Not the Marrying Kind(11)
That Google pic? The one bearing a strong resemblance to Gerard Butler? Did. Not. Do. Him. Justice.
Embarrassingly speechless, she did the only thing she could: when in doubt, smile. It must’ve lost something in the translation and come out an inane grin, because his eyebrow inverted in a comical WTF.
“Nice blouse.”
She raised him a WTF eyebrow in return.
Of all the introductions she’d imagined, that hadn’t been one of them, a strangely intimate comment on her attire.
He was trying to disarm her. It was working. Not that she’d let him know.
“Nice tie.”
To her surprise he laughed. “Touché.”
“Was the color a deliberate choice?”
She often wore a touch of deep crimson—poppy—as a good-luck token, hence her shirt.
He slid a finger beneath the tie’s knot, loosening it a tad. It didn’t detract from his smooth shark aura. He’d probably gone for a shot-silk poppy tie to goad her. “Poppy seems to be a popular color these days.”
She didn’t want to ask how he knew that. He probably had a slew of glam girlfriends in slinky, revealing, poppy dresses for every day of the week. The good thing about their absurd color conversation: it gave her time to gather her wits. Time to get this meeting off to a better start.
“Now that we’ve analyzed this year’s most sought-after color for Fashion Week, should we get down to business?” She held out her hand. “Poppy Collins. Pleased to meet you.”
“Beck Blackwood. Likewise.”
The moment his large hand enveloped hers, she stiffened against the unexpected zap that sizzled up her arm and centered on places it had no right centering.
If she didn’t know better, she could’ve sworn the zap worked both ways, as his pupils widened perceptibly and he quickly released her.
“Call me Beck.”
She inclined her head. “Call me stupid.”
His eyes widened in surprise and she mentally clapped a hand over her mouth. Too late.
“For agreeing to meet you despite your less than subtle attempt at blackmail?”
His sinful mouth eased into a smirk. One she’d like to wipe off. “Don’t take it personally. I vet all the people I hire.” The smirk gave way to a practiced smile. “Pays to be alert in any business, as I’m sure you’d appreciate.”
Great. Was he saying she was an astute businesswoman, or warning her to be on her guard? Whatever. She’d come this far, no point alienating him. This party would launch Divorce Diva Daily, and if Hotshot could keep his mouth shut about her identity, this could prove a win-win all around.
“Just so you know, I’m flexible professionally but I don’t take orders kindly.”
“Noted.” That damned smile widened. “Have to say, you’re not what I expected.” His all-encompassing stare started at her patent pumps and swept upward, coolly assessing, as she crazily wished it’d linger in those places his handshake had zapped a second ago.
“Let me guess. You were expecting bitter and twisted?”
“Would you settle for wary and cynical?”
Not fair. Not only was the guy gorgeous, he had the intelligence and quick wit to match.
“Not married?” His gaze dipped to her ring finger.
“No way,” she said, immediately regretting her instinctive outburst under his intense scrutiny.
He had the penetrating stare down pat and she could easily imagine him facing off a boardroom full of adversaries.
She wasn’t so easily intimidated.
“No engagements, no significant others, no cramping of style.” She waved her left hand in his face to prove it.
“And you’ve got plenty of that.” His stare softened into something she didn’t dare label.
She preferred the intimidating stare to the admiration tinged with a hint of heat.
“Let’s go. We’ve got a lot of work to do.” He reverted to brusque and abrupt, and she preferred it. The less zapping that occurred around Beck, the better. Even thinking of him on a first-name basis implied an intimacy she didn’t like.
“After you.” He gestured toward the open limo door, his hand brushing the small of her back in gentle guidance.
Yep, the zap was still there. Disconcerting and disarming.
She slid into the limo. The sooner she nailed this pitch, the sooner she could head back to the safety of Provost and the anonymity of Divorce Diva Daily.
This was one diva who had no intention of flaunting anything.
…
Beck sprawled across the seat opposite Poppy, watching her type furiously on her tablet. No hardship, watching her.
He liked the fact she was ignoring him. It meant he had her rattled.
Join the club.
She’d shot down his expectations of a dour, bitter, forty-something, middle-aged divorcée the moment she stepped onto the tarmac and he got his first look at the pocket dynamo.