Burn My Hart (The Notorious Harts 2)

‘I’ll bet you do.’ I cross one leg over the other and feel his eyes shift to me, to my legs, and my heart rate accelerates.

‘Eyes forward, mister.’

He grins, his gaze meeting mine for just long enough to create sparks in the car and then he’s looking forward again, driving effortlessly through the streets of Manhattan—something I have only attempted when absolutely necessary. I’m a good driver but these streets are such a rat race and I’d rather use my car time to get work done.

Still, there’s something incredibly sexy about the way he controls the car and navigates traffic, and I find myself watching him with growing curiosity.

After about ten minutes, he pulls up at traffic lights and keeps his head forward. ‘If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to pull this car over and drag you into whatever bush I can find.’

Despite the sexy imagery, I keep my response light. ‘I’m afraid there aren’t a lot of shrubs around.’

‘The sidewalk would do just fine.’

I laugh. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Then stop staring at me like you want to rip my clothes off.’

‘How do you know how I’m looking at you? You’re concentrating on the road, remember?’

‘Something that’s increasingly difficult to do,’ he mutters, but when he briefly flicks his gaze to me I see the hint of a grin on his lips. My chest tightens.

Silence falls, the lights change and he drives on.

‘What time did you leave last night?’

‘This morning,’ he corrects. ‘Around three.’

‘So late?’

He makes a throaty noise of assent then turns to look at me. ‘You were fast asleep. I didn’t want to wake you.’

‘You didn’t.’

‘I’m glad.’ He reaches over and briefly puts his hand on my knee. I swallow to bring moisture back to a suddenly dry mouth.

He pulls us into a narrow lane, parking the car halfway up the kerb. I step out and look around. It’s dark. He reaches for my hand and pulls me with him, to the end of the lane and around the corner. The restaurant isn’t anything like I’d expected—small, intimate, glowing golden in the early evening with a bright orange awning stretching over the footpath. As we approach, the door pulls inwards and a waitress dressed in linen dungarees and a white singlet top grins at us.

‘Table for two?’

Theo puts a hand around my waist. ‘Yeah. A booth.’

She spins and cuts through the room. ‘This way.’

It’s smoky inside, a gift from the tables that are each fitted with a barbecue grill. It’s busy enough to create the kind of din that fades into white noise.

The restaurant itself is rustic and intimate and somehow beautifully authentic.

‘Do you come here often?’ I look around, taking in the silk wall hangings, covered in brush strokes.

‘From time to time.’

I curve one leg under me, propping my elbows on the table.

‘You bring dates here?’ I suggest, looking around once more. ‘That would make sense.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s intimate but out of the way. You’re not likely to run into anyone you know. There’s no press pack waiting outside.’