A Cowboy in Manhattan (15 page)

“You clean up good, too,” she teased, impressed as always by his athletic physique beneath the cut of his suit.

He was freshly shaved. His hair was neat, his shirt perfectly pressed, and his tie was in a smooth knot. He’d even forgone cowboy boots for a pair of polished loafers.

“What’s your favorite restaurant?” he asked her, stepping back in the hallway to make room for her to exit her apartment.

“Did you make a reservation?” As far as she was concerned, there was no need to change his plans.

“Danielle suggested Flavian’s.”

“Who’s Danielle?” Katrina fought a spurt of jealousy at the mention of another woman’s name.

“Caleb’s lawyer.”

“She lives in New York?”

“Chicago.”

Katrina was confused. “And you called her for a restaurant recommendation?”

“It’s a long story.”

Katrina waited, but he didn’t elaborate.

“Flavian’s is fine,” she told him. “The ballet company goes there a lot. They have a nice deck.”

She pushed down her curiosity and told herself to quit being jealous. Danielle was likely just a friend, a business acquaintance at that. In fact, it sounded as if she was a business acquaintance of Caleb’s rather than Reed’s. Which didn’t explain why Reed would call all the way to Chicago for a restaurant recommendation.

“Will you be warm enough if we eat outside?” he asked, gazing critically at the little dress.

Katrina determinedly put Danielle from her mind. She reached for the black wrap she’d hung on a hook near the door and draped it over her shoulders, tucking her small clutch purse under her arm.

“They have outdoor heaters on the deck,” she told him. Then she stepped into the hallway and pulled the apartment door closed behind her.

He lifted the door key from her hand and secured the dead bolt for her. “You do know there’s something fundamentally wrong with the dress code.”

“What dress code?” As far as she knew, Flavian’s didn’t have a dress code.

“New York City’s dress code.”

She raised her brows in a question.

He pressed the key into her palm then held out his arm. “You’re going to freeze, and I’m going to swelter.”

She replaced the key in her purse and tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow as they started toward the elevator. “That’s so you can be a gentleman at the end of the date and let me wear your jacket.”

“You think this is a date?” he asked. There was a level of unease in his voice.

“What else would you call it?”

He came to a halt at the elevator and pressed the call button. It pinged in response, and the mechanism whirred behind the closed door.

Reed peered down at her, his gray eyes narrowing for a moment before he finally spoke. “I didn’t come to New York to sleep with you, Katrina.”

She held the gaze for a long moment, working up her courage. “Well, that’s disappointing.”

He sucked in a breath. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“I think of you like that,” she dared.

“Katrina,” he warned on a growl.

“What? It’s not like you can take my virginity a second time.”

“My brother is marrying your sister,” he repeated for what was probably the third time. “We’re going to be in each other’s lives from here on in. I wouldn’t feel right about having a fling.”

“As opposed to having a one-night stand?”

He didn’t seem to have an answer for that, and the elevator doors slid open to reveal a distinguished-looking sixtysomething couple whom Katrina vaguely recognized.

“Good evening,” Reed offered smoothly, gesturing for Katrina to enter first.

“Evening.” The couple nodded in response.

Katrina moved into the elevator, turned and stood next to Reed. The doors closed, and the car descended.

When the doors reopened, they crossed the compact lobby and went out through the glass exit door, where a massive, white stretch Hummer limousine waited at the curb.

There was a trace of laughter in his voice. “Your ride, princess.”

She stopped short, taking in the polished luxury vehicle from hood to trunk. “That’s a lot of money to shell out just to mock me.”

“You think I’m mocking you?”

“Absolutely.” Why else would he order such an expensive car? They were only going a few blocks, and he clearly wasn’t trying to seduce her.

“I’m not mocking you,” he insisted. “The owner is a friend of Salvatore’s. I guess he’s trying to treat me well.”

“Salvatore?” Reed knew someone in New York City?

He tugged pointedly at the sleeves of his suit jacket and squared his shoulders. “A tailor I met in Brooklyn this morning.” He turned slightly sideways to give her a view.

She took in the crisp outfit and straightened his already perfect tie, but it gave her an excuse to touch him. “You went all the way to Brooklyn to buy a suit?”

The uniformed driver opened the door and stood back to wait for them.

“I did,” said Reed.

“You do know your hotel is mere blocks from Fifth Avenue?”

“I do know that.” He gestured to the open limo door.

She didn’t move. “And did you know Fifth Avenue is famous the world over for fine shopping?”

He raised a brow. “You don’t like my suit?”

“I like it just fine.”

“Then don’t be such a snob about Brooklyn. You going to get in or what?”

“I’ve got nothing against Brooklyn.”

“Good to know.” He moved past her to stand opposite the driver.

Katrina moved forward, accepting Reed’s hand and, sliding onto the limo seat, made room for him to join her.

The driver shut the door and the inside lights dimmed. Subtle violet floor lighting glowed beneath their feet while tiny white lights glowed in a scattered pattern across a black ceiling. A small wet bar was illuminated powder-blue.

“Is this how you normally travel?” Reed asked, a teasing note to his voice.

Katrina crossed her bare legs. “Beats a battered pickup truck covered in mud.”

“Anything beats a battered pickup truck covered in mud.”

She bumped her shoulder playfully against his arm. “Are you coming over to the dark side?”

“Maybe,” he allowed.

“That was quick.”

The limo pulled away from the curb, the lights of Fifty-Ninth Street changing the shadows inside.

“Champagne?” He leaned forward and retrieved a tiny bottle of champagne from a recessed ice bucket.

“Yes, please.” She gestured an amount with a small space between her index finger and thumb, deciding to relax and enjoy herself, even if Reed was going to keep his distance.

He pulled off the wire holder and neatly popped the cork, taking two delicate flutes from the polished wood rack above the counter.

She stopped him at an inch, wanting to save room for a glass of wine with dinner. And he poured the remainder of the bubbly, golden liquid into his own glass before discarding the bottle.

He raised his champagne in a toast. “To…?”

She let herself drink in his handsome features, her tone becoming reflexively husky. “To the finer things in life.”

He touched the rim of his glass to hers, his warm gaze melding with her own. “To keeping them in context.”

“What’s out of context?”

“I am.”

The stirrings of desire whirred through her limbs. As far as she was concerned, in this moment, he was in perfect context. “You worry too much.”

“No.” He shook his head slowly. “I worry exactly the right amount.”

She loved the way his mind worked, the practicality, the cool logic, his straightforward confidence. He wasn’t a maybe kind of guy.

“What are you worried about now?” she prompted.

“The dinner bill.”

She couldn’t help but grin at that. “We’re not splitting it?”

“As if,” he coughed out a laugh.

“So it is a date.”

His mouth twitched in a moment of uncertainty, and she laughed at him.

“Got you that time.” She took a sip.

“It doesn’t have to be a date for me to be a gentleman.”

Katrina decided to leave it alone. They both knew she’d scored a point.

“So, how do you like New York City?” she asked instead.

“I like it fine so far.” He took a drink of his own champagne.

“It’s a lot different from Colorado.”

“It’s cleaner.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Noisier.”

“True.”

“Quite tasty.” He took another drink.

“Don’t forget shiny.”

His glance went pointedly to her shimmering red dress, the glossy beads and the glimmering jewelry. “You people like to be noticed.”

She frowned. “Was that an insult?”

“Are you trying to tell me you don’t expect to be noticed in that dress?”

Only by him. But she couldn’t very well own up to that. “It’s ordinary for New York City,” she lied.

The car rolled to a halt in front of the brightly lit restaurant, and a doorman paced smartly across the sidewalk toward them.

“I’m not sure there’s anything ordinary about New York City,” Reed mused.

“An ordinary dress, in an ordinary city, for an ordinary evening,” she lied again.

The doorman opened the door of the limo.

Reed exited first and immediately turned to hold out his hand for her.

Katrina took the hand, turning in the seat, feet together, knees tight, rising gracefully, just as she’d been taught by the Liberty PR staff.

A flashbulb went off, and then another, and she glanced up to see a small crowd of people had gathered on the sidewalk. It was highly unlikely they realized who she was. The huge limo telegraphed a false sense of celebrity.

“Just an ordinary night?” Reed muttered in her ear as his arm slipped protectively around her waist.

“Smile and keep walking,” she mumbled back. “It’s the car, not us.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Though she’d been on a billboard or two in the past month, she wasn’t particularly recognizable, certainly not by the general public who might happen to be on the sidewalk outside a midtown restaurant. It was the fancy car, that was all.

Luckily, they were only steps from the glass entry doors. A second doorman swiftly ushered them inside to a compact, octagonal, high-ceilinged foyer where a maître d’ was positioned next to a set of oversize, oak interior doors.

“Reservation for Terrell,” Reed informed the maître d’.

“Of course, sir.” The man responded with professional deference, barely glancing at the small computer screen in front of him. “Would you care to dine inside or on the balcony tonight?”

Reed looked to Katrina. “Were you serious about the balcony?”

“Yes, please.” She nodded. She loved a warm evening, watching the bustle of the street below, feeling the breeze, hearing the sounds of the city.

“You’re not worried about reporters with long lenses?”

“Cute,” she drawled, giving him an eye-roll.

“I can put you behind a privacy screen,” the maître d’ put in without missing a beat.

“Not necessary—”

“Katrina?” The voice from behind her was recognizable as Elizabeth Jeril’s, the Artistic Director of Liberty Ballet Company.

Katrina turned to greet her boss, and was swept quickly into a light, expensively perfumed hug combined with two air kisses.

A former ballerina, Elizabeth was slightly taller than Katrina, dark haired with dark eyes and close to forty-five. Though she didn’t dance professionally anymore, she was still trim and athletic.

“We didn’t get a chance to talk after rehearsal today,” Elizabeth noted, pulling back. “But you looked fantastic. Did Dr. Smith check your ankle?”

“He did. It’s fine,” Katrina assured her. It had been sore immediately after the dancing, but the pain was nearly gone now.

Elizabeth’s gaze shifted to Reed, curiosity clear in her expression.

“Elizabeth Jeril,” Katrina obliged. “This is Reed Terrell. Reed is from Colorado.”

“A souvenir?” Elizabeth teased, grinning as she held out her long-fingered, red-tipped hand.

“It was either me or the tacky T-shirt,” Reed played along, taking Elizabeth’s hand gently in his larger one.

“I like him,” Elizabeth told Katrina, eyeing Reed up and down.

There wasn’t much about Reed a woman wouldn’t like, Katrina silently acknowledged. “Elizabeth is Liberty’s Artistic Director,” she finished the introduction.

“You do choreography?” Reed asked Elizabeth.

“Planning, logistics, business management. I get to worry about the money. What little we have of it.”

“I understand that’s a common problem with arts organizations,” Reed acknowledged.

Katrina wasn’t sure what Reed knew about arts organizations, but she was quickly distracted from the question as Brandon Summerfield arrived. He stopped next to Elizabeth and tucked his phone into his suit-jacket pocket.