shirt she wore, she held out her free hand. “I’m Ivy.”
It didn’t suit her. It was too innocent, too sweet, when she was all female power.
He held her hand, liked the feel of her palm against his. “Ivy,” he repeated softly, and her eyes darkened. He rubbed his thumb against the back of her hand, wanting to see if he could fluster her the way she’d flustered him. “Just Ivy?”
“Is that a problem?” Her gaze was steady, her expression amused. Not flustered in the least.
But when he let go, he noticed the unsteadiness of her hand, how she curled her fingers into her palm.
“I like to know who I’m talking to.” Wanted to know more about her.
“You’re talking to me.”
“I could find out easily enough,” he pointed out. All he had to do was make a call to the front desk or ask to speak to the restaurant’s supervisor.
“You could, but there’s no reason to. You and me? We aren’t going to be friends.”
“We’re not?”
“Hardly. Look, we both know there’s a...pull between us. A strong one. I didn’t come up here so we could get to know each other better, just as you didn’t ask me to have a drink with you within five minutes of meeting me so we could swap life stories. We want to explore this attraction between us. Why pretend it’s something other than what it is? I don’t need it prettied up. I don’t need small talk, persuasion or seduction, and I sure as hell don’t need promises.” She laid her hand on his arm, scooted closer, her fingers warm, her scent surrounding him. “I want you, Clinton,” she said, drawing his name out as if tasting it on her tongue. “Tonight, all I want is you.”
Desire slammed into him like a wildfire, threatened to burn away his willpower and common sense. Her agile mind and sharp sense of humor intrigued him. Her face and body attracted him. But it was the combination of everything—her looks and personality, her intelligence and wit—that left him speechless. Breathless.
Made him want her with a hunger that bordered on desperation.
She was dangerous to his self-control. His pride.
He had to figure her out. Had to do whatever was needed to gain the upper hand.
Even if part of him was screaming at him to take what she was offering and leave it at that.
“You declined to have a drink with me,” he reminded her. “Refused to even speak to me.”
“Still stuck on that, huh?” She patted his knee. “How about you build a bridge and get over it?”
“You changed your mind when you found out my last name.”
Letting her hand rest on his leg, she raised her eyebrows. “Wow. I’m not sure if you’re giving yourself too much credit. Or not enough.”
He grinned. “Believe me, darlin’, I give myself plenty of credit.”
“Just not everyone else. Or maybe,” she continued softly, “it’s just me you don’t think too highly of.”
What he thought was that she was just like everyone else. No matter how much he wished she wasn’t. He had to question everything. Everyone. He was a Bartasavich.
And he had to know that wasn’t why she was here.
“Weren’t you the one who said people were users?” he asked. “I need to know who you are. Why you changed your mind.”
* * *
I VY WASN’T SURE whether to smack the man upside his too-handsome head or laugh outright. She was practically in his lap, her hand on his thigh, and he wanted to talk about why she was there?
There was obviously something wrong with him.
And, possibly, something amiss with her, as well, since she was enjoying their verbal battle so much. When they finally came together, it was going to be explosive.
A thrill shot through her, anticipation climbing. She could hardly wait.
She smoothed her hand up his leg an inch. His muscles tensed, and he grabbed her hand to stop her from exploring any farther.
Too bad. She liked the feel of him. Solid and warm. She sensed there was an edge to him underneath the expensive clothes, a power he kept carefully
It didn’t suit her. It was too innocent, too sweet, when she was all female power.
He held her hand, liked the feel of her palm against his. “Ivy,” he repeated softly, and her eyes darkened. He rubbed his thumb against the back of her hand, wanting to see if he could fluster her the way she’d flustered him. “Just Ivy?”
“Is that a problem?” Her gaze was steady, her expression amused. Not flustered in the least.
But when he let go, he noticed the unsteadiness of her hand, how she curled her fingers into her palm.
“I like to know who I’m talking to.” Wanted to know more about her.
“You’re talking to me.”
“I could find out easily enough,” he pointed out. All he had to do was make a call to the front desk or ask to speak to the restaurant’s supervisor.
“You could, but there’s no reason to. You and me? We aren’t going to be friends.”
“We’re not?”
“Hardly. Look, we both know there’s a...pull between us. A strong one. I didn’t come up here so we could get to know each other better, just as you didn’t ask me to have a drink with you within five minutes of meeting me so we could swap life stories. We want to explore this attraction between us. Why pretend it’s something other than what it is? I don’t need it prettied up. I don’t need small talk, persuasion or seduction, and I sure as hell don’t need promises.” She laid her hand on his arm, scooted closer, her fingers warm, her scent surrounding him. “I want you, Clinton,” she said, drawing his name out as if tasting it on her tongue. “Tonight, all I want is you.”
Desire slammed into him like a wildfire, threatened to burn away his willpower and common sense. Her agile mind and sharp sense of humor intrigued him. Her face and body attracted him. But it was the combination of everything—her looks and personality, her intelligence and wit—that left him speechless. Breathless.
Made him want her with a hunger that bordered on desperation.
She was dangerous to his self-control. His pride.
He had to figure her out. Had to do whatever was needed to gain the upper hand.
Even if part of him was screaming at him to take what she was offering and leave it at that.
“You declined to have a drink with me,” he reminded her. “Refused to even speak to me.”
“Still stuck on that, huh?” She patted his knee. “How about you build a bridge and get over it?”
“You changed your mind when you found out my last name.”
Letting her hand rest on his leg, she raised her eyebrows. “Wow. I’m not sure if you’re giving yourself too much credit. Or not enough.”
He grinned. “Believe me, darlin’, I give myself plenty of credit.”
“Just not everyone else. Or maybe,” she continued softly, “it’s just me you don’t think too highly of.”
What he thought was that she was just like everyone else. No matter how much he wished she wasn’t. He had to question everything. Everyone. He was a Bartasavich.
And he had to know that wasn’t why she was here.
“Weren’t you the one who said people were users?” he asked. “I need to know who you are. Why you changed your mind.”
* * *
I VY WASN’T SURE whether to smack the man upside his too-handsome head or laugh outright. She was practically in his lap, her hand on his thigh, and he wanted to talk about why she was there?
There was obviously something wrong with him.
And, possibly, something amiss with her, as well, since she was enjoying their verbal battle so much. When they finally came together, it was going to be explosive.
A thrill shot through her, anticipation climbing. She could hardly wait.
She smoothed her hand up his leg an inch. His muscles tensed, and he grabbed her hand to stop her from exploring any farther.
Too bad. She liked the feel of him. Solid and warm. She sensed there was an edge to him underneath the expensive clothes, a power he kept carefully
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