Predatory

Page 41

Or her. Richart had said he wouldn’t pursue anything amorous tonight, but she was nevertheless glad she had an actual bed in case something developed between them later.
Butterflies flocked to her stomach. She hadn’t had a date in . . .
Hmm. She drew a blank on that one.
Debbie had set her up on a blind date a couple of years ago that had gone rather well, Jenna thought, until she had mentioned having a son who planned to go to medical school. Her date had apparently mentally jumped ahead to marrying her and having to shell out a couple hundred thousand dollars in educational fees for a son who wasn’t his and had run, not walked, in the opposite direction.
Dating wasn’t easy for single moms.
The phone rang.
Jenna jumped. Shaking her head at herself, she answered. “Hello?”
“Hello.”
Her heart began to pound at the sound of Richart’s deep, silky voice. “Hi.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Much better, thank you.” Well . . . a little better, anyway. Though her stomach remained unsettled, she felt somewhat confident that she would be able to eat whatever meal he prepared without projectile vomiting it on him afterward.
“I’m glad to hear it. I thought I would run some dinner ideas by you and see what you think would be the most gentle on your stomach.”
So thoughtful. “Okay. What did you have in mind?”
Richart began to list entrées he could prepare for her. Clearly the man could cook.
Jenna didn’t know how half of the dishes he mentioned were prepared or if she even had the pots and pans needed to do it, so she went with the safest option. “How about the light salad and fettuccine Alfredo?”
“As you wish,” he responded cheerfully. “I shall see you tonight.”
When Jenna opened her door shortly after sunset, Richart smiled and decided that he loved yoga pants and tank tops. The soft gray pants hugged full hips and slender thighs before falling in straight lines to a pair of sneakers. A white tank top clung to a narrow ribcage, minuscule waist, and breasts he thought would fit perfectly in the palms of his hands, which tightened around the handles of the shopping bags he carried.
“I took you at your word and stayed in my comfy clothes,” she said with a hesitant smile, stepping back and motioning for him to enter.
“I like your comfy clothes,” he professed, inhaling her sweet scent as he strode past into the small living room. Jenna plus a hint of the chocolate-raspberry soap she used. A delectable combination.
She had even worn her hair down. At work she usually pulled it back with clasps or ties or put it up in a ponytail. Tonight it fell freely in shining waves as red as the sky at sunset, tumbling across her shoulders and tempting him to comb his fingers through it.
No touching, he admonished himself. At least, no touching that might lead to more touching. She’s ill and you’re immortal and haven’t told her. Nor do you plan to tell her. So, what the hell are you actually doing here?
Giving in to weakness.
He hadn’t felt this drawn to a woman since before his transformation. She made him forget the dark violence that was such a large part of his existence and made everything somehow less tedious, so he actually looked forward to rising each day, eager to see her again.
“How are you feeling?” Richart asked as she closed the door.
“Both hungry and nauseated at the same time. I haven’t eaten anything all day because my stomach still isn’t right. But I think the Alfredo is mild enough to stay down.” She grimaced.
“What?”
She gave him a self-deprecating smile and led him into the kitchen. “Nothing. It’s just . . . I’ve never talked about vomiting on a first date before. Real romantic, right?”
He grinned. “More romantic certainly than not mentioning it was a possibility, then spewing your dinner all over your companion as he leans in for a kiss.”
She laughed. “Thank you for being such a good sport about it.”
“Thank you for letting me cook you dinner.” He set his bags down on the counter and started removing the ingredients he’d purchased on the way there. “I should probably warn you that I haven’t been on a date in quite a while, so I’m a little rusty.”
Her eyebrows flew up as she transferred the cold foods to her refrigerator. “How long has it been?”
“Longer than I care to admit. My job and odd hours tend to make dating difficult.”
She nodded. “Being a single mom and working the night shift does, too. I haven’t dated in a while either.”
“Excellent. Then, if neither of us remembers the rules, we don’t have to follow them.”
“Sounds good to me.” She closed the refrigerator door and leaned her hip against it, crossing her arms just beneath her breasts. “Listen, I’m sort of a get-the-truth-out-there-so-when-it-comes-up-later-it-won’t-be-an-issue kind of gal, so there’s something I wanted to mention.”
This couldn’t be good.
She hesitated. “You know I’m older than you, right?”
Richart stared down at her and forced himself not to laugh at the irony. He may be over two hundred years old, but he looked as if he were in his late twenties, thirty at the most. And Jenna was worried that her being thirty-seven would be a problem?
“Honestly, I could not care less how old you are, Jenna,” he assured her, all the while calling himself a bastard for not taking the opening she had provided and broaching the topic of who and what he was. She valued truth. If he continued to keep it from her . . .
A hint of insecurity entered her features. “I don’t mean to press this, but . . . I dated a guy once—very briefly—who said the same thing until his friends found out and started to razz him about it. I’m thirty-seven. Are you sure that isn’t a problem?”
“I don’t know why his friends would tease him about dating you unless they were envious. You look like you’re in your twenties, Jenna. Not much older than your son, in fact. And, if you looked like you were in your forties, guess what. I would be just as interested.”
She smiled and closed the distance between them. “And if I looked like I were in my fifties?”
“Still interested.”
“Sixties?”
“I happen to think laugh lines are hot.”
She laughed. “Good, because I have a feeling you’re going to give me a few.”
“I should hope so,” he said, telling himself not to think about the fact that he would still look and feel as he did now when she was in her sixties, seventies, and eighties and all of the problems that would generate.
You’re getting ahead of yourself, old man. This is your first damned date. Not your engagement party.
“You don’t mind that I’m older than you. You don’t mind that I’m a single mom, putting a son through college.” She shook her head and smiled up at him, expression soft. “You’re a rare breed, Richart d’Alençon.”
She didn’t know the half of it.
Unable to resist, he dipped his head and touched his lips to hers in a gentle caress.
Her breath caught.
Lightning struck.
Both their hearts began to beat faster.
Resting a hand on her waist, Richart tilted his head and explored those smooth pink lips that had drawn his gaze so often, then drew back before his emotions could take over and make his eyes begin to glow.
“Wow,” Jenna breathed, staring up at him.
“I am so smitten with you,” he admitted softly.
“I love the way you talk.”
“My accent?”
“That, too, but . . . I love the way you phrase things. Like the heroes from the historical romance novels I read.”
He cringed. Apparently, he was showing his age.
She smiled. “Don’t look like that. I meant it in a good way.”
“If you say so.”
Her stomach chose that moment to rumble and growl. Both laughed as she covered her flat belly with one hand. “Sorry about that.”
He shook his head. “Let’s get started so we can get some food in you.”
Hands down, it was the best date Jenna ever had. Richart was charming and funny and so sexy he took her breath away. Just as that kiss had. She couldn’t stop thinking about it.
And the man was an excellent cook. She had never been a big fan of salads, had always found them pretty bland, but he concocted some kind of homemade salad dressing that was absolutely delicious.
“How’s your stomach?” he asked, taking her empty salad plate and replacing it with one heaped high with fettuccine Alfredo.
“Doing good,” she responded with relief. The first taste of his creamy Alfredo sauce elicited a moan. “This is delicious. Where did you learn to cook?”
“I taught myself.” He shrugged. “No reason not to really. I don’t know why some men balk at it. I love food and saw no better way to ensure I would always have a tasty meal at my disposal.”
“Smart man. I like that.”
He winked.
Her pulse jumped.