Page 22 of Resurrection
“Yes, boss. No problem. Let me get your door, sir.”
Freddy rounded the car and opened the driver’s side. Nic slid out, and they did one of those back-slapping, handshaking combinations that told Imogen they had to be friends. When Nic let him go, he strode around the car and bent down to reach inside. His chains swung, and light glinted off one diamond pinkie ring.
“My lady.”
She couldn’t help her smile. He was … debonaire. That was the only word for it in her repertoire. He had old-school charm that seemed like it was from a different era—an era that hadn’t existed since the generation of his car.
Imogen slid her hand in his and couldn’t help but notice how massive it was compared to hers as he closed his fingers around hers to help her out of the low-slung seat.
Her heels clicked on the concrete as he led her toward the pink building.
“Treat her well, Frederico.”
“Like my own precious darling, Nic. No question. She’ll be perfect when she comes back to you.”
“Much obliged, brother. I’ll see you after dessert.”
“Take your time, boss. No rush. Ma’am. Enjoy your evening.”
The handshake-backslap combo was repeated with the host as well.
Does he know everyone?
She paused.Of course. That’s how we have a reservation. Duh.
“Nicki, so good to see you. When you texted, I was so happy to return the favor. Man, my wife loves her sleeve. It looks incredible.”
“Glad to hear it, Michael. You change your mind, holler at me. I’ll make time for you.”
“You’re too good to me. Come on. I’ve got one of the best seats in the house for you and your lady.”
“Michael, this is Imogen. Imogen, Michael. His wife is a client.”
“She’s ecstatic with his work.” Michael held out a hand, and Imogen shook it.
“It’s a pleasure.”
“Nice to meet you too. Any friend of Nicki’s is a friend of ours. Follow me, please.”
He led them up a beautiful double staircase, through a pink high-ceilinged room, and then into the most incredible dining room that Imogen had ever seen. The pale blue wallpaper was covered with gold fleur-de-lis that were larger than her hand and matched those embroidered on blue chairs. Gilt-framed photographs of royal queens decorated the walls, and pale blue, gold, pink, and lavender silk drapery covered the windows. A crystal chandelier hung over the single long table in the room. It held a dozen seats, but only two place settings—one at the head and the seat right beside it.
“Nicki, madam, I hope this exceeds your expectations.”
“Perfection, Michael. You’re too good to me.”
The host grinned. “After how happy you made my wife? I owe you, man.”
“No, you don’t, but this is great.” Nic looked at Imogen. “This work for you?”
“It’s gorgeous. Just … wow. This is all for us?”
“Tonight, it’s all yours.” Michael smiled. “Only the best for Nic St. Clair.”
“Thank you so much, Michael.”
Nic pulled out the seat to the right of the head of the table. “My lady.”
Imogen was so glad Jury and Yve had talked her into the pink A-line dress with the extra crinoline underskirts. It fit the evening more perfectly than she could have ever guessed. In this elegant room, with this dapper man, she felt stylish and sophisticated.
