Quincy glanced in her rearview mirror before changing lanes. Mace's voice over the phone had been as deep and smooth as a thick, rich chocolate sauce. Quincy nearly drooled listening to him. There was no way he could be as disarming as his voice was, but she was willing to suspend her doubts until she saw him. At the worst it was a chance for a good meal and perhaps a dance or two. At the best, he could be her prince charming, come to rescue her from—from what? She loved her life, but she could use an occasional diversion.
He had made reservations at Sage's swankiest and only supper club. She figured when he asked her to meet him there it was a safety mechanism for them both. Neither would feel embarrassed at not seeing the evening through if they were a miss match. She had to give him credit for covering all the bases. Maybe he wasn't any more certain of her than she was of him. Quincy had no doubt they were a bad match, her mother had a knack for picking lemons. She parked her car in the supper club parking lot and walked inside heading toward the headwaiter.
"A table reserved for Quincy Delaney or Mace Corridare."
He smiled. "This way Miss Delaney," his hand swept toward the dining room, he clicked his heels in a sort of curt, short bow, but definitely with exaggerated pomp. He seated her and a waiter appeared immediately with a single long stemmed red rose and a glass of wine. "Courtesy of Mr. Corridare," the waiter said bowing and scraping. Quincy glanced around the room. Was he here already? Was he coming late? She toyed with the wine glass and then sipped it tentatively. She recognized the bouquet. It was a good choice. The man had good taste. A rose, wine–visions of knights in shinning armor on white steeds skittered through her mind in day dream.
"Ah, there you are. Ms Delaney," she heard the words from the vision in her head.
The voice like liquid silver sent hot sparks up and down her spine. The heat settled in that place just between her thighs. She glanced up. There stood six feet of tall, lean Texas beef. She blushed slightly at the thoughts that torpedoed her brain. Beef, where in the---did I come up with that? She found her voice after an excruciatingly long minute of devouring him with her gaze.
"Yes, and that would make you Mace," she said reaching out to shake his.
Mace took her hand and brushed his lips lightly over its back, "Delighted to find such a lovely vision waiting at my table." He turned her hand over and kissed the palm. His gaze was warm.
"Um, are you Quincy Delaney?" A voice asked, shattering the visions she was embroiled in.
Quincy jarred herself out of the Edwardian tale she was fantasizing and focused on the tall man in front of her.
"Hi." Her voice cracking like an adolescent on her first date. She held out her hand. "Mace?"
"The one and only." His smile warmed her in places his voice had already touched. "I'm glad you didn't mind meeting me here. As blind dates go, I don't do them. Afraid someone might take one look at me and slam the door in my face."
"I doubt that," she said, feeling a hot rush flood up her neck to her cheeks. Damn, he was good looking. Wonder what's wrong with him that he isn't attached. "I mean most women that agree to a blind date are up for at least a good dinner and perhaps some dancing or a movie," she said. "By the way, thank you for the rose. What a nice gesture."
Quincy couldn't believe her good fortune, the vision materialized, only better—just as handsome if not more so than the vision–and he was real, flesh and blood human. She put her hand to her diaphragm to stop the flutter of butterflies that seemed to have drifted in with the reality of Mace Corridare.
"Well, it used to be, a fella could pick a bouquet of daisies on his way to a dates. Can't do that in today's concrete world and I would hate to come up empty handed." He lowered his gaze to the table.
"You are welcome." He sat down across from her.