“I don’t know. I guess I haven’t spent enough time with millionaires. I didn’t think you would notice the-the—”
I chuckled to myself while she searched for the word.
“Details?” I offered.
“Yes. Exactly. The little things.”
“You see, Miss Paige, I always notice the details. It’s what makes me so successful, I believe.”
“That’s your big secret to success?”
I laughed. “You could say that. And never give the competition any ammunition. Two rules I always live by.”
“I think you forgot one.”
“What’s that?”
“Stay away from the press,” she added.
I winked. I liked her sense of humor.
“I thought that was a given.”
She lowered her eyes to the menu. “What do you recommend here?” She had placed her napkin across her lap, cover
ing her knees.
“Why don’t we try one of the specials? I think the filet sounds tempting.” It was how I always judged a chef. The specials would be this man’s signature.
“All right.” Her eyes scanned the page. She leaned closer and whispered, “but where are the prices?”
I spoke low. “There aren’t any. Order whatever you like.”
I dated different of types of women. Some came from families with money. Not my kind of money. The kind that was so much a part of their genetic code I knew they bled green. Those women were hard to please. Then there were they type who knew what was in my bank account and couldn’t wait to add it to theirs. They were easy to please, but I knew their game. They liked restaurants like this one.
And now I faced a woman like Sydney. She didn’t fit into either category. She didn’t seem to care about the money. If I was honest, I thought it made her a little uncomfortable. I looked around the restaurant. Everyone talked in hushed tones. There was candlelight. The waiters wore gloves.
The matitre d’ was planted near the mahogany pillar, stealing glances at us. Anxious for me to approve of the wine and the menu.
Sydney’s brows were almost knitted together in concentration.
“What do you say we get out of here?” I pushed back from my chair. Suddenly, I realized this didn’t fit into my definition of fun. Not with her.
“But we haven’t even ordered,” she protested.
I stood next to her, offering my hand. “Come on. I’ve got an idea.”
I could tell she was trying to hide a smile, but her eyes gave her away. “Ok. Where are we going?”
I tucked her hand in mine and led her through the restaurant. “I spotted a place I think you’ll like.”
She paused. “This is your dinner, though.”
“And I want to take you somewhere else.” My voice was firm.
“Mr. Lachlan, is something wrong?” The matitre d’ met us at the door.
“No, something has come up.”