For 100 Nights (100 2)

“Nonstop meetings,” he says, navigating out to the boulevard with an easy command of both the vehicle and the hectic traffic that surrounds us. “I was just out of the last of them when you called to say you were home. How was the first day back at the easel?”

“It was good. Actually, it was great.” When he glances my way, I can’t resist telling him about my new piece. “I’m trying something different. Playing with colors and abstracts. Seeing where my brush takes me.”

He nods, studying me for a moment. “Sounds interesting.”

“It was. I can’t explain it. The whole thing just kind of . . . poured out of me today. I finished the piece in a matter of hours. That’s never happened before.”

He grunts, his brows lifting as he watches the sea of illuminated tail lights at the intersection ahead of us. “You must’ve been inspired.”

“I was.” I slide my hand over to his thigh, reveling in the bunch and flex of his muscles as he brings the car to a stop at the traffic light. “You inspire me, Nick.”

I see something flicker in his gaze as he stares out the windshield, but I’m not sure what to call it. There and gone in an instant, when he turns his head to look at me, all I see is hunger. His hand goes around the back of my neck and he pulls me close, capturing my lips in a deep, sensual kiss.

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When the light changes, he punches the gas and we prowl past the taxis and other vehicles to the next corner. We turn left, heading down a couple of blocks before Nick slows to a stop in front of a tall, brown-brick and limestone trimmed building that’s nestled within a street full of similar looking ones. Some are clearly office space, others appear to be multi-use buildings with retail shops and everything in between.

There is no signage on the one we’ve parked in front of, and only a few windows glow with light from inside, most of it coming from the top floor five stories up.

“I thought we were going to dinner?”

“We are.” Nick’s cryptic response only confuses me more as he gets out of the car and comes around to open my door. “Trust, Ms. Ross. Remember?”

Smiling, and so curious I’m about to burst, I take his hand and walk with him to the building’s front door. It’s locked, but he has the key in his jacket pocket.

“After you.”

I step inside the dimly lit vestibule, surprised to see pretty Art Deco tile on the floors and polished dark wood millwork on the walls. There’s an elevator immediately to our right. Nick pushes the call button and I watch the dial above the brass doors count down as the car descends to meet us.

“Is the restaurant on another floor or something?”

Nick doesn’t answer me, just guides me into the elevator, then presses the number five. As we climb the short distance up, I finally catch a whiff of something delicious cooking. Garlic and grill smoke and fresh-baked bread, along with a host of fragrant spices I can’t even begin to name. My mouth is watering as the doors open and Nick and I step out of the lift.

But there is no restaurant waiting here.

Just a single table in the center of a spacious loft with soaring beam ceilings and beautiful exposed brick walls. Candlelight glows softly from tall candelabras set up around the room, and from the fat pillar candle in the center of the table, which is cloaked in a white linen tablecloth with a diaphanous length of red silk draped across its center. A silver bucket of ice sits on a pedestal beside the table, a black-labeled bottle of Krug champagne chilling in the cubes.

I turn to Nick in question.

“I’m considering buying the property,” he says, urging me forward. “I wanted to get an inside feel for it first. I wanted your opinion too.”

My brows rise. “Do you evaluate all of your prospective properties with champagne and romantic candlelight dinner for two?”

“No. Just this one.” A small grin quirks the edge of his lips as he takes off his suit jacket and nods toward the waiting table. “Come on, have a seat. We’re celebrating.”

He no sooner says it than a pair of waiters emerge from a doorway and enter the room with us. They’re dressed in tuxedos and white gloves, their service both efficient and impeccable as they see to our comfort at the table, then proceed to serve us the champagne and a basket of warm French bread.

A plate of oysters arrives a moment later, carried in by a third server.

I’m gaping and there’s nothing I can do about it. “How did you arrange all of this?”

Nick smiles and tips his flute toward mine. “I have my ways.”

“You certainly do.” I laugh as our glasses meet with a soft clink. “What are we celebrating tonight?”

“The rec center approvals came in today.”

“Nick, that’s wonderful!”