Page 5 of 'Tis the season of Wicked Deeds

You’re not here to make him want you or lead him on.

“Tina, is it?” he asks politely, as if he wants to continue the dance of silent flirtation.

But the sound of my best friend’s name on his tongue throws cold water all over my lust. Dousing the flames to ashes. Iblink and focus on my secret mission. The sooner I get this date over with, the sooner I can run the hell out of here instead of developing a crush on my best friend’s future husband.

It has disaster written all over it.

Because once she realizes the mistake she’s made sending me here, she’s going to want to give him a second chance.

“You’re late,” I say with forced annoyance, silently confirming my friend’s identity.

He doesn’t take offense at my rude tone. Or that he was merely late by a few minutes. Unperturbed, he smiles and replies, “My apologies. I would never keep a gorgeous woman like you waiting on purpose. The traffic today wasn’t on my side, I’m afraid.”

A smooth talker, then.

Too bad, he won’t get under my skin. As Tina said, I never give in under pressure. Ignoring his charm would be the ultimate test to my willpower because cocky men have always been my type. He screams he has it in spades, as well as the bantering skills. Another weakness of mine.

I have half a mind to use his tardiness as an excuse and leave right now, but it would defeat the purpose.

I need to end this date in a way he knows it’s the first and the last.

“Shall we go to our table or would you like a drink first?” I ask, deciding to cut to the chase before I do something I regret, like stupidly ask what cologne he wears that is scented like rainy days and chilly nights.

“Isn’t that my question?”

“If your tardiness is any indication, I’d probably be waiting a while.”

His smirk grows into a full-blown smile, finding me amusing rather than haughty, impolite, or rude. Yet I wonder how far he’ll let me push before he thinks I’m not worth his time,let alone a girl with whom he would want to spend the rest of his life.

When he doesn’t immediately retort, I put my lukewarm drink down and stand to continue talking at our table. Swiftly, his hand—so much larger than mine—captures my wrist to halt my progress. An electric shiver courses down my spine at the small and innocent contact.

My gaze drops to where he holds me, his thumb caressing the inside of my wrist. Once. Enough to kick my heart rate up. I glance up, finding him watching me raptly. He does the slow and teasing motion again, causing my breath to hitch.

“Our table isn’t ready yet, darling.” His voice drops an octave as he gently but firmly pushes me back down on the stool. “Sit. Tell me what you’re having.”

“Cranberry vodka,” I utter without a second thought.

The authority in his voice, with no room for argument, makes my flimsy panties go damp. His sinful looks and cocky grin are a trap meant to distract from the dominance he’s concealing. The kind that thrills me rather than scares me.

It calls to the dark corners of my heart that I keep sealed shut.

To the hidden fantasies I daydream about alone in my bed.

It’s too late, though. The seal is broken. Cracked at the seams. Now the faceless man will be replaced by him. A tattooed, muscular Greek god with soulful eyes and a panty-melting smirk.

Is he the devil?

He must be.

It’s the only possible reason I can conjure to justify his hypnotic effect on my psyche.

Jolted by my reaction to him, I tug my hand out of his grip, which is a mistake. Because he shifts closer and rests thatsame hand on my side on the bar top, effectively caging me in. The bar became crowded in the last few minutes I was drooling over my date.

My knee brushes his thigh, raising goosebumps along my skin. The urge to move back is strong but the lack of space doesn’t allow much wiggle room. Meanwhile, his scent envelops me and I race through my mind for something to say. Anything to distract myself from the treacherous thoughts running rampant in my head.

Spill the beans.

Make him yours.

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