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“Yeah, Grandma was pretty well off. We were really close.”
Sadness laced her big brown eyes. Was that mist forming? Why did he have the sudden urge to draw her to his chest and comfort her? Quickly, he willed his mind to return to his task at hand. Rich grandma dies, leaves everything to hot unmarried granddaughter.
Just the ticket.
Michael tipped her chin upward and gazed into her big baby browns. “I’m sorry about your grandma.”
She sniffed. “Oh, I’m okay. She was ill. It’s better this way. I mean, I miss her, but she was in a lot of pain.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s just…it happened at a really hard time. My divorce…”
Divorced. Recently. Possibly looking for a rebound guy. Definitely a candidate for rebound sex.
The ticket, all right.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He brushed one thumb across her soft cheek.
“Really, it’s okay.” She brushed his hand away. “I’d rather not talk about it.”
He drew her to his body again, brushed his lips against the softness of her earlobe. “You’re fucking beautiful.”
Hell, it wasn’t even a lie. She was ravishing. Even with her eyes sunken and sad, she lit up the whole damned room.
Her head landed softly on his shoulder, and a quiet “thank you” escaped her throat.
“You want to go someplace else? Get a drink?”
Her head popped up. “You mean leave the party?”
“Yeah. Or we can stay. It would be easier to talk without all the noise, though.”
“Can we finish this dance first?”
He chuckled. Without thinking, he leaned forward and kissed her pink cheek. “The song just ended, sweetheart.”
“Oh.”
More pink flooded her cheeks and neck. Damn, it would be worth it to embarrass her all night, just to see how red that beautiful body would get.
“What are you drinking?”
“Cosmopolitans.”
“I’ll get you another,” he said. “Go wait for me outside. By the table with the calendars where we met before.” He smiled and headed to the bar.
* * *
Stacy tapped her high heel on the smooth tile floor. Her hands were clammy, her skin prickled with goosebumps. What had she been thinking, saying she’d meet Michael Moretti out here for a drink?
She glanced at the calendars on the table. There he was, right on the cover. She liked the shot inside better. The photo on the cover displayed more skin, but the shot i
nside was a black-and-white, taken in the shower. It showed his amazing back and his broad shoulders, with his hair hanging in wet black waves down his neck. Rather than his whole face, the photo revealed his profile—his chiseled masculine jawline, his perfect aquiline nose—very sexy.
He truly was a god.
Her insides tumbled. Where the hell was he with her drink?
