The First Secret

Lachlan

Sitting at the end of the long, teak dining table, I drummed my fingers on the table. I couldn't remember waiting so impatiently for anyone, especially a woman. But all afternoon, I'd been anxiously awaiting this dinner like I was some unexperienced teenager.

At long last, the sound of soft footfalls on the marble floors signaled her arrival. I couldn't suppress a predatory smile as I inhaled the sweet scent of her perfume, a subtle blend that beckoned me to her like a siren's song.

She entered the dining room with slow steps, her eyes adjusting to the candle light. The gown she wore was a simple, elegant affair - a deep navy number that hugged her curves and fell in a graceful cascade to her knees. A thin strap of crystals slung over one shoulder the only thing holding the top of the dress in place. My lips curled at the sight of the rapid pulse point at her throat as I stood to greet her.

"Mr. McIntyre," she said, her voice a soft murmur in the hushed space.

"Lachlan," I corrected her.

"Lachlan," she echoed and, damn me but I enjoyed the way my name rolled off her tongue.

"Please, join me." I motioned to the chair to the right of me, pulling it out for her to sit.

She glided toward me, her every movement graceful and enthralling, and I fought the urge to pull her into my arms and claim her lips. Instead, I pushed in her seat and returned to mine. I watched as she settled herself, the candlelight dancing along her features, throwing into relief the delicate bones of her face and those enticing lips. Her throat bobbed before she gave me a tentative smile. "Thank you. And thank you for the lovely dress. Obviously, I wasn't expecting to attend a dinner party."

I chuckled. "It's hardly a party, but I hope you'll enjoy it none the less."

Claude appeared before she could respond, placing soup bowls before each of us. "Grilled Octopus with Papaya Salsa and Tahitian Lime Aioli," he said in his deep, smooth island accent.

"Thank you, Claude. And may I introduce you to my guest, Quinn Pearce."

Claude's bright white teeth shined bright against his dark brown skin. "Good to meet you, Miss. Please enjoy."

"Thank you. It looks delicious."

The chef placed a hand briefly over his heart in thanks before returning to the kitchen. Picking up a fork, I turned my attention back to my beautiful guest.

"You look beautiful tonight, Quinn," I said, keeping my tone low and intimate.

A faint blush tinted her cheeks, and she looked down, her lashes sweeping her complexion like a caress. "Thank you, Lachlan. You're quite the host. How did you have a dress in exactly my size?"

I chewed, thinking over my answer. In the end, I decided to go with truth. "It belongs to my wife."

Quinn stiffened at my confession, pushing food around her plate. "I hope she won't mind me borrowing it. Will she be joining us for dinner?"

Letting the heat of my whisky burn down my throat, I again tried to decide on what I should disclose. "Doubtful. She's been missing for ten years."

Quinn coughed, her hand dropping her fork and covering her mouth. "Missing?" she croaked.

I nodded, schooling my expression into my normally implacable mask. "Yes."

She watched me, waiting for me to continue. When I didn't she broke the gaze and picked up her fork again. "Care to elaborate?"

"Not particularly, no," I answered, returning to my food.

Clearing her throat, she sat up straighter. "So, you're just going to drop that bomb and not tell any more of the story? I've never even found any evidence that you were ever married and now you tell me you're not only married but she's been missing for ten years and I'm not supposed to ask any questions?"

"I didn't say that." I wiped my mouth and placed the napkin next to my plate, leaning back and meeting her narrowed gaze.

Her brow furrowed at my answer. "What kind of game are you trying to play here, Mr. McIntyre?"

One side of my mouth quirked up at her return to the use of the more formal name. "No game, Ms. Pearce. I'm simply stating facts. Journalists like facts, don't they?"

"Yes we do," she stated, her voice steady but with a harder edge than I'd heard before. "But I believe you're being purposely provocative."

I steepled my fingers under my chin, trying to discourage the smile that wanted to bloom across my face. She was feisty. I liked that. A lot. "Not at all, Ms. Pearce. But why don't we save the delving into the dark corners of my past for the formal interviews. Claude has gone to a lot of trouble on short notice with this meal, and I'd like to enjoy it."

Her posture relaxed slightly and the sharpness in her eyes softened somewhat. I'd won this round.

"I can agree to that. But don't think I will forget to bring it up again at our next formal meeting."

"I never doubted it. And, please, call me Lachlan again."

Just then, Sims arrived with our second course--Mahi-Mahi with Pineapple Beurre Blanc and Taro Mash. "Chef Claude is working on the desserts, Mr. McIntyre. He asked me to present your mains."

After setting the plates on the table and lifting the silver cloches to present the food, Sims filled our wine glasses. "Anything else, Sir? Miss?"

Cutting my eyes to Quinn, she shook her head. "Thank you, Sims. That will be all for now."

"As you wish, Sir," the man intoned in his bored, upper crust voice before leaving the room.

"Is there anything that man doesn't do?" Quinn asked, a slight snark to her voice.

"Not that I've discovered yet, though I've never asked him to shampoo my hair for me," I said flatly.

A very unladylike snort escaped the lovely journalist's throat, and her hand shot to her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. I flashed her my most charming smile. Round One--me.