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“So you’re a regular?” Scarlet asked him, shocked her words didn’t slide from her mouth on a pool of drool.
“You’ve surpassed your allotted questions, Miss Drake.”
“I’m not interrogating you at the moment,” she told him. “I thought this was a date.”
He gave her another roguish grin. “Nice to see you can take off your investigator’s hat for the evening.” His lids dipped a tad, as did his voice. “Hope that’s not all you’re willing to take off.”
Her inner walls clenched. But she teasingly said, “Don’t push your luck. And you may as well call me Scarlet. Or I will start quizzing you about the art collection.”
He stared deeper into her eyes, his raw intensity searing her insides, turning her blood molten. “I promise I didn’t steal those paintings. I want you to believe me.”
She debated this for several
suspended seconds. Considering who he was—affluent and powerful—she told him, “You don’t care if I believe you or not. Like you said, you can’t be prosecuted at this point. And if you lost a civil suit, compensatory damages would be chump change to you. Had you been caught red-handed before you’d made your own fortune that would have been a different story. But it’s currently not a detrimental situation to you financially. Just a hit to your reputation if you actually are guilty.”
“My reputation would survive. I don’t see Martha Stewart’s empire crumbling. So why pursue an investigation?”
“It’s the principle of the matter.”
His grin widened. “Gorgeous and ethical. You’ll completely do me in.” He winked. “Drink your martini.” His head inclined toward the bar.
Scarlet tore her gaze from his and reached for her glass just as the bartender delivered Michael’s cocktail. He and Scarlet clinked rims and she sipped.
Then she asked, “Seriously, how does everyone know who you are? I’m sure they don’t all read the Wall Street Journal.”
“I’m the new landlord here. I closed on the building last week.”
“Figures,” she murmured into her martini. Then said, “I didn’t even know this place existed. Took a while to find the entrance.”
“That’s on purpose, I’m told. A bit secretive for a more exclusive crowd.”
“I’m sure you enjoy the eye candy.” She hitched her chin toward the catwalks.
His gaze didn’t follow. “I’m more interested in what’s standing in front of me.”
Despite his attention being on her, he must have caught a movement in his peripheral vision, because he gently shifted her toward the wall a second before someone bumped into the burly guy and sent his drink sloshing over the sides.
“Oh!” Scarlet would have been wearing the cocktail and perhaps hers as well if Michael hadn’t carefully pressed her up against the bricks, her backside absorbing the cold stone, her front flaming as he crowded her, his body shielding hers.
“Thanks for the save,” she said, breathless.
“Just trying to spare the dress.”
“I think we’re safe now.” She hoped he’d take the hint and step away.
Conversely … Christ, it felt good to have him so close to her again. His strength and magnetism rolled off him in waves, engulfing her. She inhaled his heated, masculine scent, and if she leaned in just an inch she could sweep her lips and tongue along his throat, taste his skin, feel his muscles bunch all around her.
“You’re devouring me with that hypnotic gaze of yours,” he whispered against her temple, making her skin tingle.
She shouldn’t have heard him above the din, but she’d tuned everything else out.
His hand was on her hip where he’d gripped her to move her out of the way of the collision. The other held his glass. She still had her drink in hand as well. And decided that was probably a good thing—or she’d be sliding her palms under his shirt and exploring all those corrugated grooves and rigid sinew she knew she’d find.
Her fingers burned to touch him.
Scarlet mentally shook her head. Sipped her martini in hopes of cooling her insides. Didn’t work. She was still teeming with anticipation of what Michael Vandenberg really had in store for her this evening.
Because instinct told her it wasn’t just cocktails and casual flirtation.
