Owning Beauty (Taking Beauty Trilogy 3)

Indeed, she was—and a very nice pair. They did marvelous things for her figure, hugging her hips and her slim thighs. Her blouse was rather nice too, not too dressy but not a t-shirt either, and she had her makeup and hair done, those pretty eyes of hers rimmed with winged liner that made them look even wider than they were. Her hair was pulled back from her face, the silken waves of it styled into a beautiful and complex fishtail braid.

“So am I,” I assured her, glancing down at my rather informal attire. “I don’t think that they’re going to mind.”

She looked unconvinced as she glanced through the windows at the front of the restaurant. “I’m so embarrassed. If I’d known, I would’ve…” She trailed off there, leaving me to wonder where that sentence could have gone. She’d have what? Dressed up for the occasion? Oh, the thought of those sweet curves in a dress made my knees weak. I almost missed it when she asked, “What if they don’t let us in?”

“Perish the thought. We’ve got a reservation,” I told her, taking her by the hand and gently leading her into the restaurant. “Just let me do all the talking.”

The moment we entered, I had to suppress a gag. Playing over the speakers was the exact same music you hear whenever an establishing shot of Paris shows up in a god-awful rom-com, along with a montage of mimes and the Eiffel tower. I almost wanted to walk back out and find somewhere a little more down-to-Earth.

“Pardonne-moi, m’sieur, but we have a strict—” the maître d’ began.

I shoved a hundred-dollar bill into his hand with a smile. “Bastille,” I said, ignoring whatever indignant noise that was coming from beneath that moustache of his. “Party of two.”

I could have sworn that that poor bastard was going to try to argue with me—right up until a manager rushed out and pushed him aside.

“Right this way, Mr. Bastille,” the much portlier man said, waving us toward a corner booth that seemed perfectly secluded—or what passed for secluded, in a place like this. He leaned into me a little closer than I’d have liked and added, conspiratorially, “My daughter is a huge fan.”

“Is she?” I beamed at him, hoping my enthusiasm would dissuade any further closeness. “That’s brilliant! Does she want an autograph?”

“That would be wonderful, Mr. Bastille,” the manager said, practically falling over himself to get us seated. “Please, have a seat and I’ll have a waiter with you in just a moment. And I’ll get you something to sign…”

“Take your time,” I said, smiling as he tottered off.

Elizabeth, however, didn’t seem nearly as pleased as I would have thought she’d be. As she sat down in the booth, she began chewing on her lip, her brows furrowed in a way that created cute little divots above her nosebridge.

“Something wrong, love?” I asked, as I sat down opposite her. I quickly ran back through everything I’d done since we came here, and for the life of me, I couldn’t pick out a single thing that might be considered wrong. Well, except for the faux-pas on the dress code.

“I don’t…” She heaved a frustrated sigh and then forced a smile, shrugging as she looked around. “I don’t know. I guess I’m just not used to being treated like this.”

“Like what?” I asked, following her gaze as it roamed. I thought women liked places like this. Then again, my knowledge of legitimate dates involved less of my own experience, more of secondhand teachings. Either I’d heard stories from some of my mates, or I’d seen on TV that this was supposed to be how it goes. But maybe something had gotten a bit lost in translation along the way.

“Fancy restaurants? Cars picking me up?” She shook her head. “It’s just not how people do things here. Or at least, it’s not something that’s ever been done for me.”

“I’m not trying to show off. I just thought we could get a bit more privacy here so we could talk. You didn’t ask to get tangled up in this mess, and I want to make things right.”

“It’s not just your fault,” she said quietly. “It takes two to tango…”

After the waiter came by with water and to take our drink orders I said softly to her, “Do you remember anything about that night? Anything at all?”

She gave another little shrug and ran a finger around the rim of her water glass. “I remember a few things…”

I cocked a brow at her. “How much?”

Elizabeth looked at me then. God, were her eyes striking. “Enough to know that I wanted to make the biggest mistake of my life…”

Ducking my head sheepishly, I said, “Ah. Well at least there’s that.”

“Liz…” I started. Then I looked up at her with a wince. “Is ‘Liz’ all right, love? I know no ‘Lizzie,’ but…”

“Liz is fine,” she said, and even afforded me a little smile. “Go ahead. I’m listening.”

Carding my fingers through my hair, I collected myself and then continued. “I know I’m not the kind of man you’d have chosen for this, but we can make the best of this situation. I think you deserve that much from me.”

Liz considered me carefully. “So is that what dinner is all bout?” she asked, leaning back in her seat slightly, her gaze pensive. “Are you sti

ll trying to get me to go along with your manager’s little game?”

I sighed, rubbing my face in frustration.

“Tessa is a royal bitch, but like it or not, this is something that needs to be handled so neither of us get thrown under the bus. We can’t change the circumstances that brought us here. I know you’ve seen the tabloids and the news. They think you’re some kind of gold-digger who tricked me into marriage. They don’t think I’m the kind of guy who settles down without some fucked up ulterior motive.”

“And they think you’re some filthy British rockstar who knocked up a slutty bimbo,” she replied coldly. “Is it so hard to believe maybe I just wanted to let loose for once in my life? You were supposed to stay in Las Vegas damnit! Isn’t that how it works?”

She flattened her lips into a thin line and bowed her head, blinking rapidly. I grabbed her hand and gave it a little squeeze. That’s when the lyrics to one of my songs came to mind.

“I confess, I’m a mess

Saying ‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t clean it up

You’re like chess in a dress—

I don’t know the moves, and I’m completely fucked…”

Liz laughed a little as I quietly sang, looking up at me through her lashes. I grinned and took her other hand in mine as well. Her laugh was the perfect complement to my song.

“Everything’s gonna be all right. You’ll see. We’ll make this work.”

“And you think it’s going to be that easy? Just play nice and everything is lollipops and gumdrops?” she asked.

“I’m running up a tab, hoping and dreaming

You’ll burn just like whiskey when you finally ask me,

‘Why don’t you just drop dead?’ ”

It was one of the songs that Tessa had convinced me to write way back when. She’d wanted pathos and heartache, the story of a man pining after a relationship gone wrong.

“What’s that one called?” she asked, and now her voice sounded just a little steadier than it had before.