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despite his
seemingly languid slouch and his unkempt hair.
                 “Neither
a smile nor a scowl. You simply looked at me,” Lucas said, his voice like a
caress, dark and unfair as it worked its way through her like fine wine,
turning her too warm too quickly. She could feel him everywhere. Hot. Shivery. “Even
after I said hello.”
                 “Sorry,”
she said in mild yet clear dismissal, her attention on the screen in front of
her, as if she could not feel the pull of him, the heat. “You must have me
confused with someone else.”
                 “No,”
he said, his gaze shrewd, considering. “No, I don’t think so.”
                 Grace
would rather die than admit she remembered that moment—because she had been
quite literally struck dumb to turn from the bar and find him so close, so
glowing and impossibly compelling, sexy and rumpled and male . In painful hindsight, it ranked as one of the single most
humiliating moments of her life. She, twenty-eight years old, a fully grown
adult woman who oversaw teams of staff and high-level events, had been struck
mute at the sight of this man. This waste of space, famous for no particular
reason aside from his name, who used his considerable charm like currency. Yes , something in her had whispered,
deep and sure—as, no doubt, it did in every silly female who laid eyes on him
up close. But Grace had never forgiven herself for losing her head so
spectacularly over a man back in high school, with so many horrible consequences;
she would not compound the error now. She would not do it again.
                 “Yes,
well,” she said, proud that her voice remained cool, “perhaps I was simply
astounded that you could manage to speak coherently. You do have the reputation
of being somewhat consistently drunk, don’t you?”
                 “Which
means that I am rarely incoherent,” he said, smiling faintly. “It is my finest
skill. For all you know, I could be drunk right now.”
                 But
his eyes were too clear, too watchful. His voice too deliberately blasé. He was
about as drunk as she was.
                 “I
will keep that in mind in future,” she replied briskly. She straightened in her
seat and let impatience creep into her voice. “I’m sorry I don’t remember
meeting you at Samantha Cartwright’s party, Mr. Wolfe. How embarrassing, when I
am usually so good with faces. But then, it was a busy night for everyone, wasn’t
it?”
                 She
could not seem to keep her own insinuations from creeping in, and she knew why
when she saw his green eyes warm with a kind of rueful acknowledgment. With a
kind of recognition she knew she should fight. Instead, something about him
made her want to needle him, to get
under his skin.
                 She
could not bring herself to imagine what that might mean.
                 Meanwhile,
he watched her with those cat’s eyes, and he knew . Her secrets, her darkest corners. Everything. As if he could
see right into her.
                 It
should have horrified her. It should not have made her ache and her skin seem
to shrink against her bones. It should not have made her breath catch in her
throat, her mouth dry. It should not have made her want to show him all her
secrets, one by one, even the ones that still made her cringe.
                 “It’s
that voice of yours,” he said, musingly, as if he’d given the matter a great
deal of thought. His head tilted to one side. “It’s so surprising. It goes down
like a good cream tea, and then a few moments later the sting sets in. It’s
quite a formidable weapon you have there, Miss Carter.”
                 “I
prefer Ms . Carter, thank you,” she
retorted automatically.
                 “You
should be careful how you use it,” he replied, and she knew she did not mistake
the threat