Just One Taste

Still trying to catch her breath, she stared after him for a stunned and confused—and needy—minute before curiosity forced her to follow him down the hall and into the kitchen, which was as sophisticated and sleek as he was. Black marble countertops, gleaming appliances, ceramic-tile floor and iron stools lined up along a curved bar.

What was with the manners thing? Some manners? He was impeccable. She’d spent a lifetime trying and failing to be that smooth.

He was a bit forward, she supposed, but for some reason, she doubted he came on to every woman the way he had her. Something about her had set him off. Just as the same had happened to her. She felt a connection to him she didn’t even feel in the presence of her own family. But when he wasn’t touching her, or looking at her in that intimate way he had, he seemed like a stranger.

He is.

He opened a below-the-counter wine fridge and pulled out a bottle. “I’m having whiskey, but I imagine you’d like something a bit softer.”

Was she predictable now? And soft? In her mind, soft was just another word for gentle, quiet or—worse—demure.

Oh, hell no.

She could admit to herself she was questioning her impulse to leave with him. She could silently acknowledge she was uncertain and off balance. But she wasn’t about to let him in on those weaknesses.

She was strong. Self-possessed. Bold. Confident.

She’d worked her ass off to make sure.

Leaning one hip against the counter, she said, “I’ll have whiskey.”

In the process of retrieving a wineglass from the cabinet, he turned. “One finger or two?”

Oh, God, she was pretty sure that meant straight. No ice, no mixer. She swallowed bravely, then smiled at the challenge in his eyes. “Whatever you’re having.”

He set two crystal tumblers on the counter, then poured a healthy amount into each from a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Black Label. He handed one to her, then raised his glass. “To tattoos.”

She tapped her glass against his. “And chocolate.” She sipped and felt heroic when she managed to down a swallow of the burning liquid without choking.

“Good?” he asked, raising one cocky eyebrow.

She actually liked the taste of whiskey; she just didn’t like swallowing it. She’d dated a saxophone player once who’d always sipped whiskey at the end of his set, and he’d tasted fabulous. Drinking the stuff, though—especially without ice—must be an acquired thing.

“Smooth,” she managed to say.

“After the third or fourth glass, you hardly taste it at all.”

Now her chest was burning. “I’m sure.”

Grinning as if he knew the torture she was enduring, he linked hands with her and led her down the steps, through the living room and onto the balcony.

Though the view of the sparkling sky was stunning, and the balcony was nearly as richly decorated as the inside, Vanessa wasn’t sure they could accomplish the night’s goal on the wicker couch and chaise longue. But Lucas leaned against the balcony wall, the lights from the high-rise across the street framing his body, as if he planned to hang out there all night.

“You have a thing about being outside, don’t you?” she asked.

“The fresh air clears my mind—” he toasted her “—which you’ve fogged up quite nicely.”

Bravely, Vanessa took another sip of her whiskey. “And you need a clear head?”

“Yes.”

“What happens if you don’t have one?”

“I grab you and drag you back to my bedroom.”

Sounds pretty good to me. “And you don’t want to do that because…”

“I want to too much.”

Is it any wonder I’m fascinated with the man? “What happens to things you want too much?”

“I still get them. I’m just not especially gracious—or gentle—about the process.”

Oh my.

There was certainly more to Lucas than his steaming sensuality and good looks. He wasn’t just a corporate lawyer in a slick suit. Away from the rich and powerful crowd where he’d both blended in and stood out, his allure only grew stronger, the mystery of where he’d come from only deepened.

Vanessa set her glass on the ledge and stepped closer to him. “You’re trying to warn me off.”

“I’m not. At all.”

“But you’re deliberately acting dark and mysterious.”

“I am dark and mysterious.”

“Ha! You’re an open book.”

“No kidding.”

“You’re from Louisiana,” she began, watching his eyes widen as she obviously hit the mark. “I’m thinking New Orleans. The place is steeped in Creole history. The family homestead is probably in the Garden District. Your grandmother would be the matriarch—as is proper in all of New Orleans society. There’s a scandal in your family’s past, probably something to do with a riverboat gambler or pirate. I’m betting the family money started in agriculture—rice or sugarcane probably—but at some point somebody wise invested in manufacturing or real estate. And you, since you have a bit of the rebel in you, decided not to toe the family line completely and studied law. At Tulane, I’m sure. Where you didn’t pledge the proper fraternity, but instead bought a motorcycle and got a tattoo. With your wild days behind you after law school, you went into a well-established practice back home. But after a while you decided you needed a new challenge and came here. Where I found you, being bored to smithereens by the hunting stories and name dropping of the Atlanta Country Club.” She paused and studied his blank expression with interest. “Pretty close, huh?”

Roaring with laughter, he hooked his arm around her waist, pulling her against him.

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

His body continued to shake. “Absolutely. One hundred percent. That last observation was dead-on.”

She laid her hands against his chest and glared up at him. “Why do I have the feeling I’m more wrong than right?”

“Mmm.” He smiled broadly. “Well, let’s just say I’m not going to ask you to read a jury anytime soon.”

It was the smile that did it.

Her annoyance fell away. He was even more beautiful when he smiled. All he had to do was touch her, and suddenly she wasn’t quite so interested in her story as she was in the feel of his body against hers. The magic they generated. The warmth emanating from his skin. The spicy scent of his cologne.

His throat, just at eye level, begged for her touch. His lips, no doubt sweet and smoky from the drink, glistened. His erection, pressing against his pants, certainly had its own pleasurable agenda.

He tossed back the rest of his whiskey, then set his glass aside and didn’t make a move to get more. She could already taste him on her tongue.

With charm, money and looks like his, he was undoubtedly used to women throwing themselves at him. She was certainly one in a long line. But she didn’t care.

She had a package of condoms in her purse.

“I like the taste of whiskey better like this,” she said, then she cupped the back of his head and pulled him toward her waiting mouth.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.