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ONE
“I don’t appreciate being stood up.” Scarlet Drake dropped her small clutch on the table of a semi-circular booth tucked into a corner of the lounge in San Francisco’s newly opened Crestmont Hotel in the Financial District, showcasing the Bay Bridge and skyline with a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. The man occupying the booth had agreed to meet with her two nights ago in Chicago and had never shown up. He’d never even checked into the suite that had been booked for him.
Now he slowly lifted his gaze from his iPhone and let it linger—mostly on her breasts.
Scarlet’s agitation would have flared, except that Michael Vandenberg was hotter than hell. Rich as sin. A wolf of Wall Street, though he wasn’t a stockbroker. He was a real estate mogul who also dominated the commodities market.
And was, quite possibly, a brilliant art thief.
Which made her pulse race a bit faster. Not exactly a sensible reaction, because she could very well be staring danger in the face. A face that boasted prominent angles that had her internal temperature rising in a heartbeat. He had a set jaw, clean shaven, and a complementary nose and forehead that kept his strong features balanced.
Jesus, why does he have to be so damn good-looking?
Scarlet bit back a lustful sigh. This evening—this meeting—was mission critical. Therefore, Michael Vandenberg’s chiseled-to-perfection appearance needed to be the absolute last thing on her mind.
“You must be Miss Drake,” he ventured, breaking into her errant thoughts.
She gave a slight nod, hoping to remain neutral, indifferent. Not so innately affected by him—all tall, dark, and devilishly handsome, with smoky gray-blue eyes and thick, lush obsidian hair.
“You are impressively persistent,” he told her. “Tenacious, even.”
His gaze unabashedly raked over her, from her sleek dark-auburn strands, along the curve-hugging one-shouldered red minidress she wore, to her five-inch black stilettos—and moved just as slowly back up.
Flashing a pearl-white grin that dripped wickedness, he added, “I’m flattered that you’ve followed me from coast to coast. Had you thought to e-mail me a photo when you first contacted me for a meeting, I likely wouldn’t have evaded you these past few months.”
His tone was rich and sensual. The kind of arousing bedroom voice that would remain ingrained on her brain, to be called upon in the future when she indulged in midnight fantasies with her fancy seven-speed-plus-thrusting-action vibrator. The kind of intimate voice that seeped deep into a woman’s soul. Made heat rush through her veins.
Scarlet tried to calm her raging pulse as she hitched her chin and said, “I’m not here for you to ogle, Mr. Vandenberg.”
So why were her nipples tightening and her clit tingling?
Setting aside his phone, Vandenberg reached for his cocktail and took a sip. Scarlet slid, uninvited, into the leather booth and crossed her legs. The lounge was dimly lit, upscale, crawling with people. But there were plenty of nooks and crannies for privacy, this being one of them.
He told her, “You’re much too beautiful to be an insurance fraud investigator.”
“Thank you, though that sentiment won’t make up for you ditching me in about ten different cities.” It was impossible to contain her excitement. Despite the runaround she’d gotten from Vandenberg and his people, she’d remained in hot pursuit of him. And had finally caught up with him.
Admittedly, Scarlet loved the thrill of the chase. Her doggedness had paid off in spades tonight.
Yet she strove for a professional air as she inquired, “What were you expecting, anyway?”
His daring gaze eased over her again like a warm caress. He said, “Someone all buttoned up and stuffy, who looks like they work for the IRS.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “So I’ve disappointed you.”
“Indeed. It’d be much easier to tell you to go the hell away if you looked like you were from the IRS.”
“My apologies. Now … I have questions for you that—”
A server suddenly appeared at Scarlet’s elbow and cleared her throat to announce her arrival, the intrusion cutting Scarlet off.
The young, attractive blonde smiled suggestively at Vandenberg as though Scarlet didn’t even exist. “May I bring you another Bombay Sapphire martini, sir?”
“Certainly.”
Several seconds ticked by before the other woman dragged her gaze from the handsome billionaire tycoon to ask Scarlet, with decidedly less enthusiasm, “And for you?”
“Grey Goose martini, extra olives.”
“Excellent.” Her eyes snapped back to Vandenberg. Scarlet resisted the urge to roll hers. T
he man did not lack for female attention; that was for damn sure.
“Put it on my tab,” he amiably said.
“Of course, Mr. Vandenberg.” The blonde gave him a flirty look and then flounced off.
He took note of the deliberate sway to her hips, but only briefly. Then his smoldering gaze was on Scarlet again. “Where were we, Miss Drake?”
“I have questions that—”
“Ah, yes. Right.” He sat back in the seat and rested his arm along the top of the booth, his long, tapered fingers mere centimeters away from brushing against her skin. Bizarrely tempting her to slide a half inch his way to make physical contact.
Was that his intention? To distract Scarlet from her grilling? Perhaps that was how he’d gotten away with such a light interrogation and minimal testimony when the FBI had quizzed him. After all, the agent had been female, Scarlet had learned. Vandenberg had probably drawn her into his sticky web from the get-go and she’d taken his “Scouts honor” without a dubious thought.
Scarlet couldn’t fault the agent. Even she felt the intrinsic pull. She tried to convince herself that it had little to do with the enigmatic man himself, was more likely the result of having gone so long without a quick romp to curb some hormonal tendencies.
