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far too much, more than she’d ever told anyone. They say the real opposite of talking isn’t listening, it is waiting. Waiting to get in your own two cents, your opinion, your experience. Not with James Bishop. He seemed content with listening to her, gently prodding to keep her talking.
    Having sex with someone like that, someone so keyed in to her, could be quite extraordinary, she thought, gazing at his elegant, unreadable face. Maybe too extraordinary. She considered herself an ordinary young woman, a little stubborn, perhaps maybe even boring. She was too practical, too wary. She wasn’t made for grand passion, for throwing caution and responsibility, and even duty, to the wind for the sake of a man. She’d worked hard to get where she was, and she had more hard work ahead of her that she couldn’t afford to jeopardize, even for one night, especially one that could go disastrously wrong given how skittish she could be.
    But this man might be worth it.
    “Now what are you thinking about?” he said lazily, leaning back as he stirred his espresso. “You haven’t said anything since they brought dessert.” The tiny, perfect pastries sat between them, delectable, and she had the sudden thought that she’d rather lick him. Color flooded her face—she must have had too much to drink.
    “Just what a lovely evening this has been,” she said with a good stab at nonchalance. It failed, but she deserved credit for trying.
    Once more he gave her that enchanting smile, the one that didn’t meet his eyes. “You’re looking nervous again. I thought you’d gotten over that.”
    “I’m not!” she protested. What would his hands feel like on her body? No one had touched her in almost a year, and Lester had been more enthusiastic than skilled. This man would be both.
    Wouldn’t she like to have just one time with someone who knew what he was doing? She could feel the color mount her face again, and she was ashamed of herself. Of course Lester and the others had known what they were doing, and she’d been fine, orgasmic, once she’d gotten over her initial fears. She’d just longed for something . . . more.
    She suspected the man across from her was an expert at providing that elusive more , if it even existed. Except that he didn’t seem to be making much of an effort to offer her more—his gently teasing manner, his flattery, was probably unconscious on his part. It was just what he did. She was sitting there in an absolute pool of irrational longing and he was leaning back in his chair, sipping his espresso and smiling, perfectly relaxed. She felt like a tightly wound violin string, ready to snap, and he didn’t even seem to want her.
    Which was a relief, she told herself. Depressing, demoralizing, but a relief. She wasn’t up to dealing with someone like him. She preferred safety, reliability. And besides, he wasn’t interested.
    She realized another silence had fallen while he watched her, a speculative expression in his unreadable dark eyes. She laughed, just a little nervously. “I’m sorry,” she said, taking a sip of her own cappuccino. For some reason he’d known she’d prefer it to espresso. “I’m drifting off again.”
    “You won’t be drifting off with that coffee in your system,” he pointed out pleasantly. “And it’s early. I’d suggest we go for a walk but I think the storm is about to hit.”
    She hadn’t been paying attention—not when there was something else so gorgeous to look at. She glanced overhead into the night sky. The stars were gone, hidden by the black, scudding clouds, and the poplar trees swayed in the breeze. She could feel the ozone in the air, the approach of the rain, and she wondered how long it had been like this, and whether he knew she’d been too mesmerized by him to pay attention to an imminent downpour.
    Here they were, sitting out in the open, about to get soaked. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve been talking my head off and you’ve been