Page 7 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
“Hardly. My mama always said I’ve got the manners God gave a goat. I’m just a beer-drinkin’ good ol’ boy from Georgia with more balls than brains.”
Angeline eyes me. She lets her gaze linger on my tattoos, the scars on my stomach, and my hands, which have spent near equal time on the keys of a piano as they have on an M16 rifle. “Or maybe that’s what you want people to think,” she says softly.
Our eyes lock. A strange sensation makes its way through my stomach. It’s fizzy. Fluttery. If I didn’t know fucking better, I’d describe it as butterflies.
“I’m leavin’ tomorrow,” I say abruptly, holding her gaze.
“Me, too.”
“So…ticktock, beautiful mademoiselle.”
She knows exactly what I mean. Her lips curve upward. “I appreciate your candor, Mr. McLean—”
“Ryan,” I correct her. “Good friends call each other by their first names, Angel.”
Her eyes do this incredible thing when she smiles. They sparkle like sunshine glimmering off water. Or is that the stars in my own eyes I’m seeing?
Sweet baby Jesus in the manger, I’m losing my shit. Pull it together, dickhead!
“Okay,” Angeline says. “As I was saying, I appreciate your candor, Ryan. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted. You’re very sexy.”
Her gaze travels hungrily up and down my body as she says “sexy.” If she keeps looking at me like that, I might have an accident in my shorts.
Then she lets out this sad little sigh and lifts a shoulder. “But I don’t do one-night stands. It’s not my thing.”
Like I’m gonna let that stop me. I immediately switch into problem-solving mode. “No one-nighters. No problem. You live in Paris, right?”
Her brows pull together. “Yes. Why?”
“I’m in New York.”
She cocks her head, waiting.
“It’s only about an eight-hour flight between the two, and I’ve got a shit-ton of frequent flier miles. And since you’re a travel writer, I figure you probably do, too.”
She stares at me without blinking. “We’ve known each other for ten minutes and you’re suggesting we enter into a long-distance relationship?”
I shrug but don’t break eye contact. “You want me. I want
you. You don’t do one-night stands. You got a better solution?”
I’m not sure if her expression is horror or amusement. “You’re actually serious.”
“As a heart attack, Angel.”
Shaking her head, she lets out a small, astonished laugh and mutters something to herself in French.
I lean closer, wrap my hand around her arm, and give it a squeeze. When she looks at me, I speak softly. “The way you move. The way you look at me. Your laugh. That kiss. I’m thirty-four years old, Angel, and I’ve had my share of women. Not a single one has ever challenged me, made me laugh, called me on my shit, looked at me like they understood me, and given me a boner that could cut glass while at the same time makin’ me feel like a teenager with his first crush. I wouldn’t care if you lived in fuckin’ Antarctica. This is gonna happen.”
Even if you are lying to me about who you are.
After a long time, she simply says, “Wow.”
I grin at her. “You just fell in love with me, didn’t you? You’re totally in love with me now.”
Her laugh is disbelieving. “Or I’m wondering where the nearest police station is so I can file a restraining order!”
“Nah. I’m tellin’ you, it’s love. A year from now, we’ll be back here on our honeymoon.”
