The Millionaire's Club: Jacob, Logan and Marc: Black-Tie Seduction / Less-than-Innocent Invitation / Strictly Confidential Attraction

“Chris?”

She turned her head to see Alison standing in the bedroom doorway holding her purse. The concern in her eyes had Christine blinking back tears again.

“Oh, sweetie. What’s wrong?”

“I can’t do this,” she whispered. “I’m not the kind of woman who can go out to dinner with that kind of man.”

“The hell you can’t,” Alison said, intuitively sensing that Christine was in the midst of a monumental cold-feet moment. “Don’t you dare put yourself down that way.”

Alison shoved the little black clutch purse into Christine’s hand. “Now, you are not going to waste that dress and that hair and that makeup, do you understand me? You. Look. Incredible. Work it. Enjoy it. Feel the power, girl. You own it tonight. And the way you look, you’re gonna own him, too.”

Alison hugged her hard, then turned her around and literally shoved her into the hall.

“There you are,” her date said when she lurched into the living room. “Thought you’d decided to bail on me.”

Alison’s words bounced around in her head.

Feel the power. You own it…

As incredible as it seemed, when she looked and saw real interest—not just surprised curiosity—in Jacob’s eye, she did feel the power. At least, a little power surge. For all of his smooth words and sexy smiles, she’d never seen him quite the way he was tonight.

Off balance. Just a tad uncertain. As though maybe he really did like what he saw—and it had surprised him.

Maybe the balance of power had shifted in that moment when she’d opened her door and he’d seen her standing there. Not looking like Prissy Chrissie Travers, as even she had begun to think of herself. But looking like a woman. A vibrant, self-confident woman who recognized her burgeoning power—yes, power—over a man who had always had the upper hand.

Okay. Maybe that was overplaying it. But there was something. If not power, at least a measure of self-confidence she’d never felt before. With luck, it would last through the evening.

“Bail? No,” she said as a calm resolve descended over her. “I’m not going to bail.”

The stakes were suddenly too high. This was no longer just about acquiring Jess Golden’s things. This was about something bigger. Much bigger. And as soon as she figured out exactly what was happening to shake her and yet empower her, she’d know what she wanted to do about it.

Butterfly, Jake thought as they walked into Claire’s and he got a whiff of some exotic, flowery perfume. She’d definitely turned into a butterfly. Sleek, satiny and mysterious. And, man, had it been worth the hassle to witness the full effect of the metamorphosis.

Superserious, profoundly professional and supremely prickly Christine Travers with her sensible clothes and plain-Jane package was long gone. In her place was a sophisticated, sexy siren possessed of an underlying vulnerability that sent his heart rate rocketing.

He liked it. He liked it a lot. And he was starting to think that maybe she might be a woman he could like a lot, too. Not that he hadn’t always liked her, it was simply that the dynamics of their relationship had changed drastically when he’d invited her to dinner. He was used to prickly Chrissie. Had taken great pains to bring out that side of her.

Now he was faced with sexy Chrissie—a side of her he’d always known existed if she would just let her come out and play. Yet for some reason this new face made him a little nervous—which was nuts because he was never nervous around women.

She’d done something amazing to her hair. Not that he didn’t think it looked cute when she wore it down and straight and framing her pixie face in a businesslike do. It was just that with all that fine blond mass swept up on top of her head…well, it had an effect, was all. It accentuated the model-slim line of her neck and exposed a delectable-looking nape. A nape that tempted him mightily to bend down and place a kiss there when she sat at the table for two he’d reserved and he pushed the chair in for her.

He caved in to a spike of better judgment and had to satisfy himself with wondering how badly him kissing her there would rattle her as he settled across the table from her.

“Good evening, Mr. Thorne.”

Jake smiled at their waiter, Claude Jacques, as he produced open menus. “Hello, Claude. How’s it going?”

“Superb, thank you. Would you and the lady care for something to drink while you decide on dinner?”

“Chrissie?” Jake said over the top of his menu. “Would you like something? The wine selection is excellent.”

“I think I’d prefer a club soda, thanks. With a lime wedge, please,” she added with a flash of her gray-green eyes at Claude before she went back to studying her menu.

“Make it two,” Jake said, deferring to her choice, although he’d have loved to see the color a little wine would have splashed on her cheeks.

Not that she needed color. She was…hell…glowing? Close enough. Her lips shimmered with color— somewhere between a wine-red and hot-pink. And he had another I-never-noticed-that-before moment. He’d never noticed that her lips were so full, so lush, and they looked so kissably soft.

He missed the freckles, though. She’d camouflaged them with some powder or blush or bronzer or Lord knew what little bit of magic she’d pulled out of her woman’s bag of tricks.

Speaking of magic, the dress was the mother of all illusions. It had been driving him crazy since she’d opened her apartment door and magically drained all the blood from his head and shot it directly to his groin. He was a sucker for black, short and plunging necklines. All that pale, creamy skin against and beneath the black silk was a turn-on of epic proportions.

“Did I mention that you look incredible?” he said, watching her studiously avoid eye contact by gluing her gaze to the menu.

Several beats passed before she lowered the menu and met his eyes. “You did, actually. Or words to that effect. Thank you. You, um, you look very nice, as well.”

Aren’t we formal now? Again he thought it was cute. So was the way her gaze sort of lingered involuntarily on his mouth before sliding to his chest, then gliding slowly back to his mouth again.

“So, do you see anything you like?”

Her gaze snapped to his.

“On the menu,” he clarified with a grin.

There was that blush. The one he loved to fire up. The one that told him that she hadn’t been thinking about food when she’d been checking him out but that there might have been hunger involved and that it embarrassed her to be caught whetting her appetite, so to speak.

“I’m not too knowledgeable on French cuisine,” she said, sounding self-conscious.

“That’s what Claude’s for,” he said, wanting to set her at ease. “Let’s ask him what’s good when he brings our drinks.”

He watched with interest when she did just that, leading the waiter through a series of questions, both polite and businesslike in manner, until she finally settled on whitefish in wine sauce.

“Make mine beef, make it red and make it big,” he said when it was his turn. “And I’ll have whatever the lady’s having for side dishes.”

“You will enjoy.” Claude scooped up the menus. “The lady has excellent taste.”

And then they were alone. If you didn’t count the discreetly hovering army of wait staff—one who placed ice in their water glasses with sterling tongs, another who dropped in a wedge of lemon and yet another who finally got to the task of pouring the water.

Her expressive eyes relayed her amazement over all the fuss about filling a water glass.

“Not exactly the Royal Diner, huh?”

“Not exactly.”

“It’s a little pretentious,” he agreed, “but the food’s great.”

“It’s a beautiful place.”

Ritzy is what it was. Valet parking, white linen tablecloths, red roses in crystal vases on every table. Women liked it. Besides the great food, the part he liked was the candlelight—something he’d never really paid much attention to before tonight.