that he could get hers in return—he finished for her, “Marcus. Marcus—”
“Don’t tell me your last name.”
He halted before revealing it, less because she asked him not to than because he found her command curious.
“Why not?”
“Just don’t, that’s all.”
He started to give it to her anyway—never let it be said that Marcus Fallon ever did as he was told—but for some reason decided to honor her request. That was even stranger, since never let it be said that Marcus Fallon did the honorable thing, either. “All right.” He lifted his right hand for her to shake. “And you are …?”
She hesitated before taking his hand, then gingerly placed her own lightly against his. Her fingers were slender and delicate against his large, blunt ones and, unable to help himself, he closed his hand possessively over hers. Her skin was soft and warm, as creamy as ivory, and he found himself wondering if that was true of the rest of her. The blush on her cheeks deepened as he covered her hand with his, but she didn’t pull hers away.
His appeal for her name hung in the air between them without a response. “Della,” she told him finally. “My name is Della.”
No last name from her, either, then. Fine, he thought. He wouldn’t push it. But before the night was over, he’d know not only her last name, but everything else about her, too. Especially where each and every one of her erogenous zones were and what kind of erotic sounds she uttered whenever he located a new one.
Neither of them said anything more, only studied each other’s faces as their hands remained joined. She had amazing eyes. Pale, clear gray, the kind of eyes a man could lose himself in forever. The kind that hid nothing and said much. Honest eyes, he finally decided. Noble. The eyes of a person who would always do the right thing.
Damn.
Stu cleared his throat a little too obviously beside them, and she gave a soft tug to free her fingers. Reluctantly, he let them go. She lowered her hand to the table near his, however, resting it palm down on the white linen. So he did likewise, flattening his hand until his fingers almost—almost—touched hers.
“Will there be anything else, Mr.—?” Stu stopped before revealing Marcus’s last name, obviously having overheard the exchange. Quickly, he amended, “Will there be anything else, sir?”
Marcus waved a hand airily in his direction, muttering that Stu should bring some kind of appetizer, too, but didn’t specify what. He honestly didn’t care about anything, other than the intriguing woman who sat across from him.
“Well,” he began, trying to jump-start the conversation again. “If you’re sitting here in the Windsor Club, you can’t be too new to Chicago. They have a waiting list to get in, and last I heard, it was two years, at least, before anyone added to it could even expect an application. Unless you’re here as a guest of another member?” That would be just his luck. That he’d meet a woman like this, and she’d be involved with someone else.
“I’m on my own,” she told him. Then, after a small hesitation, she added, “Tonight.”
Suggesting she wasn’t on her own on other nights, Marcus thought. For the first time, it occurred to him to glance down at her left hand. Not that a wedding ring had ever stopped him from seducing a woman before. But she sported only one ring, and it was on her right hand. The left bore no sign of ever having had one. So she wasn’t even engaged. At least not to a man who had the decency to buy her a ring.
“Or maybe,” he continued thoughtfully, “you’re a member of one of the Windsor’s original charter families who earn and keep their membership by a simple accident of birth.” He grinned. “Like me. As many times as they’ve tried to throw me out of this place, they can’t.”
She grinned back. “And why on earth would they throw out a paragon of formality and decency like you?”
His eyebrows shot up at that. “You really are new in town if no one’s warned you about me yet. That’s usually the first thing they tell beautiful young socialites. In fact, ninety percent of the tourist brochures for the city say something like, ‘Welcome to Chicago. While you’re here, be sure to visit Navy Pier, the Hancock Tower, the Field Museum and the Shedd Aquarium. And whatever you do, stay away from Marcus—” Again he halted before saying his last name. “Well, stay away from Marcus-Whose-Last-Name-You-Don’t-Want-To-Know. That guy’s nothing but trouble.'”
She laughed at that. She had a really great laugh. Uninhibited, unrestrained, genuinely happy. “And what do the other ten percent of the travel brochures say?”
“Well, those would be the ones they give out to conventioneers looking for a good time while they’re away from the ball and chain. Those are the ones that list all the, ah, less seemly places in town.” He smiled again. “I’m actually featured very prominently in those. Not by name, mind you, but …” He shrugged. “Those damned photographers don’t care who they take pictures of.”
She laughed again, stirring something warm and fizzy inside Marcus unlike anything he’d ever felt before. “I don’t believe you,” she said. “I find it hard to jibe The Bartered Bride with bump and grind.”
“There’s more to me than opera, you know.” He met her gaze levelly. “A lot more.”
The blush blossomed in her cheeks again, making him chuckle more softly. She was saved from having to respond to his comment, however, when Stu arrived with their champagne and a tray of fruit and cheese. The bartender went a little overboard with the presentation and opening of the bottle, but it was probably because he, too, recognized that Della—yes, Marcus did like that name—wasn’t a usual customer. In fact, there was nothing usual about her. She was, in a word, extraordinary.
After receiving approval for the champagne, Stu poured a glass for each of them. As he did, Marcus told Della, “I am notorious in this town. Ask anyone.”
She turned to the bartender, who was nestling the champagne in a silver bucket of ice. “Is he really notorious?” she asked.
The bartender glanced first at Marcus, who nodded imperceptibly to let Stu know his tip wouldn’t be compromised by his honesty, then at Della. “Oh, yes, ma’am. And not just in Chicago. He makes the society pages all over the country, wherever he goes, and he’s a regular feature on a lot of those celebrity websites.