Damn.
She held her breath and was relieved when he didn’t say anything. But those big hands pulled her even closer, fitting her more securely against his body.
Her belly seemed to hollow out as honeyed warmth spread through her.
What was happening to her? Sure, she’d talked a good game about looking for a guy tonight . . . but she hadn’t really expected to feel attracted to someone so soon after her fiancé dumped her.
And this was more than attraction. She was so turned on her hair might be standing on end.
Another thought clamored for attention in her pleasure-fogged brain. But how was she supposed to think straight when Ian had found that place on her waist again and was stroking it softly, his thumbs making lazy sweeps against her bare skin?
When rationality finally broke through, she had to force herself to lift her head from his shoulder.
“You cancelled my show,” she blurted, hanging onto that fact as if it were a port in a storm.
His hands stilled, but he didn’t let her go.
“I know,” he said, the low timbre of his voice sending new darts of sensation through her.
“I don’t like you.”
“I know that, too.”
“If I seem to be enjoying myself that’s only because I’m drunk and . . . and . . .”
“Vulnerable,” he suggested.
“Yes, vulnerable. Because you cancelled my show,” she said again.
“Right. So that means I owe you.”
He bent his head towards her as he spoke, and his jaw brushed against her cheek. She felt the scrape of rough stubble across her flushed skin.
She took a deep breath. “Absolutely. You owe me big.”
The song ended. In the quiet before the next one began, Ian stepped back to look at her, putting a little space between them.
Kate had never been so relieved and so disappointed at the same time.
Those hazel eyes looked into hers. “So let me be your date to the wedding. I’ll make your ex eat his heart out, and I’ll make every other woman there wish she was you.”
The wedding. She’d almost forgotten about it again.
For the first time, she imagined showing up at the Ritz-Carlton reception with Ian Hart on her arm. Whether he came as Corporate Guy or Tattooed Bad Boy, there was no question he’d be the smoking-hot date of her dreams.
Which was what she’d come here looking for. Right?
She was still having trouble thinking straight. She was also feeling a little . . . disheveled. She smoothed her hands down her leather skirt, making sure it hadn’t ridden up her thighs, and then tucked her hair behind her ears.
Ian followed her movements with his eyes. His gaze warmed her skin as though he’d touched her.
She swallowed. “Okay, fine. You can take me to the wedding. It’s on”—what the hell was the date?—“June twelfth.” She remembered something else: “I may need you for the rehearsal dinner, too.”
His eyes gleamed with something—satisfaction, or maybe amusement. Not that she cared what he was feeling, of course. She needed a hot date, and Ian Hart fit the bill. And since this was partial payback for his cancelling her show, it was kind of like a business transaction.
“I’ll keep that weekend open,” he said. “And now I have a favor to ask you.”
She frowned. “You don’t get to ask me a favor. You could take me to ten weddings and you’d still owe me.” But then her curiosity got the better of her. “What is it?”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d let me take you home now.”
Her frown deepened. “Now? I only got here an hour ago. What if I’m not ready to leave yet? And how is that a favor to you, anyway?”
One corner of his mouth lifted in a smile. “I’m afraid that if you stay, you’ll keep drinking. And then you might find some other bad boy you like more than me.”
She spoke without thinking. “I wouldn’t—” She stopped herself just in time and coughed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if I did,” she finished primly.
His smile turned into a grin. “So why don’t you let me take you home now? You drank, you danced, you hung out with your friend and got hit on by Arthur. That’s pretty good for a night on the town. Why don’t you cap it off with a ride on a motorcycle? That was one of your requirements for a bad boy, right?”
She stared at him. “You have a motorcycle?”
“I used to, a long time ago. I borrowed one tonight just for you.”
He used to drive a motorcycle. Her gaze drifted down to the tattoos on his arms, and she wondered if they dated from the same period in his history.
She reached out and traced one of the tattoos with the tip of a finger. It was gorgeous—a red-and-black dragon twisting sinuously around Ian’s bicep.