“Thank you for inviting me up for a drink,” I tell him, my gaze angling away. I’m both excited and unnerved by his coy smile, and the challenge flashing in those dark eyes. “That loud music in the lounge was too much. I’m sure my friend’ll text soon.”
“Thankyou,” he counters, “for treating me to your company.”
The accent is lovely—clipped and neat, with a soft, cool texture like a layer of fresh snow.
“You’re German?” I ask.
The elevator eases to a stop and chimes.
“Austrian.” He opens a hand to invite me to precede him into the hallway.
“What line of work are you in?”
We haven’t exchanged names; the window closed on that halfway through a flirty glass of bourbon. It’s clearly a game at this point.
“Management. And you?”
We walk to the end of the hall—double doors leading to the floor’s biggest suite. He takes his phone out and taps it to unlock the door, then slides a finger along the screen to bring the lights up before ushering me in.
“Oh, I’m a writer,” I say, keeping it as vague as he is.
He pauses in the doorway and gives me a guarded look. “What do you write?”
Ah. So he’s cautious about journalists? Best to go with a little truth-stretching…
“I’m researching a novel.” My mind scrambles to think of what I might be doing in the city if not attending the grand prix. “It’s… about an archaeologist. There’ve been cool Bronze Age archaeology discoveries here.” My cheeks heat with the lie.
He studies my face, his eyes smiling. “Interesting. You must tell me more.”
Yikes. Hopefully nottoomuch more.
The corner suite is stunning. My steps halt as I’m greeted by a wall of windows overlooking the marina, across an opulent livingroom with a bar. An archway leads to a bedroom with a kingly barge of a bed, mounded with gold pillows.
“Hell of a view,” I breathe.
“Make yourself comfortable. Bourbon again?”
“I’d take a half pour.”
I watch while he assembles my drink, then casually wander away—making him chase me a bit—after he hands it to me. Peeking around the bedroom doorway, I spot a huge en suite behind a frosted glass wall. The luxurious shower is open concept: multiple heads, fancy tile, big bench.
He appears beside me and raises his glass to mine. He has such leonine grace, every movement elegant and spare, like a dance. I can smell him again, and it’s making me nuts—a combination of sleep deprivation, rebelliousness, and hormones.
Taking a sip, I nod at the en suite. “I hope the one in my friend’s room is as nice. I’m looking forward to a shower.”
His dark-as-sin eyes shine down at me. My focus moves from his eyes to his mouth in a blatant signal I’m willing to be kissed.
Would it be so terrible to spend a few hours as the bold, uninhibited girl I’ve never been, rather than a Good Girl suckered by the promises of cads like Josh?
The only promise I see in Charcoal Suit’s eyes is a good time.
His gaze lingers on my lips too. A shimmer of heat goes through me.
“You’re welcome to use my shower,” he offers in that silky baritone. “And if you don’t hear from your friend, this suite has a guest room.”
I don’t quite rise on my toes in anticipation of a kiss, but my feet are tensed and ready. He takes a step back and saunters to the bar, his posture easy, unhurried.
Oh, just look at this lovely creature—butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. He’s going to make me work for it.
