His smile comes on slow. He wanders over to me, moving casually, his arms loose at his sides. He stops in front of me and murmurs, “I know. I just haven’t figured out what you are here for.”
I can’t tell if he’s talking about here in his room, here in this hotel, or here on this island. Possibly all three. Everything he says to me now seems layered with meaning. It’s all innuendoes and undertones. Insinuation is his middle name.
Better than Tiberius.
He touches my cheek. “Why’re you smilin’ like that, Angel?”
“I’m trying to decide if I like you or not.”
“Oh, you do. You just don’t want to. The question is why.”
Suddenly, I’m tired, and more than a little depressed. He’s worn me out with his eagle-eyed intuition. I’ve never met a man so perceptive. It’s exhausting.
“Can I ask a favor, Ryan?” I ask quietly, holding his gaze.
He answers without hesitation. “Yes.”
“Can we pretend, just for tonight, that nothing bad has ever happened to either one of us? That we still have faith that the world is a good place, filled with good people? That all our tomorrows can be as good as today?”
He searches my face in silence. He lifts his hand and cups my cheek. When he speaks, his voice is husky with emotion. “When you let me see you, the real you, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. If you give me more of that, I’ll pretend anything you want.”
We stare at each other. My pulse gallops like a whipped horse. Finally, I decide what the hell. I’ll never see him again. I’ve got two hours until Khalid passes out—as he does every night like clockwork after half a dozen cocktails. I might as well spend it being the real me with a stranger while we pretend everything is what it’s not.
I nod. “Okay. That’s sufficiently fucked up for my liking. But I’m warning you, I haven’t been the real me in so long, it might take a minute for me to remember who that is. And I have one condition, but it’s nonnegotiable.”
Ryan might as well be a live wire for all his crackling energy. “Which is?”
“We don’t talk about work. Mine or yours.”
He replies instantly. “Deal.”
I’m so relieved, I want to collapse into hysterical laughter onto the floor. “Good. Pour me a drink while I take off these heels. They’re killing me. Being a femme fatale is hell on the feet.”
He blinks. Then he laughs. It’s a sound I enjoy far too much for my own good.
“I’ve got a full minibar, Angel,” he says, grinning. “Name your poison.”
“Bourbon.”
His eyebrows lift. He nods approvingly. “America’s number one spirit. Interestin’ choice for a girl from Paris.” He winks and saunters across the room toward the wet bar, leaving me astonished once again.
He knows I’m not from Paris.
How does he know?
Who is this guy?
“I’m going to snoop around now,” I pronounce.
“Knock yourself out, sweetheart. I got nothin’ to hide from you.” He doesn’t even turn, just casually proceeds to pour us drinks.
Teetering between exasperation, exhilaration, and the urge to abandon the job altogether and run away quick as I can, I kick off my heels, set my handbag on the TV console, and look around.
His room is large, with one wall missing and open to the view of the sea, as all the rooms in the resort are. Built right into the side of a mountain, the resort is the playground for the rich and famous, those who require both luxury and privacy. Everything about the décor and architecture supports both needs, from the thousand-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets to the huge wading pools on the balconies to the ban on camera use in all the public spaces.
I walk through the living room and stare at the view. In the distance, the ocean sparkles under patchy moonlight. Fat gray thunderclouds slink down the hills. A humid breeze stirs my hair.
Ryan appears silently beside me and hands me my drink. “Gonna be a storm tonight.” He looks sideways at me. He’s not smiling.
I gulp the bourbon. It sears a stinging path down my throat. Steady, Mari. Steady.
I begin my inspection of the room.
First stop is the dresser. I pull open a drawer and peer inside. Underwear. White cotton briefs, folded with military precision. I resist the urge to touch them and close the drawer. The next drawer holds T-shirts, all of them plain black, all of them exactly alike. He must look amazing in them, tattooed biceps bulging from beneath the sleeves, the color setting off his golden skin and hair…
Who’s running this show, Mari? You, or your ovaries?
I close my eyes, take another swig of my drink, and close that drawer, too.
Ryan relaxes onto the sofa. He watches with cynical interest as I open and close the rest of the dresser drawers. “If you’re lookin’ for my gun, Angel,” he drawls. “I’m wearin’ it.”
I smile at him. “Hammerless slimline .38 strapped to your left ankle. I know.”
The laser-beam look he gives me would slice a lesser woman in two, but I merely smile wider, enjoying myself, and stroll over to the teak armoire. I swing open the door.
A row of white dress shirts, spotless and crisp, like the one he’s wearing. Dark-wash jeans, also like the ones he’s wearing, hang next to the shirts. On the floor are three pairs of shoes, black leather Ferragamos, same as the ones he’s wearing, and a lone pair of flip-flops. I turn and look at him.
“You have very specific taste in clothing.”
“And women.”
He takes a drink, watching me over the rim of the glass. One arm is stretched casually over the back of the sofa. His legs are spread wide. He takes up a lot of space just sitting there. He fills up the whole room. I’ve never met a man with so much presence.
The necklace, Mari. Eyes on the prize.
I turn away from Ryan and stroll into the bathroom, thoughtfully swirling what’s left of the bourbon in my glass.
Razor, comb, shaving cream, toothbrush, and a tube of toothpaste are laid out on the marble bathroom counter in a straight row. Though I know he showered and shaved before dinner, there isn’t a stray hair or drop of water in sight. All the towels hang, perfectly folded, from their racks.
“You’re freakishly neat,” I observe aloud.
“Or maybe the maid came in and straightened up during dinner.”
I look at him over my shoulder. “Without tripping one of your alarms? I don’t think so.”
The corners of his mouth tip up. I can tell he’s enjoying our strange little game as much as I am.
“Finished with your inspection yet?” he inquires, so casually he almost sounds bored.
I glance at the laptop on the coffee table.
“You said no work,” he reminds me. “And that”—he tips his head at the laptop—“is all work.”
I know exactly what I’ll be firing up as soon as he passes out. The urge to know more about him feels like the nail-biting habit I had when I was a kid. Irresistible. Obsessive. Something you know isn’t good for you, but you’re helpless to stop it.
“You’re right,” I say lightly. “No work. Take out your wallet.”
He chuckles. “It’s in my back pocket, Angel. You wanna snoop in it? Come and get it.”
I hesitate. I don’t believe he’ll harm me, but this is dangerous. Being physically close to him is dangerous. It makes me think of hot kisses and big, rough hands and the pulse between my legs like a little heartbeat when he touches my skin.
I take a moment to fortify myself with one last swig of bourbon, then cross to him and set the empty glass on the coffee table. I expect him to stand, but he just looks up at me, a glint of mischief shining in his blue eyes.
Son of a bitch.
I lift my skirt and straddle him.
Which of course is what he wanted, evidenced by the smug-as-shit smile he gives me.
“Well, howdy, sweetheart,” he drawls. He leaves the one arm stretched out over the back of the sofa, but settles his other hand on my bare thigh. It’s heavy and warm, and feels strangely possessive.
“Howdy yourself.” I reach around, trying to stuff my hand under his butt so I can get to his back pocket. It’s almost impossible. I can wriggle my fingers just past his hip, but he’s too heavy to make much headway otherwise.
Naturally, he doesn’t assist by adjusting his weight. He just smiles at me while I struggle.
“Never had a woman fondle my ass on the first date,” he muses.
“I’m not fondling, cowboy, I’m investigating. And you’re not helping, by the way.”
“Why on earth would I help when it’s so much fun watchin’ you work?”
His gaze drops to my chest.
My dress has a low neckline and spaghetti straps, and I’m not wearing a bra, so my breasts aren’t exactly hidden. In fact, they’re popping out all over, mere inches from his face.
He moistens his lips.
It’s such a simple thing, yet utterly seductive. I imagine those lips latching on to one of my nipples and drawing it into the wet heat of his mouth. Lust rips through me, razor sharp.
His gaze flashes up to mine. It’s blistering hot. “Your heartbeat just went all catawampus, darlin’.”
“Your lips are so—”
My face goes molten hot.
“So what?” he prompts, holding perfectly still.