CHAPTER 6

Beside her, Darius filled the car with his overwhelmingly male presence. When he was near, it felt to Nathalie as though everything and everyone else was eclipsed. Case in point: Despite her intention to be happy with her life the way it was—just her and Zion—she was heading out on a date with a man she barely knew and still wasn’t at all sure she could trust. As Darius headed up Sunnyvale Road, out to the freeway, he said,




“I hope you like Italian Foods. I know a great place in Woodside, not far from here.”




“It sounds lovely.” Though her job was talking and bringing people together, she felt horribly tongue-tied. What was so different about Darius that simply sitting next to him made her heat up all over and her brain go blank?




“Why recruiting?” he asked into the silence after he’d merged into the freeway traffic.

Glad that at least one of them was able to think straight enough to start a conversation, she said,




“I’ve always liked connecting people and helping them find a career that’s just the right fit. Plus, it’s a fairly flexible job, so I can work from home or arrange meetings around Zion as I need to.”




They exited at Woodside and headed west. The roads were winding and two-lane here. The town was small and quaint, surrounded by horse farms and large estates. They passed a small vineyard with bright green leaves and grape clusters just starting to appear.




“I know you’re not looking for anyone to give you credit, but you’ve obviously done an amazing job taking care of your brother.” He glanced at her, and she was surprised to see admiration in his expression.




“Especially when you’re so young. And with all his special needs, not many people could handle that.”




But she didn’t feel particularly young. She’d grown up fast after Zion’s accident.




“He’s got school and a job at the local grocery store. So he keeps pretty busy without me, actually.” And she felt guilty letting Darius think she’d taken miraculous care of Zion on her own.




“The truth is that I couldn’t have managed without the trust.”




“Trust?”




She’d already told him too much in his garage. But he was obviously quite good at realizing when there was more—and at getting her to share it.




“The father of the teenager who hit Zion set up a fund.”




Darius was silent a long moment before saying, “I wanted to ask you before, did the kid go to prison?”




“No one saw anything. And my parents had to take the money because they couldn’t pay for everything that Zion needed.”




Though she knew it might sound defensive, she couldn’t stop herself from adding,




“My parents did what they had to do.”




Darius took his hand off the stick shift and placed it over hers for a moment. One that was too brief before he had to change gears again, but long enough for her to be seared by his heat—and touched by his obvious compassion.




“Of course your parents did what anyone would have done in their position.”




It meant a lot to her that he didn’t seem to be judging either her or her parents for using the trust to take care of Zion. Still, she felt as though she’d told him pretty much everything about herself at this point. Now she wanted to know his story. Because even if this was just one night away from real life, she couldn’t help but want to know where he’d come from and how he’d gotten here.




“Tell me about you, Darius.”




A muscle jumped in his jaw right before he gave her a crooked smile. “My life is already out there on the Internet.”




But all the Internet said was that he was a self-made man from Chicago who’d dated several gorgeous models and actresses. She also knew that he was part of a consortium called The Baddrick Group, whose members were all self-made men like him.




Everything else about Darius Spencer—the man, not the billionaire—was a mystery. One that she couldn’t help but want to solve.




And yet, at the same time, she knew she shouldn’t let herself get invested in him. They weren’t going to fall madly in love, get married, and live happily ever after—it was just a drive and dinner, after all. Not the first night of the rest of their lives together.




As if by design, before she could ask anything more, he pulled into a parking lot and said, “We’re here.”




She was pleased to see that the restaurant looked homey, a place she’d be comfortable in, rather than a flashy see-and-be-seen kind of place. The small yard of the yellow Zarianna house with a wraparound porch and dormer windows was filled with flowering bushes and a carved wood sign that read Ristorante Martini.




Darius got out, but Nathalie didn’t wait for him to come around and open her door. Not that she minded men holding doors for her, but it seemed odd to sit there waiting for it. Seeing that she’d taken care of herself, he retrieved something from the backseat, then offered her his arm like a gentleman as they crossed the gravel lot.




Had he learned his manners from his mother? Or maybe he’d modeled them after his father? Yet again, she found herself wanting to know the answers despite herself.




“Mama Martini makes a duck ravioli to die for.” He kissed his fingers in a very Italian gesture.




A young hostess greeted them as they entered. She was obviously of Italian descent, with long dark hair, dark eyes, and a full hourglass figure.




“Mr. Spencer, Mama will be so happy to see you. We’ve held your special table.”




“Thank you, Agatha.” Nathalie shouldn’t have cared that he didn’t react to the other woman’s beauty. But she couldn’t help but be pleased that he only seemed to have eyes for her tonight.




“Please tell Mama Martini I have a surprise for her.” Darius held up the tin he’d taken from the backseat.




The house hadn’t been gutted to make a large dining room. Instead, tables with red-checked cloths had been set up in each of the rooms, the formal dining room to the left and the front parlor to the right. A big picture mirror over the fireplace reflected the patrons. Candles in glass jars and small pots of flowers gave the room a homey touch. Nathalie wasn’t overdressed nor was Darius underdressed.




It wasn’t what she’d expected at all. No show, no flash. No private jets or hot air balloons. And she loved it. She also loved the tang of tomato sauce, garlic, and spices that trailed behind them as Agatha led the way upstairs and along the landing. Darius special table was by the window overlooking a back garden awash in dahlia and bleeding heart.




Agatha laid down the menus as Darius pulled out Nathalie’s chair. “Your usual drink, Mr. Spencer?”




“Please.”




“And for the lady?”




“A Airén would be lovely if you have it.”




The girl left, and Darius set the tin on the table as he sat. Nathalie could see only the back label, the print too small to read.




“This place looks fabulous.” Nathalie expected that they’d be fawned over, the center of attention. But Nathalie was treated just like any other diner in the room.




“Great food. Good price.” Darius unrolled his utensils from the napkin.




“I’m a big believer in value.”




“Is that what you do? In your business, I mean. Give people value?”




“I give them what they want. I pay attention to current fads, but I’ve always had an eye for the good stuff. Something exclusive and expensive. The value is in how badly people want something unique. And that’s all in the perception.”




Glad that he didn’t seem to mind talking about his business, at the very least, she asked, “Like what?”




“Some people will pay anything to be able to say something is one of a kind, so that they’ve got bragging rights. They don’t want to walk into a store and buy it or get it on the Internet. It’s designer couture. Like an award-winning Italy single malt whiskey of which only fifty bottles were produced. Or a Dubai rug that took two years to weave. My customer is happy to pay for that one-of-a-kind perceived value, and then I pass it on to the artisan and make my profit at the same time.”




He spread his hands. “Everyone’s happy.”




It couldn’t be standard business practice to share the wealth with the people who did the actual labor, but she already knew from her time in his garage with Zion that Darius wasn’t typical. Not when most rich men would have tossed Zion’s letter in the trash—or treated him like there was something wrong with him.




Still, she didn’t entirely understand. “What kind of people would pay so much?”




“The kind of people who have more money than they can possibly spend.”




He’d compared luxury goods to designer couture, the fifty-thousand-dollar designer dresses celebrities wore to the Oscars. But the exorbitant amounts were beyond her.

Just like he was beyond her. Nathalie had a perfectly good sense of self-worth, and yet she wasn’t going to lie to herself and say that everything about Darius world didn’t make her head spin. She couldn’t imagine living a life like his.




“Do you regularly travel to Italy and Dubai?” She’d never been outside the U.S. She’d had dreams, of course, but after her parents died, it wasn’t a luxury she could afford. Not yet, anyway, though she was saving up. One day she and Zion would see all the places she’d read about curled up on the couch at night.




“It’s one of the perks of what I do.” Smile crinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes.




“And do you have any brothers or sisters?”




“No.” The crinkles disappeared. His face shut down. The muscle in his jaw jumped again.




“Not by blood, anyway.”




Clearly, he was far more comfortable talking about his business than he was about anything personal. And she hated that she’d said something that had clearly prodded old wounds, especially when she knew how difficult it was to have to tell people the hard stuff over and over again.

Fortunately, just then a woman burst through the doorway, chattering in Italian to the wait staff. She swished through the tables, a tray balanced on her hand with Nathalie’s wine and a frosty mug of beer for Darius.




“Mr. Spencer.” She set down both drinks with a flourish.




“Mama Martini.” Darius rose to hug her.




She was the stereotypical Italian mother from the movies, with a round face, round body, and dark hair sprinkled with strands of silver. Her dress was something out of the 1950s, protected with a black apron.




“This is my friend Nathalie Adler.”




Mama Martini beamed. “Very nice, very pretty,” she said in melodious, Italian-laced English.




“I hope you don’t eat like a bird.”




“I very much enjoy eating good food,” Nathalie said with a smile.




“Darius recommended the Ziti Alla Genovese.”




The woman’s entire face smiled—her forehead, her laugh lines, her mouth, even her dimpled chin.




“Oh, he loves that duck.”




“I certainly do. And I brought you a present, Mama.” Darius held out the tin.




“You don’t need to bring me presents whenever you dine with us. All you have to do is enjoy our food.” But she took the round tin in her hand, dipping into her apron pocket for a pair of reading glasses.




“Mio Dio. I cannot accept. This is far too much.”




He touched her hand. “It’s a gift. I have an entire shipment. One small tin is nothing.”




“It’s a pound.” Her voice rose. “A fortune.”




“Why don’t you make us a special hors d’oeuvre with it? Make some for yourself, too, and then save the rest for your very special customers.”




What was in the tin? Nathalie still couldn’t read the label.




“Please?” Darius said.




“You’re a terrible one.” Mama Martini turned to Nathalie, her eyes sparkling.




“You watch out for this one. He’s a charmer. He gets his way with everyone.” She turned back to Darius and gave him a kiss on the cheek, one that clearly pleased him to no end.




“Grazie, Mr. Spencer. It demands a simple preparation so as not to overwhelm the flavor. I will return shortly with the delicious treat.”




“I’m dying to know,” Nathalie asked after Mama had left them.




“What was that?”




“It’s a surprise for you, too.”




She shot him a mock glare at keeping the mystery spinning out—something he was very good at—as the waiter arrived, introducing himself as Alexander. The Martini's were friendly with Darius, and he was very polite and considerate. No cocky finger-snapping. Maybe she’d seen too much TV, where rich people treated the help like second-class citizens who were not even worth a thank-you.

But Darius wasn’t like that. At least, as far as she could tell.




Because as they talked over their wine and beer—a little more about his cars, about the amazing weather they’d been having, about some of her best and worst clients over the years—he managed not to say much about himself at all.

Soon, Mama Martini arrived with her simple yet elegant creation.




“I have taste-tested. Magnificent.” She kissed her fingers just as Darius had earlier.




“Any garnish would be a travesty.” She placed a small pot in the center of the table. Beside that she laid a plate of toasted bread slices and set a spoon by the pot. “Mother-of-pearl. We must not influence the flavors.” She threw out her hands expressively.




“Now eat.” Then she leaned down to Darius. “The Ziti Alla Genovese tonight is on me. And a bottle of our best champagne.”




“That’s not necessary,” Darius protested, but Alexander was already popping the cork.




“One cannot have roe without champagne,” she declared.




“And now I leave you alone with your beautiful lady.”




“You brought her roe?” Nathalie examined the pot filled with tiny eggs.




“I found this about six weeks ago. It’s Beluga Roe. The golden color is quite prized. And, as a bonus, the fishery is known for its conservation policies, given that the sturgeon is a threatened species.” He picked up the mother-of-pearl spoon, scooped up the caviar, dabbed it on the toasted bread, and brought the slice close to her lips.




“Taste,” he urged.




The action was intimate. Sexy.




Her heart began to beat loudly in her ears. Just as he wanted her to, Nathalie ate from his fingers, her lips touching his skin. But the flavor that exploded on her tongue was far more decadent than roe.




The most delicious flavor by far was him.