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Face flaming hot, I glanced up from under my lashes to scan the—
Oh my god.
One thing I learned in journalism school was to trust my instincts. If it felt like you were being watched, you were.
Sometimes, I hated being right.
As if drawn to his presence, my gaze landed on Sebastien St. Clair. He sat on the Atlanta bench, and despite being all the way across the ice, I could clearly make out his bright blue eyes as he studied my face. My bright red face. It didn't matter that a little over eighty-five feet separated us, the scorching heat in his intense stare was unmistakable, as was the way his lips pulled into that annoying smirk.
The smirk may as well have been a sensual caress because my insides burst into flames, the desire so potent it left me feeling raw and exposed. The sensation grew and thrummed and made my body respond in ways I didn't want it to. My complete lack of control over my reaction made me angry and I gnashed my teeth.
I hated him. Okay, fine. It’s not that I hated him, so much as I hated what he did to me. Hated the way my stupid body reacted to him. Was drawn to everything about him. I was drawn to him. There was something about Sebastien St. Clair, a buzzing undercurrent of danger that he emanateed, and that was what easily seduced my reckless side.
Feeling a little bit humiliated and a lot furious, I broke the connection first and dropped my attention to the box in my lap. Well, if it was from Sebastien St. Clair, it most likely wasn’t a box of snakes. I inhaled a shaky breath and closed my eyes. What was he playing at? Besides the obvious, which was a full out assault on my senses with the singular goal of driving me insane with lust.
The Calloway stubborn gene kicked in. I refused to give St. Clair the satisfaction of knowing he got under my skin. I focused on the gift in my lap, steeled my expression, and kept it neutral as I lifted the lid. After peeling back several layers of red tissue paper—and no sign of snakes, thank you Jesus—I almost broke my vow to remain straight-faced. It took a lot of effort to bite back the laugh that threatened to burst free. Sitting amongst the tissue lay perfectly folded Atlanta Comets jersey. An odd choice of gifts since I damn well knew Sebastien St. Clair saw the one I had on. His note confirmed the fact.
No longer caring whether or not he saw me react, I frowned. Honestly, I should have just slammed the lid back on the box and shoved it under my seat. Made the guy sweat it out by refusing to accept his stupid gift and his even stupider suggestion that we meet.
Yeah, no.
I was way too curious to give in, and that made me even angrier. The fact that Sebastien had me curious. Infuriated by my lack of self-control, I lifted the present out of the box and held it up. My eyes narrowed.
What a pompous jackass.
On the back of the jersey, embroidered in bold, thirteen-inch numbers, were a one and a nine. Above that, in three-inch lettering, was the name St. Clair, stitched horizontally over the shoulder blades.
“Nice shirt. He's a really good player.” The woman in the seat behind me had taken it upon herself to look over my shoulder and comment on my gift. “And he’s sexy, too.” She chuckled and went back to watching the game.
I grimaced. Like I needed or wanted anyone's opinion on Sebastien St. Clair. Even though I knew he was waiting, dying to see me lose my cool, I couldn't help but cram the stupid thing back into the box and force the lid on. So what if he knew I was mad? He’s clearly a first-class jerk, so why should I care?
I pressed my lips together in a hard line, knowing what I was about to do. I couldn't help myself. I was weak. With a sigh, I gave in to the urge and glanced over at the Comets’ bench to locate Sebastien St. Clair, so I could glower at his arrogant ass. He needed to see just how much of a jerk I thought he was. Only, instead of leveling my best stern glare across the ice, I flinched and let out a humiliating high-pitched squeak.
It was patently obvious my luck was nonexistent when it came to all matters St. Clair. Because the teams swapped sides for each period, the man for whom my glower was intended was standing mere feet from where I sat. His position at right wing meant he was directly in front of my seat, skating in slow, sensual circles while he waited for the ref to set up the puck drop.
Of course, because I’m me, he stopped skating right in time to catch me staring. Those glittering blue eyes locked on to mine and I became helpless. Sebastien was so close, I could see the desire that burned in his heated stare as he unapologetically checked me out, raking his gaze up and down my body without shame.
A current of electricity crackled through the air between us. My body tingled and my blood sang as my breath hitched in my lungs. I was trapped. Frozen. Held in place by Sebastien St. Clair as surely as if he were physically pinning me down with his strong hands, and damn if that thought didn’t unleash a jolt of desire that quickly spread low in my abdomen.
Screw what I was supposed to do. What I wanted to do was worship at his feet. Prostrate at the altar of St. Clair.
I blinked a few times before I shook myself free of his trance, and put a hand to my blisteringly hot cheek. It grew hotter as I wondered if Sebastien St. Clair knew how much I wanted him.
I glanced back up and his lips twitched. Of course he knew. Did the man miss nothing? Then, Sebastien did the unexpected. He didn't smirk or laugh or wink. No, the man smoldered. The look Sebastien St. Clair aimed my way was so scorching, so intense, so consuming, my entire body went up in a conflagration of invisible flames. The air grew so hot and sticky, sweat beaded along my temples and a single drop trickled between my shoulder blades. My overwhelming response to the man reminded me of something Nat used to say whenever she spotted a hot guy.
“Ky, call 911. My panties are melting.”
God, how I used to tease her ab
out it. Told her no one was that good-looking. I was wrong. I'd never make fun of Nat again. It seemed I finally found the one man who could actually make my panties melt.
Unfortunately, it just so happened to be the infuriating, frustrating, devastatingly sexy jerk, Sebastien “The Sinner” St. Clair. God, he was such a bad idea. There wasn't even a word for how bad an idea he was, and that only kicked Reckless Kylie’s interest up another sizzling notch.
Nat, call 911. My heart’s about to stop and my brother is going to kill me.
Because I knew, no matter how stupid it was, I was going to meet Sebastien St. Clair at that hotel.
5
