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“I didn’t want to make a scene,” she counters, allowing me to walk her down the stairs to stand at the side of the stage.
“That’s a coy response,” I say, daring to settle my hand on her slender waist, pleased whenherhand settles on my arm rather than pushing me away. “It’s beneath you,” I accuse.
“You’re right,” she surprises me by saying. “It was coy, and I don’t do coy. You’re touching me because I let you.”
“That’s true,” I say. “You are letting me. Why?”
“Because you touching me is better than you not touching me.”
Heat courses through my veins, perhaps because I’m playing a dangerous game with a beautiful woman who might just kill me, too. Or perhaps simply because I want Faith Winter in a way I don’t remember wanting anyone in a very long time.
“How are you even here?” she asks. “The tickets were sold out.”
“I know Chris Merit.”
“Of course you do.”
I arch a brow. “What does that mean?”
“You seem to know everyone, or they know you.”
“Why is that a problem?”
“It’s not.”
And yet, I can almost hear that wall of hers slam down between us. I step closer to her, my free hand settling on her waist as well. “What just happened?”
“Nothing that matters.”
“And if I think it does?”
“Then I’ll rephrase. Nothing that I plan on explaining.”
“I don’t like secrets.”
“It’s not a secret just because someone doesn’t choose to share it with you,” she says. “It’s simply that person’s right to privacy. Besides. You want me naked. That doesn’t require deep conversation.”
“I didn’t say I wanted you naked,” I counter. “I said I want you stripped bare and not just exposed.Willinglyexposed. The two are vastly different.”
“And what exactly do you expect to expose?” she replies.
I lower my head, my cheek near hers but not touching. “All of you,” I say, lingering there, letting my breath trickle warmly on her cheek and ear.
“We’ll see,” she says, her hands settling on my chest as if she means to push me away or pull me close, but before she can do either, we hear a male voice say, “Faith.”
At the sound of her name from behind and to the right, my jaw clenches and Faith jolts, her hands falling away from me. In unison, Faith and I rotate to face our intruder, my hand settling possessively at her lower back, reminding her—and anyone else that might hope otherwise—that I’m here to stay tonight.
“Josh,” Faith says, greeting the tall, dark-haired man I recognize from my research as her agent, Josh Miller. Age thirty-eight, bank account status—not as rich as me, but rich enough to declare his success.
“You did wonderfully during your introduction,” he says, glancing at me and back at her before he adds, “but you need to mingle with the masses.”
“This is Nick Rogers,” she says, as if he’s nudged for an introduction I suspect he’d rather not have at all. “He owns a law firm in San Francisco.”
“I know that name well,” he says, looking at me. “You represented our top football player when he sued us to get out of his contract with our sports division.”
“Who was that?” Faith asks.
“Connor Givens,” I say. “Damn good quarterback.”
