Wicked Intentions(2)

I’m so grateful I’m a woman. We can get turned on without completely losing our intellect to our genitals.

“Hello,” I say neutrally. I remove my sunglasses. Neither of us smiles.

He asks, “What part of Paris you from?”

I have to physically force myself not to blink. There’s a slight difference between a Parisian accent and other French accents, and the fact that he picked it out is alarming.

And impressive. I’m inclined to like him, but of course I don’t allow myself to.

“You know Paris?” I ask coyly, avoiding his question.

He cocks his head. “A little.”

Hmm. That could mean he’s only seen the city in movies, or he lived there for years. He’s giving away about as much as I am.

“The eighth arrondissement,” I parry, testing him. “Gare Saint-Lazare.”

His face remains impassive. “Swanky neighborhood. You from there originally?”

I get the sense he’s testing me, too. Why do I like it? I decide to change the subject to see how he handles it. “What’s your name?”

One corner of his mouth turns up. A roguish little dimple appears in his cheek. “You avoided my question.”

“And you just avoided mine.”

“Yeah, but only because you started it.”

“Funny, you don’t strike me as a man who lets anyone else take the lead.”

He chuckles. “With a rear view as fine as yours, darlin’, you can take the lead anytime you like.”

Now we’re smiling at each other. For the first time in a long time, I’m having what could almost be described as fun.

The bartender arrives with the drinks. “Shall I charge it to your room, Mr. McLean?”

“Yep,” Golden Boy answers without looking away from me.

The bartender leaves with a promise that my conch croquettes are almost ready.

“So, Mr. McLean, where in Georgia are you from?”

If he’s surprised I pegged his accent, he doesn’t show it. He lifts a shoulder, self-confident, nonchalant. “Little town nobody’s ever heard of.”

“Oh come on. Now you have to tell me.”

The dent in his cheek grows deeper. “Perry.”

My smile widens. Unfortunately for him and his ego, I’ve spent a lot of time in the American South. “Home to the annual Georgia National Fair. Cute little historic town center. There’s, what, ten thousand residents in Perry?”

Golden Boy watches me with blistering focus. “Fifteen. What did you say your name was?”

I let the silence stretch out between us before saying softly, “I didn’t.”

When his eyes flash with desire, I know how I’m going to play him. He likes a challenge. Which means Earth Mother, Girl Next Door, and Dumb and Bubbly are all out the window, and Smoldering Seductress is in the house. I moisten my lips with the tip of my tongue, lower my chin, and look up at him from beneath my lashes.

He sets his empty beer bottle on the counter and slides onto the barstool next to me, all without taking his gaze from my face. His big thighs are spread open on either side of mine, effectively trapping me.

“So,” he says, “beautiful, nameless mademoiselle. Are we going to be friends or not?”

I can’t help myself. I laugh at his directness. “I don’t know, handsome American Marine. Perhaps we should take a moment to discuss your definition of ‘friends.’”

He leans closer. He’s bare chested, barefoot, and soaking wet from the waist down. The bulge in his black swim shorts is clearly visible, and impressively large. Five-o’clock shadow glints copper along his square jaw. If I were any other woman, this man would be devastating.

Into my ear, he says softly, “Anything you want it to be.”

Does he think I’m a prostitute? I’m not offended, but this is awfully forward, even for an American. Most men take a lot longer than five minutes to get to the propositioning.

Obviously he’s not like most men. I need to be careful with this one.

When he leans back, I tilt my head and consider him.

Up close, he’s even more handsome than he looked in the pool. Masculine and a little gritty, in spite of his sleepy Southern drawl and baby-blue eyes. He’s got big, rough hands, a superhero’s square jaw, an appealing cleft in his chin, and a lot of tattoos on his chest and arms that I’d like to trace with my fingers. Or tongue.

But I don’t ever sleep with a mark. It’s a policy I’ve never broken. If he takes me up to his room, I’ve got two potent pills to slip into his drink that will conveniently allow me to side step the minefield of sex with a stranger.

I might take a quick peek into his shorts while he’s passed out to check out that bulge he’s packing, but that’s as far as it will go.

“I already have a lot of friends.” I say it with just enough warmth that he knows it’s not a brush-off.

“I bet you do.” His voice is husky now. He lets his gaze drift to my lips, then to my cleavage, then down my legs, boldly and unapologetically eating me up with his eyes.

Under his admiring gaze, I feel like a cat that’s been stroked down its back. I wouldn’t be surprised if I started to purr. “And so do you.” I nod in the direction of his companions in the pool, who watch us with open interest.

“They can wait. I wanna get to know you better first.”

I stifle the urge to laugh again. He’s making this too easy. “Such an eager beaver!”

His eyes grow hotter. “A word of advice, darlin’,” he drawls, grinning. “Don’t say any words that are euphemisms for your lady parts unless you want me to think you’re flirtin’ with me.”

“I see. No mentions of muffins, cookies, secret gardens, or cockpits. Got it.”

His grin is so wide, it’s practically blinding. “You are flirtin’ with me.”

Bat, bat, bat go my eyelashes. “Would you mind if I were?”

His grin fades. He reaches out and gently strokes a lock of hair off my shoulder. He skims his fingertips slowly down my arm until he reaches my wrist. His touch leaves a trail of sparks in its wake.

He cuffs my wrist in his big hand, settles his index finger over my pulse point, and, after a moment of silence where I think he’s counting my heartbeat, says gruffly, “You know I wouldn’t. But I’ve got another warnin’ for you, beautiful mademoiselle. I don’t do small talk. When I want a woman, I go after her.”

He raises my wrist to his lips and brushes a sweet, soft kiss across the pulse pounding there. Electricity crackles through my body. All my nerve endings sit up and suck in a startled breath.

Looking into my eyes, my new friend Mr. McLean says, “So unless you tell me right now you don’t wanna play this game, I’m comin’ after you.”

Mierde santa. This man must get laid a dozen times a week.

Suddenly I’m filled with longing so strong and bittersweet, it steals my breath. I wish I were a normal woman, a tourist on vacation with her friends who could indulge herself in a summer fling with a sexy stranger. I wish I could say yes to this beautiful man, let him make love to me, let myself go.

I wish I could forget all the sins that led me to this moment.

But I can’t. They follow me like a shadow, dogging my every step. My only path to freedom is repayment of my debts, and Prince Khalid’s new bride’s ruby necklace is next on my debtor’s list.

So I smile and toss my hair and pretend to be someone I’m not, stuffing my longing for a different life into a dark, abandoned corner of my heart where all my other useless yearnings go.

“I like to play games, Mr. McLean,” I say lightly. “But since you’ve warned me, I should warn you, too. I always win.”

When he smiles, he does it with his whole body. It’s like he lights up from the inside out. “It’s Ryan,” he says. “And damn, this is gonna be fun. Tell me your name.”

I use the fake name on my fake passport and say, “Angeline Lemaire.”

Ryan nods. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Angeline.”

Before I can say another word, he tugs me closer and crushes his mouth to mine.





Two





Ryan




She tastes like strawberries and sunshine and secrets that go deep, and kisses like it’s her last day alive. Whoever this siren calling herself Angeline really is, she’s sexy as fuck.

She’s also clearly dangerous.

If my cock were any harder, it would be titanium.

Her hands are balled to fists on my chest, the one sign of resistance to the otherwise total surrender her body melts into as we kiss. Along with everything else about her, it’s an intriguing contradiction. Like the sadness in her eyes that’s paired with cold calculation. The self-confidence paired with the vulnerability. The pounding pulse paired with the disinterested smile.

She makes a sound deep in her throat, a soft, feminine moan. It makes my cock twitch. I tighten my arms around her and pull her closer.

“Wait!” She gasps, breaking away. Her eyes are startled. She lets out a surprised little laugh. “Wait a minute!”

Breathing hard, we stare at each other, our noses inches apart. I give her five seconds to get her bearings. Then I growl, “That’s as long as I can stand,” and take her mouth again, fisting my hands in her hair to hold her head in place.

From somewhere far off, I hear catcalls and clapping.