Are you a reporter?
His question from the night before floated into the forefront of her brain, bringing with it a niggling sense of doubt. Why had he asked that? Because, really, only a man who was used to having reporters around him would ask if she was one.
Which meant…
Oh God, could he actually be not kidding?
She focused her gaze on his gorgeous face. “Is this a joke?”
His features grew pained. “No.”
“You’re really this Ben Barrett guy?”
“Lower your voice, Red, will ya?”
Red?
“My name’s Maggie,” she said, absently playing with the hem of her apron. “And I don’t get it. Why don’t you want anyone to know who you are?”
“I…” He rubbed his temples. “I don’t want to be bothered. I’ve had a bitch of a time lately, with reporters hounding me. I just want to be left alone.”
She raised her eyebrows. “So you decided to come to one of the busiest bars in Manhattan on the busiest night of the weekend?”
“I wanted to see you.”
Her heart skipped a beat and then went into a galloping frenzy as his words settled in and warmed various parts of her body. He’d wanted to see her? A complete stranger who’d violated his bed?
He’s a guy, Maggie.
Right. Movie star or not, he probably hadn’t been too outraged at being violated.
“You don’t even know me,” she found herself squeaking.
“Well, that can be easily changed,” he replied, the grin returning to his rugged face.
He said it in a voice so smooth with confidence and so heady with sexual promise, her body grew even warmer in response. No, not warm. Hot. Burning hot.
Hoping he couldn’t see her nipples poking against her shirt, she swallowed, desperate to allow some moisture back into her mouth. “I’m working.”
I’m working? Again, that’s all she could come up with? What about, Look, you’re hot but I don’t have time for complications right now.
And she was pretty sure Ben would be just that—a complication. He might be sexy as sin, and yeah, his voice gave her shivers that were completely foreign to her, but there was no doubt in her mind that he was trouble.
She didn’t have time to play games with a movie star, no matter how delicious he looked. That’s why she preferred guys like Tony. Tony didn’t have time for games, or much of anything, for that matter. With him, it was simply let’s have some hot sex and see you later.
“I’m fully aware that you’re working,” he said, his voice snapping her attention back to the present. “I’ve also waited tables myself before, so I’m pretty sure you’ll have a break in a couple hours, right?”
She nodded. “Nine o’clock.” Damn, why had she said that?
He returned the nod. “Good. So we’ll talk then.”
“We will?”
“Yep.”
Maggie gulped, her insides swirling with both anticipation and indignation. How arrogant was this guy? He just assumed she’d spend her dinner break hanging out with him? Like she had no other options? Like his sex appeal was so strong she just couldn’t wait to be alone with him and—
“I’ll meet you out front at nine,” she blurted.
Then she headed back to the counter and tried to convince herself that the only reason she’d agreed to meet him was to get some answers and that his good looks and sexy voice had absolutely no effect on her.
Ben smothered a laugh as he watched Maggie scurry away. He wondered if she realized her tendency to blush pretty much eliminated any chance of covering up her emotions. He’d only been around her twice, but Ben was able to pick up on everything she was feeling from that telltale blush on her cheeks.
Crimson red meant she was embarrassed. He’d seen it last night, and again today, when he’d brought up the subject of her panties.
Scarlet red meant she was angry, which had been evident when he’d announced they’d be meeting up during her break.
And rosy pink…well, that was a clear and undeniable shade of her arousal.
She was attracted to him. He knew it, and he was pretty sure she knew it too. Hell, it would be damn hard to deny it, seeing as the sexual tension had hissed like a rattlesnake the second their eyes met.
He took a sip of water and reached for the novel he’d tucked into the pocket of his leather jacket. Nine o’clock, she’d said. Left him with a few hours to kill, but that’s why he’d bought the book. He’d tried reading it earlier, when he’d sat in Central Park, but he’d been too tense and too alert. Losing yourself in a paperback thriller was hard when you were constantly glancing over your shoulder, waiting for someone to ask for an autograph, or for a photographer to pop out from the other side of the bike path and snap your picture.