“No man will treat you as anything but a lady in my presence, Rachel.”
She turned toward him, laughter catching on her huff of breath. “You know, I can’t seem to decide if you’re old-fashioned or contemporary, noble or a certifiable megalomaniac. Which is it, Isaac? Who are you?”
A strange look passed over his face. “Label me however you see fit. Just promise me you’ll stay tonight.”
He left her feeling off-balance and more than a little unsure of where they stood with each other. Conversation with him swung between easy and something that resembled a contest of wills she was never sure she won. Yet she wasn’t convinced she’d lost, either.
But there was one thing she knew without a doubt, one truth that couldn’t be disregarded. They were highly,highlycompatible as lovers.
If she intended to follow through on her promise to herself and find pleasure for one evening with Mr. Right Now, she had to stop trying to understand Isaac and, instead, give herself permission to simply enjoy him. He fit her list of immediate needs, and he fit it well. Trying to force him into the mental and emotional mold she’d created for Mr. Right wasn’t fair to either of them because she doubted he would, or could, qualify.
Isaac gently reached out and curled his forefinger beneath her chin, regaining her attention. Eyes on hers, he gently stroked her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. “Stay.” If he had couched a question somewhere within the command, she didn’t hear it. But Mr. Right Now didn’t need to defer to her, didn’t need to act the gentleman all the time. He had to respect her rights and know how to get the most out of her body.
Isaac had proven that he fit both requirements.
She gave a short nod. “For tonight.”
Then she stepped out of the car and gasped at the yacht the driver had pulled up to.
“This is what you call a boat?” she asked.
“By definition, it qualifies.”
If this was what he called a “boat,” she’d be interested in seeing what he called a “house.” She was certain they had very, very different definitions. But, for tonight?
She could live with that.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WITHRACHEL’SHANDin his, Isaac led her to the moored yacht. He normally didn’t give the size of the boat a second thought, but he’d been oddly concerned that Rachel would balk at his suggestion they come here if he’d made it clear that the boat was, in fact, a yacht.
His personal assistant, Collin, stepped out and inclined his head in greeting. “Mr. Miller.”
Isaac let go of Rachel long enough to step onto the rear deck’s planking, then turned and took her hand again, helping her step across the wooden gangway and onto the deck.
“Welcome aboard thePatent Pending.”
Her laughter rang out across the still night air, and warmth spread through Isaac’s body with an effect similar to that of a generous shot of whiskey. The sound was so uncomplicated. Pure. Authentic.
Isaac found himself smiling in return.
Rachel turned toward him, and what had been a look of amused curiosity on her face softened, evolving with every beat of his heart until her expression settled on something far more intimate. She seemed to realize she had revealed something quite personal and abruptly turned away. Approaching Collin, she held out her hand. “I’m Rachel. Rachel Stephens.”
Instead of shaking her hand, Collin kissed her knuckles. “The pleasure is entirely mine, madam. My name is Collin. I’m Mr. Miller’s personal assistant.”
She shot Isaac a funny look, one that silently asked, “You have a personal assistant?”
Isaac shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking heel-to-toe and back as he answered. “He prefers that particular title over ‘butler.’ I indulge him because it keeps him in my employ.”
“Why do you need a personal assistant?”
“It’s my job to keep him in line and, at times, focused, Ms. Stephens,” Collin interjected.
“Collin tends to grossly overestimate his value and underestimate my self-sufficiency,” Isaac grumbled good-naturedly. “I don’t have the heart to correct him for fear he’ll lose his obviously tenuous grip on reality.”
“Had I known I was agreeing to spend the evening with a yacht-owning philanthropist, I might have been a bit nervous.” She leaned toward Collin, laid a hand on his arm and, in a stage whisper, said, “It’s a good thing he pretended to be a rather self-involved, disinterested, somewhat self-deprecating individual. That managed to keep my expectations for the evening in check when I found out he was, actually, filthy rich.”
Collin glanced at Isaac, unable to mask his surprise. True, Isaac normally would have taken someone to task for calling him self-involved, be it true or not. He would even agree that he did, indeed, have a penchant for keeping his world ordered. That might make him come across as self-involved in some situations. But to agree that he was self-deprecating? At all? No one would believe that description. Ever. He was completely confident, both in himself and in the world he’d created with money and sheer force of will.