Home > Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games #3)(2)

Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games #3)(2)
Author: J.T. Geissinger

“Oh yeah?” says a male voice, not Golden Boy’s. Judging by the deep, commanding tone, my money’s on the big beast, not the pale one with the African-American woman. Tabby must be the redhead, then.

I listen, lazily fanning air over my cleavage, swinging my leg back and forth, a black widow patiently waiting for her prey to enter the web.

“There’s a few things I’d definitely like to convince you to do, woman,” says the beast, chuckling. Then there are some exaggerated kissing noises, which prompt a chorus of groans.

“Get a room, you two!” scolds another female. Must be Yellow Bikini. The voice is too adult to be the scarred girl.

“They spend any more time in their room, Darcy, we won’t see ’em at all,” drawls Golden Boy.

“They’re newlyweds! Give them a break!” says a different male voice. He has a German accent. Zey’re newlyvedz. Black speedo.

“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. 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.

I say, “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.”

“Oh come on. Now you have to tell me.”

The dent in his cheek grows deeper. “Perry.”

My smile widens. Unfortunately for him and his ego, I’ve spent a lot of time in the American South. I say, “Home to the annual Georgia National Fair. Cute little historic town center. There’s, what, ten thousand residents in Perry?”

Golden Boy watches me with blistering focus. “Fifteen. What did you say your name was?”

I let the silence stretch out between us before saying softly, “I didn’t.”

When his eyes flash with desire, I know how I’m going to play him. He likes a challenge. Which means Girl Next Door and Dumb and Bubbly are out the window, and Smoldering Seductress is in the house. I moisten my lips with the tip of my tongue, lower my chin, and look up at him from beneath my lashes.

He sets his empty beer bottle on the counter and slides onto the barstool next to me, all without taking his gaze from my face. His big thighs are spread open on either side of mine, effectively trapping me.

“So,” he says, “beautiful, nameless mademoiselle. Are we going to be friends or not?”

I can’t help myself. I laugh at his directness. “I don’t know, handsome American Marine. Perhaps we should take a moment to discuss your definition of ‘friends.’”

He leans closer. He’s bare chested, barefoot, and soaking wet from the waist down. The bulge in his black swim shorts is clearly visible, and impressively large. Five-o’clock shadow glints copper along his square jaw. If I were any other woman, this man would be devastating.

Into my ear, he says softly, “Anything you want it to be.”

Does he think I’m a prostitute? I’m not offended, but this is awfully forward, even for an American. Most men take a lot longer than five minutes to get to the propositioning.

Obviously he’s not like most men. I need to be careful with this one.

When he leans back, I tilt my head and consider him.

Up close, he’s even more handsome than he looked in the pool. Masculine and a little gritty, in spite of his sleepy Southern drawl and baby-blue eyes. He’s got big, rough hands, a superhero’s square jaw, an appealing cleft in his chin, and a lot of tattoos on his chest and arms that I’d like to trace with my fingers. Or tongue.

But I don’t ever sleep with a mark. It’s a policy I’ve never broken. If he takes me up to his room, I’ve got two potent pills to slip into his drink that will conveniently allow me to side step the minefield of sex with a stranger.

I might take a quick peek into his shorts while he’s passed out to check out that bulge he’s packing, but that’s as far as it will go.

“I already have a lot of friends.” I say it with just enough warmth that he knows it’s not a brush-off.

“I bet you do.” His voice is husky now. He lets his gaze drift to my lips, then to my cleavage, then down my legs, boldly and unapologetically eating me up with his eyes.

Under his admiring gaze, I feel like a cat that’s been stroked down its back. I wouldn’t be surprised if I started to purr. “And so do you.” I nod in the direction of his companions in the pool, who watch us with open interest.

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