Devil's Plaything (Playthings, #1) by Lydia Rowan Page B

car, he pulled up to a plain brown building, a constellation of four lightbulbs the only decoration. He got out and walked around to the passenger side, helping her out of the car.
    “Wait, is this Hideaway?”
    “Yes.”
    “How did—this place is impossible to get into, beyond exclusive. I heard the head of cardiology complaining about not being able to get a table.”
    “I wanted our first date to be memorable.”
    “D’yavol.” She stopped. “I don’t need all this.”
    “But”—he grabbed her hand and lifted it to his mouth for a gentle kiss”—you deserve it, and I’m going to give it to you.” His eyes glittered in the light.
    Practically melting right there on the sidewalk, she nodded and, leaving her hand in his, continued toward the door, which opened before they even reached it.
    “Good evening,” the doorman, decked out in a full tuxedo including a top hat and cane, said. “Welcome to Hideaway. The maître d’ will seat you.”
    “Thank you,” D’yavol said as he tipped the man before placing his hand on the small of her back and guiding her farther inside.
    “Good evening, sir, ma’am. Please follow me,” another tuxedo-clad man said, arm extended toward a semicircular booth tucked in the corner of the deceptively large room. As she made her way over, D’yavol behind, Julie took in the place, impressed by its tasteful decor and ambiance. The booths and tables were spaced such that each group had privacy, but the restaurant still felt like a cohesive shared space. Festive classical music played in the background, and the low lightning cast a flattering glow on the patrons and staff alike. They reached the booth, and D’yavol stood until she’d settled, her attempt at sitting without exposing more of her thighs a miserable failure. The moment D’yavol settled in the booth, a dark-haired waitress wearing a feminized version of the tuxedo walked over, bottle of sparkling water in hand.
    “Welcome to Hideaway. My name is Nina, and I’ll be your culinary consultant this evening.”
    D’yavol smiled at Julie’s quirked brow. Culinary consultant? That was new, not that she dined at restaurants with waitresses that often.
    “This evening,” Nina continued as she deftly placed menus in front of Julie and then D’yavol, “the chef is featuring squab, rabbit, venison, and swordfish and accompaniments as well as a selection of cold and raw fish dishes. Feel free to order any of the dishes, but I’d recommend you select the guided menu tour. While you decide, may I offer you a refreshment?”
    “I’ll have a lime seltzer.”
    “I’ll have the same,” Julie said.
    Nina smiled and nodded. “I’ll return with those in a moment, and please let me know if you have any questions.”
    After she’d left, D’yavol said, “You don’t drink alcohol?”
    “No. I never developed a taste.”
    “Me either. What looks good?”
    “I have no clue.”
    She’d planned to get her standard chicken dish, which was usually on the lower end of the price scale, but there wasn’t a chicken in sight, and the menu didn’t include prices.
    “Ma’am, sir,” Nina said, placing their drinks on the table, “have you had a chance to review the menu?”
    “We’ll take the guided menu tour,” D’yavol said.
    Nina, before professional but subdued, lit up as she described the dishes. She asked about their preferences and experiences, and after about five minutes of conversation, Nina left with promises to return soon with their first course.
    Julie was excited about the meal but couldn’t resist poking at D’yavol.
    “You order always order for your dates?”
    “Just you, Julie,” he said with a laugh. “You were getting that frown here.” He indicated the space between her eyes. “And I didn’t want you to worry.” He reached across the table and covered her hand with his. “Let’s enjoy it.”
    And enjoy it they did, Nina more than living up to the “culinary consultant” label. She