Thousand Yard Bride by Nora Flite, Allison Starwood Page B

god, and he really thought he was one. Still does."
    The flutter in my chest became a hard elastic ball. Hunter was pouring out a part of him that I had no right to hear, we barely knew each other. For some reason, though, he'd decided to grace me with some honesty.
    Abruptly, his expression morphed into a cold scowl. His eyes shot to me, burning into my guts and confusing me with how my knees shook. I wasn't scared—not really—but Hunter was exciting the way a roller-coaster was.
    He asked, "Why am I even telling you this? You’re corporate like the rest of my dad’s stooges. Don’t pretend you care.”
    Suddenly I got defensive. Nothing pisses me off more than people telling me how I felt. “Yeah, fair enough, I care about my career. Of course I do. It’s my whole life, as pathetic as that sounds. But what makes me so good at this job is that I do care about my clients. In fact, I—”
    Hunter’s response was dripping with derision, “There it is. ‘Client.’ I’m never just Hunter. Hell, I can’t even escape my own name. My father’s legacy follows me all over. Why can’t I be my own damn person? I’m always ‘player,’ ‘wide receiver,’ and even the ‘King of Diamonds’ crap is bullshit. And don’t talk to me about why you’re great at your job—I heard about how you screwed up with that poor model that had the drug problem. Did you ‘care’ about her, too? Or were you hoping she’d just disappear?”
    For a moment I was too stunned to speak. “Yes, actually. I really did care about Camille. I still do. I might not have been able to save her on paper, or in the media, but you know what? I convinced her to get help. Probably saved her life. And that’s something I can be proud of. The rest is up to her.”
    “Is that all true?” Hunter looked confused.
    “Yes,” I told him. “I consider Camille to be a friend, and I hope when she gets out of all this that she’ll remember that. Do you think I’m entirely heartless and just in this business for a paycheck? Do I look like some emotionless machine?”
    “No,” he said, looking down at the water. “You actually look . . . really great. Impressive, even. I’m glad we’re working together.”
    The guy should have been a baseball player with all these curve balls. "Really?" I could smell that scent of mint on him again, and it was more intoxicating than anything I’d had to drink that night.
    “Really.” His hot hands were on my wrists. When they constricted, I lifted my eyes and found him gazing down at me like I was the only woman in the world. In that mere second I was lost—I'd come undone. I should have backed away.
    I didn't.
    Hunter took my hands, pressing them against his chest, and then he pulled me into the hot tub. I thought about my new dress for half a breath; it had cost a pretty penny, it was probably the nicest thing I currently owned.
    Water seeped into it, the weight holding me down and making it easier for me to stop struggling. That black dress was drowning, as dead as the tiny voice in my head warning me I was making the biggest all-out-fucking-mistake of my life.
    And then all I could think about was his body pressing against mine. I could feel his strength, his heat, the power of his muscles through the clinging fabric. Hunter led me into the middle of the jacuzzi, his hold on me too gentle—too restrained.
    In a single upwards tilt of my chin, his lips found mine. His mouth was as soft and sweet as I'd hoped for. One sweep of his tongue made my belly clench. Another had my knees folding, my insides twisting in a wet ball of heat. I was kissing an electrical socket that had smiled at me too many times today—I could sense the shock wave that would fry my existence and ruin me entirely.
    And I didn't care. I didn't care at all.
    Our tongues tangled, my body was right up against his and I could feel his hard cock through his swim trunks. All pretense was gone; whatever had held Hunter at bay before