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Wacky things happened to her all the time. For once, she'd like to reap some reward for being permanently stuck in The Twilight Zone.
She focused on his face again, doing her absolute best to ignore the flicker of desire the assessment of his perfect body sparked. “Put the towel around your waist, for Christ's sake."
He merely smirked at her. His eyes lit with amusement and something else ... Supreme male confidence?
She rolled her eyes. Of course. No man who looked that good would show even a modicum of modesty. He knew he was hot stuff. And he knew she liked everything she'd seen of him thus far.
Except ... That was all bad and wrong. She didn't know who the hell he was. He could be an escaped convict, for God's sake. A dangerous criminal. A rapist.
Yet, he really didn't look like a bad element. In fact, he looked rather clean-cut and decent. A bit aristocratic, even.
Damn. He really was gorgeous. And when he crossed his powerful arms over his wide chest, she fell just a little bit further under his mystical spell.
Her arms dropped a few notches.
Making no move to cover himself up only added fuel to her internal fire so she finally had to fix him with a serious gaze.
"Gimme a break, huh?” she said, exasperated. She hated like hell that it took more willpower than it ought to in order to keep her eyes locked with his, instead of letting her gaze roam his body as it so wanted to do. “Towel?"
With a very cocky grin on his too-perfect face, he unfolded his arms and reached for the thick piece of material. He rubbed his damp hair, making it an unruly mess that only served to add an edgy element to him, then dragged the towel down his face and chest. Finally—yes, thank God, finally!—he wrapped the towel around his lean waist and tucked the corner behind the fabric to secure it.
"Better?” he asked in a low voice.
Aw, shit. She groaned inwardly. Not only did he look sexy, but he spoke in the most intimate, sensuous tone.
As if she really needed one more thing about this man to be so damned stimulating.
She spared another glance heavenward, this time without the impediment of the carport.
What the fuck is this? she silently demanded. You sent me a gorgeous psychopath?
"Just my luck,” she muttered aloud. Serena never could catch a break.
Returning her attention to the hunk standing before her, she said, “Okay. Who the hell are you and what the hell were you doing in my truck?"
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High Voltage: Chapter 3
She didn't recognize him, but Garrett knew who she was. Serena Lamond. New York City transplant. She seemed to grow more beautiful every time he saw her. Even looking like a drowned rat, she radiated an irresistible sexuality that called to him, making his gaze ease over her long, luscious body from head to toe, and then back up again.
She wore jeans that were plastered to her slender legs and shapely hips. Her pale pink lacy tank top clung to her flat stomach and full chest. Droplets of water slid slowly down her long, graceful neck and her toned arms.
His gaze lifted higher and landed on her beautiful face. Her deep blue eyes were wide and questioning. Soft, rosy-colored lips were slightly parted and covered with just a hint of gloss that managed to defy the rain.
Garrett's groin tightened at the sensual look she projected, though he was certain she had no idea how desirable she was.
But that really was a moot point at the moment. Her life was in danger, and only he could help her.
Garrett knew Serena had been in Silver for several months, yet she was still too new to know what went on in this remote town on nights of the full moon.
"Look,” he said, holding his hands in the air to keep her from whacking him over the head with the jack handle. Well, trying to whack him over the head would be the more appropriate statement. She'd never get close enough to him to cause him bodily harm. He was much too quick, his instincts much too keen. But she didn't know that. And he was trying to do everything in his power to put her at ease. “My name is Garrett Slater. You may have heard of me."
Her brow furrowed for a moment. Then her expression turned suspicious. Even more so than before. “Garrett Slater? You really expect me to believe you're Garrett Slater?"
He gave a noncommittal shrug of one shoulder. “I understand you'd expect me to look a bit ... different. But this is me."
Her jaw worked vigorously as she seemed to process his words. Finally she said, “You own the Silver Mountain Ski Lodge."
