South East Michigan, Early Fall
Seven p.m.
Pink Oyster Restaurant
She had to get out of there. This guy, openly feasting on her from head to toe, made her uncomfortable. From the moment he walked in, he drank in her every move with those wicked brown soul searchers, most people called eyes.
The way his unblinking attention was trained on her from her sandy brown hair to her four-inch stiletto boots peeking out from under the linen tablecloth made her anxious. T’kelah nervously flexed her ankle, wanting to uncross her legs before they’d gone into pins and needles mode, but that would only draw more of his attention if possible. Unable to look away, she put up with the tingling sensation moving down her legs.
His stubbled chin rested on his thumb while his knuckle repeatedly slid back and forth over his thin bottom lip, catching her attention. T'kelah Sinclair rethought her complaint. To say his lips were thin had been a simplistic description of a sexy mouth. For someone in the art world, she could do better.
Those firm lips weren't thin, she noticed as he'd teased his bottom lip between his teeth, dragging the pearly whites across the pink surface as he studied her. The restaurant and the soft sounds of a saxophone faded around him the longer he studied her. Not studied, but digested her into his system.
The Pink Oyster, the town's most elegant Middle Eastern restaurant, became her personal treat at the end of every week, ever since her promotion to Arts Insurance Adjuster. She loved her job, adored its lavish perks-free entry to art shows and private showings- as it provided a chance to slip on her little black dress.
Now, since Brett's fatal car crash six months ago, she'd done many things alone. Including sleep. Especially sleep. Not that she hadn't been propositioned to end her drought. She just hadn't met anyone she wanted to spend more than twenty minutes with.
And this pervert wouldn't stop staring at her.
To sit here, in this elegant restaurant, beside the fireplace, under the heady Middle Eastern scents of lamb, garlic, and curry was her only wish for this evening. She swallowed, her mouth watering in anticipation of the perfectly spiced halibut and tabbouleh dinner arriving soon.
He'd spoiled it for her.
She shot him an angry glare and didn't blink when he leaned forward, dragging those shoulders into a contemptuous display. It didn't help that his chest stressed the lines of his suit, causing the compressed line of her mouth to part.
Don't smile it'll draw him to you.
That was impossible.
He wasn't bad on the eyes. To be honest, he was hard on her concentration as it was drifting with languid abandon over his hard body. His black hair and the matching stubble accentuating the line of his strong jaw, gave peeks at his Middle Eastern kissed complexion. Somewhere down the family tree, those genes had mixed with those of an Anglo Saxon. It was in his painfully sharp nose. He reminded her of a pirate fresh out of a hot bath-clean-yet sensually dirty.
T'kelah refocused her attention and used her gaze to capture the waiter's attention. When she was sure she had it, she pulled a twenty from her purse
"Are you ready to order, Ms. Sinclair? We have your favorite spiced halibut, caught fresh this morning."
She took a drink from the glass of ice water he set in front of her.
"Asad, you know me too well. Unfortunately, I'll have to pass on dinner this evening." Her attention moved through the room, pausing on the man still eyeing her mouth. Her face was submerged in a layer of heat when he winked, causing that same heat to spread down to her stocking toes in her boots. "I seemed to have lost my appetite."
"Miss?" Asad's voice separated her from the candy watching, across the room.
She shuddered. "I'll take two slices of coconut cake to go with my long weekend of number crunching, and a large pot of Carla's Zimbabwe coffee from the shope downstairs." Asad had been the person to introduce her to the coffee shop when she needed an apartment two years ago after moving to the quiet city. Now Carla was a good friend and her landlord, and T'kelah lived in her upstairs apartment.
Vertical lines divided the skin above Asad's nose, causing his olive eyes to be lost under his deeply furrowed brows. "Is something wrong? You appear-upset-tonight. Is it my cousin that's got you flustered?" He refused the twenty, sliding it toward her and in a voice lower than she'd ever heard he told her it was on the house.
Stunned she'd missed the resemblance, T'kelah grabbed Asad by the arm, holding his attention. "That man is your cousin? Then tell him staring is rude. And the last thing I want to do is teach an old dog an even older trick... Manners. I'll come back another day."
"My cousin's intense. Seldom seen in public, he's accustomed to getting whatever he sets his mind to." Shrugging his shoulders, he added, "Bitter since his fiancé left."
"Oh, you can forget that. I'm not looking to be someone's rub-off."
Stuttering, he responded, "Rub-off...what's that mean?" He set down a fresh linen napkin on the table.
"The woman he rubs all of his old pain off on, before he moves on to the woman he treats with respect."
He chuckled amused. "I'll have to remember that, Ms. Sinclair. I have another cousin if ever you're in need of a chaperone. I could make a call and have him take you out tomorrow night."
Now I'm his project. No thank you.
She pat his shoulder. "I'll pass. I'll see you next week, minus your cousin the peeper."
She scanned the room. His cousin was no longer at the table. And nowhere to be found, which was perfect. It was time to make her exit.
"Ms. Sinclair, I insist on calling you a cab. Purple Pony will be here in three minutes." He dug in his pocket and pulled out a cell phone.
She touched his hand to repress the urge to chuckle at the name of the local cab company started by two college guys that went big and had to keep the goofy name. It proved the old advice to think before you use a silly title for your company, held true.
Gathering her coat, T'kelah nodded to the waiter. "Asad, I'm three blocks from here. A walk in the cool air will clear my head."
Asad set down his note pad and helped her on with her coat. Her purse appeared at her elbow.
"You have sophisticated taste, Miss." A deeply rich voice filtered down over her body, leaving her lightly dazed. "Your purse. Forgive me if I've run you off admiring your beauty, while I ate my dinner."
She whirled around to Mr. Brown eyes. Not every day brown, which would've been fine, but Old World rusty brown eyes with a hint of gold flecks to mesmerize her the longer she stood there. "Thank you, and you were staring not admiring. It's rude," she corrected and educated him tucking her purse under her arm.
"Then my rude behavior stops now. My name is, El-Hashem ...Imad El-Hashem. I'm terribly sorry if I offended you. You paint an intriguingly provocative picture. I can't believe I'm the only man staring-as you've labeled me-tonight."
T'kelah knew a player when she met him and Imad hit all the criteria. "You were staring, Mr. El-Hashem. Looking until the person becomes uncomfortable isn't admiring." They were drawing a crowd. "Good night." She started to walk off.
"I can be taught the difference if you care to instruct me, Miss..." He insinuated his body in front of her, blocking the isle. "I'm a fast learner with the right teacher."
She rested back on her heels. "You don't quit do you?"
"I haven't started."
