“Right. And mood?”
“Mood is the easiest one to judge. It’s—”
Susannah clamped her mouth shut. How stupid not to have thought of revising the list once Romano had invited himself along.
“Mood,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant, “mood is, ah, whether a dinner here would put a couple in the mood for, ah, for… You know.”
Of course he knew. But he liked the fact that she was squirming under his gaze. Her cheeks were turning pink. Her throat, too. She was wearing a sweater with a vee neckline and he wondered, idly, just how far down her body that soft glow of color would stretch.
So he smiled pleasantly, linked his hands on the table and gave her a look that would have done a choirboy proud.
“No,” he said blithely, “I don’t. The mood for what?”
Was he dense? Or was he playing games at her expense? Either way, Susannah wasn’t going to prolong the agony.
“Sex,” she hissed, just as the waitress arrived to take their orders.
“I can come back later,” she said, and winked.
Susannah turned a shade of crimson Matthew had never believed possible.
“We’ll order now,” she said.
And they did.
* * *
They drove back to her apartment in silence
“A one for ambience,” Matthew said.
Susannah nodded. “And for decor.”
Matthew agreed. “The food was good, though,” he said.
He figured it was good, anyway, considering the platters that had kept coming from the busy kitchen. But he’d been busy, too, watching Susannah delicately lift a rib to her mouth, nibble at it with even white teeth, then run the tip of her soft pink tongue around her lips, so busy that he’d hardly managed to choke down a bite.
“Yes,” Susannah said, “it was.”
It must have been. The couple at the next table had devoured a stack of ribs and a platter of chicken. She’d forced herself to eat one rib, but it hadn’t been easy, watching Matthew lift a chicken leg to his mouth, watching his white teeth sink into the soft flesh.
“Five hearts for food,” she said briskly, and scribbled in her notebook. “And the list of wine and beer was pretty thorough.”
Matthew pulled his rented Porsche to the curb in front of her apartment building.
“That ale,” he said, “the one from that microbrewery? It was excellent.”
“Good.” She made another note. Then she undid her seatbelt, gave him a quick smile and reached for the door.
“I’ll see you up.”
“No! No, it isn’t nec—”
But Matthew was already out of the car, opening her door and waiting for her to step out.
“This really isn’t necessary,” she said politely, as she stepped onto the sidewalk. “I’m perfectly capable of finding my own way upstairs.”
“I’m sure you are.” Matthew took her arm. “I know it’s probably politically incorrect, but I don’t believe in letting a woman go upstairs alone at night.”
“Such an antiquated, machismo thing,” Susannah said, beaming at him as they quick-marched through the lobby. “I’m sure your dates must be terribly impressed.”
“My DBs,” he said, beaming right back at her as the elevator doors opened. “Isn’t that what you meant to say?”
She lifted her chin. “If the shoe fits,” she said, tossing her head.
They stood locked in silence until the doors opened. Then they walked to the door of her apartment.
“Key,” Matthew said, holding out his hand.
Arguing, she suspected, would be useless. She dug in her purse, took out her keys, slapped them into his palm with all the delicacy of an operating room nurse handing over a scalpel. He put the key in the lock, turned it, opened the door an inch and handed the key to her.
“Good night, Susannah.”
“Good night, Mr. Romano.”
His teeth glittered in an icy smile.
“Try calling me Matthew. It’s much more appropriate, considering the shock you gave our waitress tonight.”
“Matthew,” Susannah said, willing herself not to blush at the memory. “Thank you for a completely unnecessary evening.”
He couldn’t help it, that made him laugh. Even her lips twitched ever so slightly.
“You’re welcome.” He turned, took a couple of steps, then swung back and looked at her. “Your checklist,” he said.
Susannah arched a brow. “What about it?”
“We did numbers one through four. We never got to number five.”
She shrugged. “Mood? The answer’s obvious, I think.”
Matthew nodded. “It is,” he said, and walked slowly toward her.
Susannah saw the look on his face. Her heart began to gallop.
“There can’t be any debate about it,” she said, far more calmly than she felt. “Aunt Sally’s gets a broken heart for mood.”
His mouth tilted in a smile that made her take a step back.
“I agree. If a man and woman were hoping for a place to put them in the mood for sex, Aunt Sally’s would never score.”
“Matthew,” Susannah said uneasily.
“Susannah,” he said, and reached for her, and she went straight into his arms. They closed around her. She moaned, rose on her toes, linked her hands behind his head and sought his mouth. His teeth sank gently into her bottom lip. Her tongue caressed his. His hands swooped under her jacket, under her sweater, and cupped her breasts.
And, just when she thought her knees were going to buckle, he let her go.
“Tomorrow night,” he said calmly. “Same time.”
Susannah nodded. “Of course,” she said, just as calmly.
She went into her apartment, shut the door, leaned against it and told herself that only an idiot would slide to the floor.
In the elevator, heading to the lobby, Matthew had a very similar conversation with himself.
* * *
The Gilded Carousel was supposed to be elegant.
Posh, the recommendations had said.
Do I look posh? Susannah wondered the next evening as she looked in the mirror.
She’d borrowed a calf-length beaded dress from a photo shoot. It was midnight blue shot with silver sequins and had a scooped neckline and long sleeves. She’d borrowed a pair of high heels, too. There hadn’t been much choice, really. She had nothing even close to posh in her wardrobe, and she certainly wasn’t going to go out and spend a small fortune on a dress she’d never use again.
A smile touched her mouth.
She wasn’t sure about looking posh—whatever that meant—but she did look…
Pretty.
It wasn’t a word she used very much, especially about herself. Her looks were fine. She didn’t agonize over the fact that her hair curled too much on humid days, or that her mouth was just a bit too large, or that her skin tended to freckle if she spent too much time in the sun, and she was eternally grateful that she had thick, dark lashes, because that meant one less bit of makeup to have to bother using when she was in a rush.
Not that she’d dressed in a rush tonight. She’d taken a long bath instead of a shower, in a tub scented with lily of the valley bath oil. She’d brushed her hair dry so the curls were glossy. She’d splurged on lacy underwear because the dress called for it, certainly not for any other reason.
And the result was that she looked pretty.
Would Matthew notice?
Not that she wanted him to. It was only that a romantic evening—a real one, which this, surely, was not—would involve a man complimenting a woman on how she looked, wouldn’t it?
Susannah stared at her reflection. A romantic evening, she thought.
The doorbell rang.