“Good lord,” I mutter, prepared to send a crispNo, thank youto some lonely businessman who’ll surely look like the Rich Uncle Pennybags Monopoly mascot.
Mercy.
At the far corner sits a complete smokeshow in a charcoal suit.
Tall as heck. Hair mostly pepper with just enough salt; wavy, with a widow’s peak that makes him look like a classic film star.
Maybe midforties?I think.Probably has a decade on me…
His bone structure is angular, complexion outdoor-tan, and he has firm-but-tender lips that seem to say,I’ll tell you what to do, then reward you for doing it.
He also isn’t looking at me.
Huh.
I pick up the bourbon and bring it to my nose.
I like to say I know my bourbon because I grew up in Kentucky. But Auntie Min is a strict nondrinker, and I left for North Carolina at eighteen, so there goes that theory.
Glass near my lips, I look up. Gray Suit Smokeshow moves his aloof gaze in my direction. He raises his own glass—eyes smiling, mouth impassive—then looks away.
Who does he think is in charge here? What a smug jerk.
I set the glass down, ignoring him.
A minute later, charcoal gray drifts in like a storm cloud on my periphery. I can smell him, and if that isn’t Neroli Portofino cologne, I’ll eat my hat.
Please let his voice sound like it does in my head…
His right hand—oh God, what a gorgeous pair of hands—opens toward the liquor. “Would you prefer something else?”
His voice is heavenly—a deep, smoothly accented incantation. I feel it down to my toes.
“Bourbon served neat,” I reply, not looking at him. “Good choice. Not chardonnay or something silly with an umbrella.”
He gives a rumbly chuckle, and I peek to see his smile. Boyishly asymmetric, single dimple on the left.
“What are you drinking?” I ask, picking up his glass and tipping it toward my face. The scent blooms into my nostrils, warm. “Ooh, cognac?”
“Mmm-hmm. Courvoisier—help yourself.”
“Ah, we’re sharing?”
He offers that whisper-light Mona Lisa smile. “I will certainly order you an untouched glass… if you’re shy.”
His eyes are dark as puddles of ink, and oh the things he’s writing with them…
“Are you shy, kleine Hexe?”
I know only a smattering of German but am pretty sure this deliciously bad man just called me a little witch.
Without breaking our gaze, I take a sip of his cognac.
“Nope. Not shy.”
As we take the elevator to his room, I’m surprised he doesn’t try to kiss me. He leans in the corner, fingertips resting on the handle of my suitcase, eyeing me speculatively.
He looks vaguely familiar. Have I seen him before? Maybe just in my fantasies. Because he is exactly… my… type. Wow.
