Book 1 - Page 18 (1/2)

”Cary Taylor.” He shook Gideon's hand with a wide smile. ”But you knew that. Nice to meet you. I've heard a lot about you.”

I could've killed him. I seriously thought about it.

”Good to know.” Gideon settled on the seat beside me, his arm draped behind me so that his fingertips could brush casually and possessively up and down my arm. ”Maybe there's hope for me yet.”

Twisting at the waist, I faced him and whispered fiercely, ”What are you doing?”

He shot me a hard glance. ”Whatever it takes.”

”I'm going to dance.” Cary stood with a mischievous grin. ”Be back in a bit.”

Ignoring my pleading glance, my best friend blew me a kiss and the guys followed him. I watched them all go, my heart racing. After another minute, ignoring Gideon became ridiculous, as well as impossible.

My gaze slid over him. He wore dress slacks in graphite gray and a black V-neck sweater, the overall effect being one of careless sophistication. I loved the look on him and was attracted to the softness it gave him, even though I knew it was only an illusion. He was a hard man in a lot of ways.

I took a deep breath, feeling like I needed to make an effort to socialize with him. After all, wasn't that my big complaint? That he wanted to skip past the getting-to-know-you stage and jump straight into bed?

”You look...” I paused. Fantastic. Wonderful. Amazing. So d.a.m.n s.e.xy...In the end, I went with the lame, ”I like the way you look.”

His brow arched. ”Ah, something you like about me. Is that a general like of the overall package? Or just the clothes? Only the sweater? Or maybe it's the pants?”

The edge to his tone rubbed me the wrong way. ”And if I say it's just the sweater?”

”I'll buy a dozen and wear them every d.a.m.n day.”

”That would be a shame.”

”You don't like the sweater?” He was p.i.s.sy, his words coming clipped and fast.

My hands flexed restlessly in my lap. ”I love the sweater, but I also like the suits.”

He stared at me a minute, and then nodded. ”How was your date with B.O.B.?”

Oh h.e.l.l. I looked away. It was a lot easier talking about mast***ation over the phone. Doing it while squirming under that piercing blue stare was mortifying. ”I don't kiss and tell.”

He brushed the backs of his fingers over my cheek and murmured, ”You're blus.h.i.+ng.”

I heard the amus.e.m.e.nt in his voice and swiftly changed topics. ”Do you come here often?”

s.h.i.+t. Where did that cliched line come from?