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“I’m glad to meet you, Teela Carpenter. I’m Haydn Delany.” He said that with no trace of irony, but his expression was all hilarious romp. He still held her hand.
She gave him a no-kidding look while every female hormone she had went into power-surge mode. “I do believe I was aware of that.” So very, very, altered consciousness aware. “But thank you for the reminder. I’m interrupted by so many of Hollywood’s finest these days it can be confusing.”
He nodded gravely, with barely concealed laugher in his eyes, as if they were discussing issues of world import, not making the most ridiculous small talk. “I thought it prudent to check.”
She could withdraw her hand, he wasn’t stopping her, but her blood was drunk on whatever pheromones he emitted. “Because you’re worried you might be a figment of my imagination?”
“Something like that.” He laughed and she was richer, even as she knew he’d release her hand and it would feel like a loss.
“I’m definitely planning on dining out on the story of this encounter for the rest of my life. If you’re not real that will make me an awful fraud and a liar.”
“We can’t have that. What do I need to do to convince you that I’m warm flesh and a beating heart?”
“Not a single thing.” But she was almost sure he could convince her of anything right now.
He brought her hand to his lips and pressed them there, smiling up at her through a furrowed brow and a wayward fall of hair. The move had to be a well-practiced one, teetering somewhere between showy and gallant. It was the humor in his cheekbones, in the single dimple, in the pale spark of his eyes that landed it on the side of chivalrous.
She was way past hopelessly charmed. On a sliding scale of a boy likes me to my sex is on fire, this was ring the alarm.
“That should do it,” she said. “I’m forever convinced.”
He let her hand go and straightened up. “Excellent.” He slipped the wrist brace back on and offered the crook of his arm. When she told this story, she’d describe the look on his face as possessive, though it was probably method acting and hunger. “You’re fun, Teela Carpenter. Shall we go eat?”
Sweet hell. Like torrential rain on your wedding day. “I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you to brave dinner alone. I’m not on the guest list.”
Up went one brow, down came his arm. “Have you been bad?” He made a tsk sound around a shocked expression, but instead of feeling scolded Teela felt wicked. “I can sort this out.”
He no doubt could without unduly annoying the chef and embarrassing Lynda, and it was tempting to stroll in at his side and enjoy the meal and more of his company.
Desperately, desperately tempting.
Also utterly superfluous, as well as being disruptive and calling the wrong kind of attention to her. Conference managers weren’t supposed seduce the talent.
And Haydn Delany made her imagine being bad enough that she could.
It was all the ego boost she needed. Dear God, the man was delicious. He made her brain fizz. If she thought for a second he wasn’t acting the part of charismatic hero in a meaningless meet-cute, she’d have trouble breathing. Oh, get real. She’d genuinely contemplate propositioning him. Where would she ever get another chance to do something so wild. He wasn’t traveling with a partner and what’s the worst that could happen?
And wouldn’t that be a story for the grandkids. The night Nanna hooked up with the Sexiest Man Alive. Sophie could never know, and Evie would wet herself.
The notion made her want to laugh. She knew he’d have a ready way of letting her down that wouldn’t make her feel cheap. He probably had a dozen or more of them, a different one for every day of the week, every hour of the day.
This was the part of the story where Evie would kick her.
“I’m not a paying guest and there’s nothing at all you need to do except enjoy your evening. I’m delighted to have had this chance to meet you.”
He inclined his head, offered his hand again. “If you’re sure?” He waited a beat and when she nodded, he said. “It was lovely to meet you. You provided just the light I was looking for. Good night, Ms. Carpenter.”
He made the word Ms. into a question mark. When she put her hand in his again, he brushed his thumb lightly, suggestively, over her knuckles. That was a whole different kind of light, like fireworks inside her chest.
Flirtiest Man Alive
“Miss.” It would be improper to leave him dangling. “Good night, Mr. Delany.”
He tipped an imaginary hat, released her hand and said, “Miss. Carpenter,” and he was gone.
There wasn’t a single imaginary thing about the way her body was left vibrating with want.
On the walk back to her car, there was music playing in her head, and it wasn’t her tired feet that were throbbing. Her nipples ached, and her inner muscles twitched from contracting.
