“Oh, well, the accent is nice. Don’t get rid of it.”
“You mean like those diction classes?”
“Yeah. Pretty ridiculous.”
He’d spent much of his life hating his accent, and he’d modified his speech a great deal. Only a trace remained, just enough to be identified as Southern. Just enough to appeal to a sympathetic jury. How would Vanessa feel knowing that?
Not complimentary, he was sure.
“How old are you?” she asked, choosing another grape.
“Thirty. You?”
“Twenty-seven. Did you always want to be a lawyer?”
I wanted to survive. “No. I sort of fell into it.” I got arrested.
She held up her hand, indicating the posh apartment. “But obviously you found a niche. You’re a big success. Are your parents proud?”
“My father died when I was young. My mother’s proud, though.” At least when she’s coherent.
She laid her hand over his. “I’m sorry about your dad. My father and I don’t always get along, but I can’t imagine being without him.”
The half-truths he was telling bothered him. He wanted to be honest with her. He wanted to share his pain, his struggles. But he suspected her background was far more upstanding than his, and he wanted her too much to risk her rejection. “Did you always want to be a caterer?”
She grinned. “Not specifically. I wanted to cause trouble.”
He raised his glass to her. A kindred spirit. Maybe that was part of her appeal. “Laissez les bons temps rouler.” When she angled her head in question, he elaborated, “Let the good times roll.”
“Exactly. My family has…” She glanced down at her glass, then back up to him. “They have a traditional idea of how a proper Southern lady should live her life,” she continued, rolling her shoulders back. “I’m not traditional.”
“That’s not a crime.”
“It is in my family.” She sipped her wine. “Anyway, I don’t mind being covered in flour, sweaty and wearing jeans. I was drawn to the fast pace of restaurants, then I got sucked in by the instant gratification—”
When he leered, she nudged him playfully with her elbow. “Gratification of cooking. Feed people, and for the most part, they’re happy. I turned out to be a good chef.” She angled her head. “I’m a great pastry chef, to tell you the truth.”
“I know. I got a taste, remember?”
She licked her lips. “I remember.” Her hand danced toward the plate, then she drew back. Her gaze locked with his. “I’m sometimes impulsive to my own detriment.”
“Like tonight?”
“No. Yes. I don’t normally go this…far. Something about you just got to me.”
He pushed back a lock of hair that had fallen across her cheek. “I know the feeling. I was at the party to network, not find a woman who’d knock me on my ass.” He cupped her jaw. “There are no rules here, Vanessa. I won’t put you down for being nontraditional.”
“Thanks.” She squeezed his wrist. “Really. Just thanks.”
He sampled a wedge of cheese and let her have a moment to recover. He also didn’t want her to see how much he wanted to violently shake sense into her family. “So what happened after you caused trouble?”
“I moved out. I got a job. I went to culinary school. I got the tattoo, and my mother was humiliated and furious, but she realized I was serious about—” Her eyes popped wide. “I never saw your tattoo!”
During the heat of their connection, he’d forgotten about it. “How could you have missed it?”
One hand lying on the back of his bar stool and the other gripping his thigh, she leaned close. “Where?”
“Before, you wanted to know what.”
“So where?”
He grinned. “I’m available for show and tell anytime you are.”
She jiggled his thigh. “Come on, Lucas. Tell.”
“I’ll show instead.”
He rose from his stool and unbuttoned his jeans. Loving the eagerness and desire in her eyes, he turned his back and flipped the waistband over, knowing what she’d see on the back of his left hip. He was fairly certain he’d surprised her again.
“It’s a rose,” she said after a moment, the excitement in her tone draining.
“Mmm.”
“I was thinking it would be…”
He glanced at her over his shoulder. “What?”
“Something else.”
“A dragon?”
She wrinkled her nose. “No.”
“A snake.”
“No way.”
“Maybe an anchor?”
“Definitely not.”
“You’ve got a problem with roses?”
“Well…no.”
“You’re allergic?”
“No.”
She grabbed his arm and jerked him around to face her. Of course, he took the opportunity to get closer. He wedged himself between her thighs and braced his hands on her hips. The scent of his soap rose from her skin. Desire and possession surrounded him, and he breathed deeply, praying he could hold himself in check. A least for a little while longer.
“A rose?” she asked, still confused.
“I lost a bet.”
She waggled her fingers in a come-on gesture. “You’ve got to do better than that.” When he hesitated, she added, “I’ll tell you my story.”
“Ladies first.”
“Mia and I got them on graduation night from culinary school. We’d celebrated with a little champagne.” At his skeptical look, she added, “Well, a lot of champagne, and the next thing we knew we were at the tattoo parlor getting decorated. Mia got a chameleon on her hip, and I got the butterfly.”
“Why the butterfly?”
“Because I finally felt free, and alive, for the first time.”
“It suits you.”
“I think so. Now, your turn.”
“I don’t think you’ll like it.”
“A deal’s a deal.”
“So it is. I got mine in high school. I bet another guy I could, ah…get a certain girl into bed before he did.”
She angled her head. The expression in her eyes wasn’t complimentary. “Men are pigs.”
“Definitely. I was young, chère. Forgive me? I lost, after all.”
“One, I can’t imagine you losing. Two—” she slid her hand across his shoulder and cupped the back of his head “—I really like when you call me that.”
“I’ll keep doing it then.” In Cajun French, he whispered a naughty suggestion in her ear. “Now you know all my secrets.”
“I do?”
He smiled. “No.”
“We