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He starts to saygobut stops.
He doesn’t go. Of course, he doesn’t. I’m the fantasy and he’s the fly in my web. The wrong fly, but seriously, I think this might work.
“Stay,” I say in a breathy whisper, sliding my hand over the soft velvet of the chaise next to me.
He’s frowning, his eyes maddeningly stuck on my face when the rest of me is right here on display. Instead of accepting my invitation, he pulls a chair over and sits. He’s at ease in his Tom Ford suit, leaning back, crossing his legs so one black leather wingtip shoe rests on a knee, looking for all the world like he’s in control of the situation.
He’s not and I want to break him. Mess him up. Leave him looking on the outside how I feel on the inside.
“What’s this?” he asks, sounding tired. Worn. The perfect place for me to pick and pull until every thread holding him together is in a tangle on the floor.
Instead of answering, I take my time rising to my feet.
His gaze stays on my face. “Some woman claiming to be my assistant told me Gabriel Sinclair wanted a word with me in this room.”
The seductive smile I’ve been holding in place falters and I catch it before it can break into a scowl. Lea is fuckingdead.
“But the thing is,” the insufferable man continues, “I’mGabriel Sinclair, and my PA is a man who went back to his hotel room two hours ago.” For the first time, a suggestion of a smile crosses his lips. It’s not a happy one. It’s vaguely threatening, even. It’s surprising on him and I like it. I’ll tell him the truth. A version of it, anyway.
“I’m waiting for a man,” I say. I still have my heels on and they make my legs look endless. I sway my hips as I move closer, but he still won’t glance at my body. It’s insulting.
“Me?” He sounds annoyed by the idea.
Same, asshole.
“No.” I stop in front of him. He hasn’t sat up any straighter, hasn’t dropped his gaze down my body. Either this man has superhuman willpower, or he isn’t sexually attracted to women. The tabloids have photographed him with women outside the industry, but those women could be paid decoys.
“So the woman who told me I wanted a word with myself—?” One thick eyebrow arcs up.
“Had nothing to do with me,” I say with an innocent little shrug that bounces my tits—not that he looks.
His frown deepens as his eyes flicker over my face. “Have we met?”
I bend forward, placing my hands on his thighs and my lips inches from his, putting my tits on full display. The muscles under my hands tense and goddammit I don’t need the little flicker of desire that inspires. They’re just thighs. Thick and hard but not Nic’s.
His eyes though. Now that I’m closer, I can see the lighter shades of brown dancing in the dark like flames around his dilating pupils. He has the kind of eyes I could drown in.
“We haven’t met.” I focus on his lips and unfortunately, he has a mouth made for all manner of sinful, despicable things. Not that he would ever do sinful, despicable things. “But I wouldn’t mind becoming better…acquainted.”
He laughs.
And then he moves.
His massive hands take mine, pulling them off his legs as he stands.
The man towers over me. I’m not frightened—Gabriel Sinclair wouldn’t hurt a bug—but I am intimidated. This is going to be hard if he isn’t going to play along.
“Lady,” he says in that deep, serious voice, releasing my hands, “you need to examine your life choices.”
He turns away, but I snatch his sleeve and pull him back. He tries to shake me off, but I hold tight.
“I’m not interested in whatever scam you’re—”
I grab his tie, yank him down, and shut him up with my lips.
He’s not Nic.
But he looks enough like Nic, and in this dim light, through the open window to the balcony across the courtyard where the photographer is hiding, the whole world will think I’m kissing Nic. My cousin Jessie will think I’m kissing Nic.
