Page 2 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
“Speakin’ of breaks, I need another beer. Anybody else ready?”
Golden Boy takes drink orders from his companions. I hear the splash as he jumps out of the pool. Trying not to smirk, I start a silent countdown in my head. Five, four, three, two—
“’Scuse, me, bartender? Can we get another round?”
I open my eyes to find Golden Boy standing next to me. He’s looking at the bartender at the end of the bar, who nods in acknowledgment. Then Golden Boy turns his head and looks at me.
Electricity jolts through me when our eyes meet. It’s disturbing how strong it is. It’s been years since I felt serious attraction to anyone, and muscular blonds aren’t my type in the first place. Dark and dangerous is more my thing.
Although, admittedly, Golden Boy has the dangerous part down. The look in his eyes is anything but tame.
“Hi,” he says, staring at me with blazing intensity.
Here’s the part where I need to figure out his type. Does he prefer dumb and bubbly? Smoldering seductress? Girl next door? There’s a key that unlocks the door to every man’s libido. And once his libido is engaged, his brain takes a nap for the duration.
I’m so grateful I’m a woman. We can get turned on without completely losing our intellect to our genitals.
“Hello,” I say neutrally. I remove my sunglasses. Neither of us smiles.
He asks, “What part of Paris you from?”
I have to physically force myself not to blink. There’s a slight difference between a Parisian accent and other French accents, and the fact that he picked it out is alarming.
And impressive. I’m inclined to like him, but of course I don’t allow myself to.
“You know Paris?” I ask coyly, avoiding his question.
He cocks his head. “A little.”
Hmm. That could mean he’s only seen the city in movies, or he lived there for years. He’s giving away about as much as I am.
“The eighth arrondissement,” I parry, testing him. “Gare Saint-Lazare.”
His face remains impassive. “Swanky neighborhood. You from there originally?”
I get the sense he’s testing me, too. Why do I like it? I decide to change the subject to see how he handles it. “What’s your name?”
One corner of his mouth turns up. A roguish little dimple appears in his cheek. “You avoided my question.”
“And you just avoided mine.”
“Yeah, but only because you started it.”
“Funny, you don’t strike me as a man who lets anyone else take the lead.”
He chuckles. “With a rear view as fine as yours, darlin’, you can take the lead anytime you like.”
Now we’re smiling at each other. For the first time in a long time, I’m having what could almost be described as fun.
The bartender arrives with the drinks. “Shall I charge it to your room, Mr. McLean?”
“Yep,” Golden Boy answers without looking away from me.
The bartender leaves with a promise that my conch croquettes are almost ready.
“So, Mr. McLean, where in Georgia are you from?”
If he’s surprised I pegged his accent, he doesn’t show it. He lifts a shoulder, self-confident, nonchalant. “Little town nobody’s ever heard of.”
