He seemed amused by the question. “Yes, normally. I’ve found it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. Plus, I already asked, and you said no.”
Oh, okay. So he’s daft. I nodded politely and tried to put a respectful look on my face. I don’t think I succeeded.
“Do you like Centaur?”
“I’ve never been. It’s a little out of my budget.”
“You’ll like it. You do eat meat?”
My dirty mind chuckled to itself, but I kept my tone mild. “Yes, I eat meat.”
His mouth turned up slightly, a smirk he tried unsuccessfully to keep in check. I looked away, trying to remain composed, but fighting a ridiculous urge to smile myself. Keep laughing, De Luca. I plan on putting a porterhouse on this bill.
The town car pulled through big gates and past freshly cut lawns up to a huge white Southern-style farmhouse with deep porches and thick columns. The entrance steps were flanked on either side by centaur statues. The well-manicured lawn, impressive structure and white-gloved valets screamed expensive. An attendant sprang to action when the car stopped, and pulled open my door. I accepted his outstretched hand, swung a leg out and stood up, squinting in the bright sun. My headache was drumming its fingers on my cerebral cortex.
I walked around the car and met De Luca at the base of the steps. He gestured for me to go ahead, and I stepped forward. As I climbed the stairs, he placed a gentle hand on the base of my back. A delicious shiver ran through me and my subconscious smacked it down as if it was a wandering fly.
The maître d’ instantly recognized De Luca and beamed. “Mr. De Luca! Come, come, I will put you at your favorite table!” He grabbed two leather-bound menus and led us through the restaurant. It was packed, and as we traversed through the tables, we were stopped several times by different men standing up to shake De Luca’s hand and say a sentence or two in greeting. When we finally arrived at the table—a large four-top in the back corner—I sank into the seat in relief. Before I had a chance to open my menu, a tuxedo-clad waiter appeared.
“Mr. De Luca, how are you?”
“Very good, Mimmo.”
“The usual?”
“Yes, please.”
Mimmo turned and disappeared. I glanced at De Luca over the menu.
“Is he going to ask me what I want to drink?”
“No. Is wine acceptable?”
My headache raised both its hands and waved them around. “I’d prefer just water.”
He nodded without responding. He ignored the menu and leaned forward on the table, crossing his arms and gazing at me. His biceps stretched the sleeves of his dress shirt and I raised the menu a bit higher, hiding behind it.
“How are you enjoying the internship?”
I lowered the menu slightly and spoke over it. “It’s been quite informative. I feel like I’m learning a lot and getting a great base that I’ll be able to build a strong legal education around.”
He reached over and gently pushed the menu down so that he could look at me. “Is that what you have prepared as your interview spiel?”
I colored slightly. “Maybe.”
“Come on. I’m not going to go running to Broward. How is it really going?”
I sighed, not knowing how honest to be. Hell, the man practically kidnapped you—you can probably be frank. His eyes were compassionate and gentle, and I didn’t see any blood dripping from his teeth.
“It sucks,” I admitted. “Broward works these ridiculous hours, and I am nothing more than a glorified secretary. My duties consist of typing and filing, with an occasional coffee run thrown in. Other than the prestige of the firm’s name, I am adding nothing to my résumé. The only thing I have figured out is that I don’t want to do corporate law. The other interns all seem to be learning and doing so much more—Todd has been to court with you, for heaven’s sake! I am just trying to get through these next couple of months and then spend the next three weeks sleeping.”
His brow arched and he gave me a conspiring look. “I’m sure you’ve been doing something other than sleeping in your time off.”
I didn’t respond. Where the hell is that coming from?
He leaned back as our waiter brought two empty glasses and then filled them from a chilled Voss water bottle. “I know that Kent can be a hard-ass, but keep your morale up. You will learn something, even if it’s how to bill ridiculously long hours. If you want to see how the other half lives, you can always spend a day in either my or Clarke’s office. We normally sub the interns around a bit—let them see the other disciplines.” The waiter held out a bottle of wine for his inspection, and De Luca looked at it and nodded.
“I don’t think I’ll be spending much time in the other wings. Mr. Broward seems pretty intent on keeping me in our office.”
His eyes narrowed. “In your office or out of mine?”
I shifted uncomfortably, my body language no doubt answering the question before my lips even opened. “More likely the second.”
He waved away the offer to taste the wine and the waiter took the hint, hurriedly pouring two glasses and then scurrying away.
“I recall you making a stripper comment earlier. I’m not sure what you have been told about me, but I’m not nearly as bad as they make me out to be.” His deliciously deep voice carried a little bit of ego.
I’m sure you are exactly as bad as they make you out to be.
“Okay then, let’s verify some of the rumors.”
The challenge stood on the table between us.
De Luca took a swig of wine, his eyes never leaving mine, and then set it down firmly and nodded at me. Bring it on.
I started to open my mouth to speak, and he raised a hand, stopping me. “Wait. Before I agree, let’s make a deal. For every...rumor...you bring up, I get to ask you one question.”
I nodded in response. Throwing caution to the wind, I grabbed the second glass of wine and took a sip. I had a feeling I’d need it.
Our duel was postponed again by the overattentive waiter. “Are we ready to order, Mr. De Luca?”
“Sure, Mimmo. I’ll have my usual. Julia?”
I had barely looked at the menu, but went with my initial thought. “Porterhouse, please. Medium rare.”
Mimmo raised a brow but did not comment on my choice. “Would you care for a salad?”
“No. Baked potato, please. Just butter.”
“Certainly.” He did a little bow and departed.
De Luca looked back at me.
Okay, let’s go. “Have you ever slept with an intern?”
“Yes.” The answer was said matter-of-factly, without shame or pride. As if he had answered another question entirely.
“Details?”
“I’ll save that for a second date.”
“We aren’t having a second...date.”
“We’ll see. My turn. Why did you choose CDB for your internship?”
“It’s the best. I have no desire to settle for second best.”
“Have you been with the best in the past?”
“I’ve never had a job before.”
“That’s not what