Chapter 72
Aria's POV
The hostess led us through El Cielo's dimly lit interior, where iron chandeliers cast warm, mysterious shadows across exposed brick walls. Even without Devon's imposing presence beside me, this Spanish restaurant would have been intimidating enough with its three Michelin stars and impossible-to-get reservations.
I smoothed my black slip dress, acutely aware of how the fabric clung to my curves and how the man beside me had explored every inch of those curves barely an hour ago. The memory of our encounter in his car burned through my thoughts despite my best efforts to extinguish it.
Devon walked slightly ahead, his tailored suit impeccable despite our earlier... activity. His broad shoulders betrayed no tension, while I felt like every patron could read our indiscretion on my face.
"Your table, Mr. Kane," the hostess gestured to a secluded corner with a spectacular view of Manhattan's night.
Devon pulled out my chair with mechanical courtesy, careful not to touch me. We both seemed determined to pretend the car incident never happened, creating an invisible wall of awkwardness between us.
The waiter approached with practiced enthusiasm, beginning his rehearsed description of the evening's specials, but Devon cut him off mid-sentence.
"We'll have the Iberian ham platter, the octopus with paprika, and the black paella. And a bottle of the 2010 La Rioja Alta Gran Reserva 904." His tone was clinical, as if ordering office supplies rather than a $400 bottle of wine.
I traced invisible circles on my napkin, feeling the weight of unspoken words between us. The birthmark on my collarbone seemed to burn under his occasional glances.
When the waiter departed, Devon reached into his suit jacket and extracted a matte black card that seemed to absorb rather than reflect the restaurant's ambient lighting.
"For earlier," he said, sliding the American Express Centurion card across the table toward me. "Consider it compensation."
I stared at the black card, momentarily speechless. My skin flushed hot with anger and humiliation.
"Compensation?" I finally managed, meeting his steel-gray eyes. "Devon Kane, are you treating me like a high-end escort, or are you trying to become my sugar daddy?"
The corner of his mouth twitched upward, his eyes suddenly alive with interest. "Which description would you prefer, Ms. Harper?"
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to an intimate whisper that only heightened my anger. "Or perhaps like our first meeting, you'd prefer to name your price directly?"
I held his gaze for several heartbeats, then grabbed the card and slipped it into my clutch. Rising from my seat with deliberate slowness, I smiled sweetly.
"Thank you for your generosity, Mr. Kane."
Without waiting for his response, I walked out, my heels clicking rhythmically against the hardwood floor. I felt his eyes on my back but refused to turn around. The doorman called a taxi, but I waved him off.
"I won't be going far," I explained, then strode purposefully toward the luxury shopping center next door.
My first stop was Gucci, where I selected a $20,000 handbag without even glancing at the price tag. The saleswoman's eyes widened when I handed her Devon's black card.
"Would you like to use your rewards points, Ms...." she paused, checking the name on the card, "...Kane?"
"No, thank you," I replied with a cold smile. "I prefer to spend generously today."
At Jimmy Choo, I selected three pairs of limited-edition heels. At Tiffany's, I chose a diamond bracelet that cost more than my monthly rent. Within thirty minutes, I'd charged nearly $300,000 to Devon's card, signing his name with flourish each time.
My final destination was Hermès, where I ordered a custom crocodile Birkin bag—the waiting list was normally two years, but I insisted on paying the full $600,000 upfront. The sales associate practically levitated with excitement.
Arms laden with shopping bags, I returned to El Cielo. Devon was leisurely enjoying his Spanish crème brûlée, looking unsurprised at my return. I placed his black card on the table and sat down, taking a delicate sip of the wine he'd ordered.
"Thank you for your gifts, Mr. Kane," I said quietly, triumph glimmering in my eyes.
Devon glanced at the mountain of luxury shopping bags behind me, something like surprise flickering across his usually impassive face.
"What did you buy?" he asked, his voice lower than usual.
I shrugged. "Just essentials. I'm neither prudish enough to refuse nor naive enough to treasure them. This way, we're even. Goods exchanged for services."
I leaned closer, lowering my voice. "You're too dangerous, Mr. Kane. And I have no intention of falling under anyone's control again."
His fingers drummed a subtle rhythm on the table, his expression showing rare confusion and—was that admiration?
I stood to leave, but Devon suddenly caught my wrist. "Aria, what happened in the car—"
"Was a mistake," I interrupted firmly. "We both know that."
His eyes darkened. "Mistakes don't usually leave such vivid memories."
I pulled my hand free. "Vivid memories don't necessarily warrant repetition, Mr. Kane. Goodnight."
---
Devon's POV
I watched through the restaurant's large windows as Aria spoke with the valet, then drove away in her Porsche. My fingers continued their rhythmic tapping against the table—an annoying habit I thought I'd eliminated years ago. A tell-tale sign of disturbance in my usually controlled demeanor.
What had just happened? I'd expected humiliation when she took my card, perhaps tears or indignation when I'd offered "compensation." Instead, she'd played my own game with a level of audacity few possessed. The shopping spree was a calculated move—not driven by greed but by a determination to prove she couldn't be bought.
Just as I prepared to pay the bill, Christopher appeared at the restaurant entrance.
"Devon! I just saw Aria leaving," Christopher said with that insufferable grin of his. "Don't deny it—I recognized that midnight blue Panamera anywhere."
My expression instantly reverted to its usual mask. "You're mistaken." The lie came easily, though my pulse quickened at the mention of her name.
Christopher sat uninvited, casually picking up my unfinished wine. "A woman like Aria was wasted on Ethan Blake." He took a sip, eyes gleaming with interest. "How about giving me her number? Since she and Blake are finished..."
"Her number?" I felt my voice drop several degrees, my fingers ceasing their movement. The thought of Christopher calling Aria, taking her to dinner, touching her—it triggered an unexpected surge of possessiveness.
"What?" Christopher's smile turned sly. "Don't tell me you've already claimed her? The sparks between you two—even a blind man could see it."
I stood, adjusting my suit jacket, carefully reconstructing the wall of indifference I'd momentarily let slip. "Mind your own business, Chris." I tossed a hundred-dollar bill on the table as a tip and strode toward the exit.
Behind me, I heard Christopher sigh. "I guess I don't stand a chance with Aria Harper after all."
As my driver opened the car door, I found myself replaying Aria's parting words: "Vivid memories don't necessarily warrant repetition." The challenge in her eyes when she'd said it only heightened my determination to prove her wrong.