Page 6 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
My friends are so weird.
“Okay, in the name of marital harmony, I’ll commit to dinner,” I say, itching to get back to Angeline and her strawberry-flavored mouth. I stand and salute Connor, who gives me a pleading look like he really wants me to stay and help defuse the situation.
I leave him with a smirk. He’s my brother-in-arms and I love the guy, but I’d rather take another three shots to the gut than deal with a pissed-off Tabitha West.
Angeline watches me return with the focused concentration of a predator contemplating a meal. Why that should be such a fucking turn-on, I have no idea.
I stop beside her and lean an elbow on the bar. “So. What’d you come up with, Angel?” When she opens her mouth, I warn her, “And remember, it better be good.”
She waits a beat and then says tartly, “Is it my turn to talk now?”
Mercy. A goddess and a smartass. I’m done for. “Be my guest,” I say mildly.
A secret smile hovers around her lips. She crooks a finger, inviting me closer. I’m in her face so fast, I’ve probably set a new land speed record. She puts her lips against my ear and whispers, “You don’t really think I’m going to sleep with a man I met five minutes ago, do you?”
Something inside my chest does this flopping, dying fish thing that doesn’t seem healthy. I have to stifle a groan. I want this woman so bad I can taste it.
I turn my head a fraction and now we’re nose to nose, staring into each other’s eyes. Hers are a gorgeous caramel brown, twinkling with mischief.
“Of course not,” I say. “I’m a gentleman. I was gonna let you finish those conch croquettes first.”
She slow blinks and smiles.
My titanium boner is in serious jeopardy of exploding in my shorts.
“You haven’t even asked what I’m doing in St. Croix.” Angeline leans back and lazily selects another of the croquettes from the plate. “I could be vacationing with my husband.”
“No ring,” I counter, watching her make eating a piece of fried seafood look like dirty fetish porn.
She swallows and licks her lips, obviously enjoying torturing me. “My boyfriend, then.”
“You don’t have a boyfriend.”
My tone of total confidence makes her arch an eyebrow. “No? What makes you so certain of that?”
“Because you kiss like you’re starving, you look at me like a little kid looks at all the presents under the tree on Christmas morning, and you’re not the type of woman who cheats on her man. You’re too serious for that, even though you try to seem carefree.”
Something crosses her face, a look of surprise or irritation, instantly erased. “I had no idea I was so transparent.”
Though her tone is casual, I can tell she’s disturbed. She doesn’t want me to look too closely, to notice things about her. Naturally, that makes me want to notice even more. I’m a bloodhound with the fresh scent of fox in my nose.
Let the hunt begin.
“Ignore me,” I say, watching her compose herself. “I’ve been out in the sun too long. So tell me, Angel, what brings you to St. Croix?”
She flips a lock of long brown hair over her shoulder and swivels on the stool so she’s facing the bar counter, her eyes turned away. “Work.”
I look at the infinity pool, the lush green mountains in the distance, the sparkling Caribbean Sea dotted with sailboats. Then I look back at her, in all her exotic glory. “Lemme guess. You’re a model.”
“I’m a travel writer, doing a piece on the fine resorts of the Caribbean.”
“A writer.” Sure you are. And I’m Dolly Parton. I slide onto the barstool next to her and take a slug of my warm beer. “Guess you’re not just a pretty face after all.”
I’m gifted with her full-throated laugh again. “You mean you couldn’t tell from that line I used on you when you came back from the pool?”
“So it was a line,” I drawl, gently bumping her shoulder with mine. When she looks at me, I grin. “You are gonna sleep with me.”
She tries to look offended but completely fails. “You think you’re extremely charming, don’t you?” she says, all prim and proper. Now it’s my turn to laugh.
