Bingo. Tanner snaps his head up and immediately meets my gaze. If I thought the intensity in his eyes was powerful before, it’s tenfold now. The problem is that it’s not just the intensity that pins me immobile, but also the unique amethyst color of his eyes mixed with his undeniable good looks. Proximity to him might not have been a good idea because I find myself captivated by him.
A completely foreign and unwelcome feeling hits me so fast that I shove away from the bar top. I maintain my smirking expression and the challenging look I’m giving him even as my insides somersault into nothingness and that quick ache of lust hits me head-on. The flash of intrigue commingled with amusement in his eyes tells me that he’d love nothing more than for me to be the typical female I’m sure he’s used to dealing with: compliant, starstruck, fumbling over her words.
He’s got another think coming if that’s what he’s expecting.
“I don’t believe I offered to buy you one.” He leans back and angles his head, eyes assessing and daring me all at once.
“Well, I don’t believe I asked you to be an asshole either, so the drink’s on you.” The comment is off my tongue before I can think it through. We stare at each other like two caged animals circling, each trying to figure the other one out, and knowing regardless of our indifference, there is definitely a game of some sort being played between us. Good thing I know what that game is.
“Then I guess you should steer clear of me and neither of us will have to worry about me being an asshole.” He grunts the words out, and I don’t know whether I should be glad or upset about his response.
On one hand, his lack of interest could make this whole mission easier. He’ll leave me alone, let me do my thing, so long as I get my work done when he needs it. On the other hand, he’s damn attractive, and it could be extremely beneficial to use sex appeal to my advantage. Reel him in, keep him under my wing, and get my job done quicker by playing the innocent-female card.
The problem with using sex appeal, though, is that I’ve watched other female agents play theirs up, draw lines, erase them, redraw them, and in the end get hurt by becoming too emotionally invested.
All my training has warned me that there will be one person who will make me cross that line. No way. Not me. The job, the mission, the objective, all three mean way too much to cross any lines, regardless of the sexual chemistry I feel licking at my heels as I stand here and hold his stare.
I wait for the comment I can see forming on his lips to come, but just as unexpected as this conversation has been, he breaks our eye contact without saying another word and refocuses on the glass in his hand.
“So you’re the one, huh?” My thoughts turn to words before I realize what I’m saying, and disbelief robs me from saying anything else as Tanner turns to look at me again, glass stopped midway to his lips, and that way he has of staring straight into you and seeing every single thing you want to hide.
“The one?”
And without any pertinent words being exchanged or even so much as an introduction being made, I know without a doubt that Tanner Thomas is the one person who’s going to make me question crossing that damn line. Call it a gut reaction or a psychotic episode, but I have a feeling that this mission is going to be anything but the easy get in, get out, get done type that I had planned on it being.
And it will have nothing to do with the mission but rather everything to do with the attractive man before me and his inquisitive eyes.
Once I process the thought, try to laugh it off, and ferret it away to worry about and obsess over later, I scramble to answer his question hanging heavy in the air between us. Make the comment relevant somehow, some way.
“Yep, the one that every reporter in this room hates and wants to be all at the same time,” I explain, speaking nothing but the truth I’ve come to learn while waiting for him to arrive.
Skepticism causes him to narrow his eyes, and amusement has him pursing his lips as he tries to figure out if he believes me. I’m not sure if he does because he breaks our stare and motions to the bartender for a bottle of whiskey. The exchange of money for the bottle happens quickly. Tanner scoots his chair back, grabs the neck of the fifth of alcohol, and gives me a half-cocked, arrogant smirk.
“Yep, I’m the one.” He turns his back to me and strides away.
Cocky son of a bitch. And he most definitely is, yet I still watch him leave the bar, lifting the bottle up to the protests of the other journalists gathered to welcome him back.
And even when he’s cleared the doorway and I can no longer see him, I’m still watching. There’s just something about him when I most definitely don’t want there to be.
He’s the one all right.
Hopefully he’s the one I can avoid.
Sweet Ache
And don’t miss K. Bromberg’s sizzling
SWEET ACHE
Available now from Piatkus wherever books are sold!
Quinlan
The Southern California heat mixed with the second week of school has really done a number on me. I’m ready to melt into the cool air-conditioning of the Fine Arts offices as I pull open the door, tired from a late night hanging out with Layla – my fault but still aggravating nonetheless – and having had to deal with some dipshit undergrads in the teaching assistant session I just came from didn’t help matters.
Generally I don’t mind if a student doesn’t get a concept. I have no problem helping them so that they understand. But when the students are too busy chasing skirts and worrying about who the Trojans take on this weekend to listen, it’s not my problem they received bad marks on their first pop quiz.
And it’s not helping my mood that I need to get laid something fierce. And not by my own hand. There’s nothing worse than a woman in need of a good orgasm.
Or two.
Or three.
I drop my backpack on the counter with a sudden resolve to rectify the situation with the first willing candidate who meets my discriminating standards. Then again I’m on the verge of being desperate enough that I might throw them out of the window for the right mistake.
I start rifling through the bazillion pieces of paper stuffed in my mailbox – such is the life of a graduate student in the Cinematic Arts. Shit, save a tree people, use e-mail. I automatically toss the ones about elective seminars into the recycle bin without even reading them because at the beginning of a semester the last thing I have time for is something that does nothing to further help me write my dissertation.
“Quinlan! Just the person I wanted to see!”
As I turn around to face my graduate adviser, the smile comes naturally to my face since I’m one of the select few fortunate enough to be under her tutelage. “Hi, Dr. Stevens.” She gives me a stern look that causes me to laugh at the formality of my greeting, so I cave to her oft-repeated request and correct myself. “Hi, Carla.”
“Better.” She laughs the word out. “Now, I’m not looking for my husband when you say that,” she says, referring to her spouse, who is a cardiologist.
I nod my head in agreement. “Why do I have the feeling that I’m not going to like the fact that you wanted to see me?”
Please God don’t let her ask me to add something else to my already overflowing plate full of obligations, deadlines, and drafts I need to write.