Rare and Precious Things (The Blackstone Affair 4)

I kicked him in the foot under the table. “Jackass.”

“Only kidding,” he grunted. “I’m just grateful that you’re able to finally eat. I was concerned about you wasting away before, so now it’s just one less thing worrying me.”

I blew him an air kiss. “Number one, you wore me out earlier today, and number two, I think my body is making up for lost time when I couldn’t keep much down. If I allow myself to get over-hungry, then you’ll find you have one very cranky gorgon of a wife on your hands.” I made a face. “Trust me, you don’t want that to happen.”

The ziti did agree with me, but mostly it was the fact I could now eat and not feel ill afterward. Our baby was definitely making his or her presence known despite being so tiny, and food is what was required to make everything work.

He put down his knife and fork and feasted his eyes on me. “Well, first, I loved wearing you out earlier today, and second, I love seeing you enjoying your food again. I’m not stupid. When my girl says she needs to eat, then she damn well better eat.” He topped his wine glass off. “And third, you’re one hell of a beautiful gorgon, even when you’re scaring the crap out of me.”

“Am I that scary now, Ethan? You can be honest.” I know some of my emotional highs and lows freaked him out, but pregnancy was hard on me too, and I did worry about the change in me. I couldn’t control any of it, and yet, I didn’t want to be the crazy hormonal wife that made him long for the good ole bachelor days either.

“Nev

er.” He picked up my free hand and kissed the palm, his eyes smiling up at me lovingly. “What would be really scary is not being with my beautiful gorgon and our little peach.”

“I love you.” I managed to say the words without getting teary, but it wouldn’t take much. Ethan could pull emotion out of me by just looking at me.

“I love you more,” he said softly, reaching for his wine and taking a healthy swig. “And I think that was evidenced by the fact I let you drive us here tonight.” He emptied the rest of his glass in one drink. “I’m still leveling down from the white-knuckle ride.”

“Are you trying to wind me up, as you Brits say, by all the comments and flaunting the wine because you know I can’t have it?”

He opened his mouth in surprise first and then turned it into a million dollar smile to dazzle me. “You think I’m winding you up on purpose, baby?”

I didn’t say anything, just sat back in my seat and studied him thoroughly; the casual blue shirt highlighting his eyes, the simple linen slacks that suggested the powerful legs beneath, his Rolex and his wedding ring, the only adornments he wore. Ethan didn’t need adornments because his face and body were more than sufficient. Such a beautiful man was my husband. I wasn’t stupid enough to believe this very remarkable trait wouldn’t cause me much concern over the course of our lives together. Other women would try to catch him and it would drive me insane when they tried.

“I’ve discovered that I love to tease you,” he offered finally. The way in which he raked his eyes over my body told me the reaction he got out of me turned him on a little.

“What does it do for you?” I asked in a whisper, my body tightening in preparation for what he might say.

“It makes me hard when your eyes start flashing and you get feisty with me.” His eyes flared at me and his voice went low. “I can think of only one thing, Brynne.” He reached out with his fingertip and brushed down the length of my ring finger, sending a tingle up my arm. “Do you want to know what it is?”

“Yes…”

“How long before we’re fucking again and I’ve got you spread underneath me about to come.”

Okay, so it turned him on a lot.

I closed my eyes and suppressed the shiver of desire that zipped through my body to pool between my legs. The Italian crystal glass of water in front of me was drained in one pass, and I no longer cared a bit about having any dessert after my dinner.

Why on earth did I agree to go out tonight?

I cleared my throat and tried to shake off the blast furnace of heat Ethan was throwing off, and attempted to get back to the conversation we were in before. “So, you were alluding to my driving a minute ago…”

He picked up my hand and rubbed with his thumb over my knuckles, his eyes telling me he would make good on his wicked thoughts just as soon as we could get back to the villa. “Yes, my beauty?”

“I—I wasn’t that bad driving.” I tilted my head. “Was I?” Ethan had indulged my request to drive us again. We were in Italy where they drove on the right side of the road, and I had enough confidence to do it here. My California driver’s license was still valid and I didn’t want to forget how to. In the four years since I’d lived in London I’d not owned a car or driven myself, mostly because of the left-handed driving situation. It was just too scary for me to attempt, and really, not necessary when public transportation was so good in the city. I’d never needed to drive in England. Plus we had a smokin’ hot BMW 650 convertible rental in midnight-blue…and I planned on using it.

“Well, no, you’re never bad at anything…” he hedged, “it’s just that driving on the right is not even slightly in my comfort zone. And I certainly don’t want you getting hurt. I’d feel much more at ease with you in a bigger vehicle with better safety features.”

“I don’t think I will ever drive in the city. Seriously, I don’t think I could ever be comfortable driving myself in London even if I live there for the rest of my life.”

He smiled thoughtfully at me, the blue of his eyes darkening to a deep midnight. “You’ll be living with me for the rest of your life, wherever that is doesn’t matter very much as long as we’re together. And you don’t have to worry about driving around London either, because it is a bloody nightmare, and I don’t want you doing it. You’ve got me to drive you.” He brought my hand up to his lips and pressed another seductive kiss to my palm. “You do know…if you want to drive, I can make that happen—”

The waiter who’d served our dinner interrupted right then with a gift from a patron at another table. A bottle of wine—a very expensive bottle of Biondi Santi, that I, sadly, would not be able to drink for a very long time. We both looked in the direction where he pointed us to a man who looked vaguely familiar to me. Tall, caramel-skinned, and very handsome, he moved with the elegance of someone who used their body as an athlete would, every movement calculated for precision, the unmistakable air of confidence exuded in every step he took toward our table.

“Well, hello to you, too,” Ethan greeted him, gesturing to the bottle, “and thank you for this. Very nicely done.” The two of them shook hands warmly.

“My pleasure,” he answered in a sophisticated British accent laced with amusement.