Friends to Lovers (17 page)

Brushing his lips along the rim of her ear, Gib whispered, “You’re the only thing I see.” Then he walked away, into an open elevator that appeared as if he’d flicked a remote in his pocket.

Holy knee-wobbliness, Batman! Gib as a friend had kept her twisted up with longing for years. With his dating persona turned on, however, Gib blew her away. No wonder the man was a legendary lothario. He had the goods, and knew how to use them to melt a woman into a giant, satisfied smile.

“I’m all in,” she said to Ivy and Mira. “Do whatever it takes to turn me into a knockout for him.”

“Oh, Daphne,” sighed Mira as she took her arm, “it won’t take anything at all. Except for you to believe it.”

Chapter Ten

I’d rather have roses on my table than diamonds around my neck

~
Emma Goldman

Daphne hesitated for the third time on the threshold, hand on the doorknob. Then she looked down the hall from the front door. It was a straight shot to her bedroom. The blue border of her mother’s snowflake quilt draped over the bed was visible through the doorway. Nope. No way could she risk letting Gib into the apartment. Because the fact they had reservations didn’t matter. Neither did the half day she’d spent at the spa, followed by another hour at the salon.

One touch is all it would take. One oh-so-sexy raised eyebrow in invitation. Who was she kidding? It wouldn’t even take that much. Especially not after the heroic way he’d rushed to her defense earlier today. The moment Daphne opened the door, all her pent-up longing would take control of her limbs. Kind of like a poltergeist. A lust poltergeist. She’d rip his clothes off halfway down the hall. Maybe they wouldn’t even make it to the bedroom. Chances were good she’d straddle him on the floor, push up her skirt and go for it. Which absolutely, positively could not happen.

They’d had no trouble generating sparks each time they kissed. Tonight’s test wasn’t about physical attraction. She and Gib would have to see if they could build an emotional bridge across the yawning cavern of awkwardness between friendship and a relationship. Redefine their roles. Therefore the bridge had to be a no-nooky zone.

So Daphne shut the apartment door behind her. Buttoned her coat all the way to the top and tied her scarf in a knot. She carried her black patent leather pumps down the stairs. Pacing barefoot, Daphne waited until she saw a car double park and throw on its hazards. Time to go. Shoes on, she hurried outside. According to the WGN weather guy the thermometer hovered just above zero. The cold air took her breath away. Tamped down a bit of her white-hot need, too. The snow that wedged into her shoe? Total overkill.

“Daphne, what are you doing?” Gib stood, one hand on the passenger door of his sporty silver convertible, looking at her as if she’d lost her mind.

“Brutally cold tonight. Didn’t want you to bother getting out.” She slid into a soft leather seat. And moaned. They were heated. Did she even need sex with Gib after the bliss of a heated car seat? The answer came to her before the door shut. Two seconds of being that close to him flared her lust back to full flame.

“Damn it, Daphne, this is supposed to be a date. A first date. You have to let me treat you as such. That means I knock on your door, I pull out your chair and I help you off with your coat.” He sounded grumpy. Put out.

Attempting an air of solemnity to pacify him, she said, “Duly noted.”

“Are we bloody well doing this for real or aren’t we?”

She looked around at the inside of a car in which she’d never sat before. It was Gib’s dating Excalibur. He refused to use his car except when pursuing a woman. Never used it to bring home bags of groceries, or to drive to the movies when the thermometer dipped below freezing, or even to pick up friends from O’Hare on their rare visits. He swore he only used it on dates, and
only
when close to sealing the deal.

Just to be sure, she asked, “Is this a rental?”

“Of course not.” Gib smoothly manipulated the gear shift and they sped down the street. God. It had been ages since she’d been in a stick-shift car. Watching his big hands caress the padded knob made her press her legs together in anticipation. Far safer to look out the window. Most homes still had candles in the window left over from the holidays. A few bare-limbed trees sported strings of white lights.

“Then I guess we really are doing this, if you’re finally letting me in your famous bootymobile.”

He sighed, as if insulted. “She has a name. This is Moll Davis.”

Daphne bit back a giggle. He named his car. Did he name other, more intimate things? “Seriously? Wasn’t she one of the most famous mistresses in history?”

“Maybe not in all of history. Certainly in England’s history. Good old King Charles II warmed her sheets for years. Beneath her flashy exterior, that woman not-so-secretly held all the power in the land. Just like my baby here.” He stroked the steering wheel with both hands.

God, would he touch her like that? A bolt of desire shot through her. And was she actually jealous of a car? “I’m beginning to feel like I should get out and leave you two alone.”

He whisked his head sideways to smile at her. Quick and fast like a flashbulb going off, it blinded her with its brightness. “She’s game for a threesome.”

Gib excelled at sexual repartee. A few times she’d even been his wingman, and watched him toss it out with the ease of a fly fisherman casting in a deep river. Having it wholly focused on her, though, took her breath away. But Daphne reminded herself that tonight was her one shot. She needed to go for it. Commit one hundred and ten percent to the idea that she actually belonged next to the handsomest man in the city.

Laying her hand on top of his, she channeled her inner Marilyn Monroe and purred, “Maybe I want you all to myself.”

Once more, Gib turned to look at her. This time he flat-out stared, mouth slightly open, lips curling up. Then he swore and jerked the car to the right. He’d almost missed making the turn onto Michigan Avenue. “You’re right. We really are doing this. Daphne Lovell, welcome to your date. It is on.”

About time. “Like I said, the car alone made that clear. But as I understand your parameters of use, warming my seat on her cushions goes hand in hand with an expectation that you’ll be warming my seat tonight.”

“Generally, yes. If a woman gets in Moll Davis, she ends up in my bed. Simple as that.”

“Not so simple. We agreed tonight would be a test. To see if we can really morph from friends to—”

Gib cut her off. “Lovers?”

She bit her tongue. Counted to ten before answering so the word
yes
didn’t fall off her tongue. “No. There’s no question we could do that. The burning question is whether or not we should. If our friendship would survive. So we give dating a try tonight. But without any sex to complicate the equation.” Although she was hoping for more kisses. Whatever groping he could accomplish without removing any of her clothes. And knowing Gib, that could be quite a bit.

“I took calculus. I can handle complicated equations.”

“Be serious.”

Another, more labored sigh. “Of course I don’t expect you to fall into bed with me tonight. We’re starting a relationship, not a one-night stand. But you’re a beautiful woman. Which means I will flirt with you relentlessly. Take it as a compliment. And I’ll take your ban on the bedroom as a challenge.”

A challenge, huh? Daphne honestly couldn’t say who she wanted to win that one. Gib cut the engine as the valet opened Daphne’s door. A chill ran through her that had nothing to do with the icy wind whipping off the lake. This was it. The moment she’d dreamed of for years. Gib would be suave and charming and sexy. And hers.

With a hand at the small of her back, Gib ushered her forward. She stopped after two steps. Looked up. And up and up at the iconic black Xs that crisscrossed their way up one hundred floors. “We’re at the John Hancock Center?”

He pushed her back into motion. “Nothing but the best for you, and the Signature Room on the ninety-fifth floor has the best view in the city.”

Even though she’d lived in Chicago her whole life, Daphne had never been to the famous restaurant. Her mom promised they’d celebrate her high school graduation there. By the time it rolled around four years after her death, Daphne didn’t have the heart to remind her father. But she had told Gib the story in December, when they’d strolled past while Christmas shopping. It touched her deeply that he remembered. That he’d try to fix that unfulfilled promise.

While they waited for the elevator, Daphne unwound her scarf. Gib stopped her. “Let me.” He gathered it, hand over hand, oh so slowly. The periwinkle mohair tickled the back of her neck. She shivered. Gib stuffed the scarf in her pocket. Then he unbuttoned her full-length coat. As the elevator doors opened, she turned away to let him slide it off her shoulders. Daphne leaned against the rail at the back of the car, legs crossed at the ankle. Gib gaped.

As well he should. Sex might be currently off the table, but she still wanted him thinking about it the whole time. A black lace dress hugged tight to her curves. The sheer lining kept her decent, but barely. It gave the illusion of lots of bare skin. Aided by the plunging V-neck that hid almost nothing. Thanks to the patient ministrations of Adele and Wendy at the salon, her hair hung in loose curls over one shoulder.

Finally, he said, “I don’t know what to say. The elevator ride is only thirty-nine seconds long—”

“Thanks for the trivia.”

“—and I don’t think I could come up with the words to describe how beautiful you are if I had thirty-nine hours.”

Just that quickly, the lingering chill from outside vanished. His words warmed her from the inside out. Still, she tried to play it cool. So he wouldn’t realize she was ready to throw caution to the wind and do him between floors thirty and sixty. “And thanks for the compliment.”

He shrugged out of his coat. This time it was Daphne’s tongue that almost rolled out of her mouth. Gib wore suits like a uniform. They were also a particular obsession of his. So six out of every seven times she saw him, Gib wore a suit. But tonight, he’d kicked it up a notch.

The black wool had obviously been tailored specifically to draw attention to the breadth of his chest, the width of this shoulders, the long line of his legs. Even in her four-inch-high platform pumps, Gib still topped her by at least four inches. Black tie with some sort of matte shine to it. Contrasting white pocket square. Onyx-and-silver cuff links glinting at his wrists. He was the living embodiment of the word
debonair.

A high-pitched ping announced their arrival. Gib gestured for her to go ahead. Thanks to her day of pampering and primping, she already felt like Cinderella. Entering the restaurant was akin to entering the ball. The rows of tables were lined with snazzily dressed couples. Black-rimmed chargers popped against the white linens. But what really popped was the view. On three sides, the bright lights of skyscraper upon skyscraper reflected the grandeur of the city. Straight out sat the dark lake, like a black sheet beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.

“Good to see you as always, your lordship.” The maître d’ slid his hand into Gib’s, smooth as an eel. A waif of a girl whisked away both coats.

Gib held a finger up to his lips. “Frank, I told you to quit calling me that.”

“Ah, but the ladies like it. Am I right?” He nodded at Daphne with a smarmy grin.

“Not so much.” She knew that Gib never talked about his title. Or his family, or how he felt about being nobility. It didn’t matter to her if he was seventy-sixth in line to the throne of England or the illegitimate son of a...prostitute. Blood didn’t matter. Character did. Although if she did ever think about his title and baronial holdings or whatever they were, the only way it made her feel was nervous. And she was nervous enough tonight.

“Your usual table’s ready,
Mister
Moore.” A wink indicating Frank would humor Gib, just this once, with dropping his title. Pretentious jerk. “Best seat in the house.”

Daphne would’ve stuttered to a stop without Gib’s hand at her back, guiding her to the wall of windows. The usual table? Gib came here often enough to have a regular table? Had to be with his ever-changing stream of women. This wasn’t a business lunch type of restaurant. So he hadn’t remembered her mother’s promise. Hadn’t put special thought into choosing a restaurant that would have special meaning just for her. Daphne felt as though she’d just been dropped onto an assembly line. Would the entire date be formulaic?

Wait. Better talk herself off the corner of Crazy Street and Jealous Avenue. The Signature Room, no matter how often he came, was nevertheless one of the most romantic restaurants in the city. Gib ran through women the way a frat house ran through kegs of beer at homecoming. It’d be hard to find a restaurant in all of Chicagoland where he
hadn’t
taken another woman.

So she sat down without comment after he pulled out her chair. A stunning bouquet of a dozen roses caught her eye. One side of the petals were snow-white, and the other...well...rose-red. A quick glance confirmed that their table was the only one so decorated. “Fire and ice roses?” she murmured.

The right corner of his lips curved up. “A mere token in honor of your beauty. Despite the frost outside, I’m afire inside every time I look at you.”

Another twinge of disappointment. Sure, fire and ice roses were a step up from the unexceptional red. But his delivery sounded as well-rehearsed as a third-grade class reciting the pledge of allegiance. “That is one of the worst lines I’ve ever heard. In the summer, do you switch to circus roses? You know, the ones that are yellow like the sun on the outside?”

If she didn’t know Gib so well, Daphne would’ve missed the minuscule twitch in his eyelid. The same tell that gave him away whenever he tried to bluster his way through a fake word in Scrabble.

“No.” He captured her hand, stroking his thumb slowly over the side of her with a touch that raised a solid layer of goose bumps over her entire body. “Not everyone has your vast knowledge of flowers. Roses might not be original, but they are romantic. And I aim to romance you tonight.”

For every ten yards he lost, he managed to regain enough ground for her to grant another first down. Who was she kidding? If he kept touching her like that for another five minutes, she’d clamp one of the damn roses between her teeth and dance a strip-tease tango on the table for him. “Sorry. But come on, Gib, give me a little credit. I won’t fall for your lines. Don’t bother trying to snow me.”

“Fair enough.” A waiter set down a waist-high silver bucket on a footed stand. The ice in it crunched as he swirled the champagne bottle up and out. Then another flourish with a whisk of the napkin across the cork.