LORD HAVE MERCY, BUT COLE RILEY’S PHOTOS AND videos did not do the man justice.
In person he made a woman go weak in the knees. Savannah was glad she was sitting down, because now she understood the mystique she’d read about in the tabloids and all the articles about him as a lady-killer.
She certainly felt the heart palpitations when he slid his very large hand in hers and graced her with one look of his drop-dead-sexy gray blue eyes. When he looked at you it was as if everyone else in the room fell away, and you were the only woman on earth. Which she knew wasn’t true, because she’d studied him all night long, and there were at least twenty women focused on him like they were starving and he was meat.
He wasn’t meaty at all. He was perfect and absolutely delicious. About six-foot one, two hundred and fifteen pounds of sex on a stick would be her guess.
If she were out scouting for a man, which she most certainly wasn’t, she’d pick him out of a crowd. He stood out, with his inky black hair and gorgeous, well-toned muscled body, even if he did wear his hair a little long and shaggy. There was a certain presence to him. Arrogance, maybe, though she was surprised after reading his file that he wasn’t standing on top of the bar or involved in a brawl or wrapped around two or three women in a dark corner.
Maybe the media had blown his off-the-field antics out of proportion. Maybe his reputation was more hype than anything.
“So, Savannah Brooks. Why are you sitting here all alone?”
“I’m observing.”
He cocked a brow, his defenses obviously up as he bent forward, perched on the edge of the chair like he was ready to take flight. “You’re not a reporter, are you?”
She smiled at him. “No. I’m definitely not a reporter.”
He relaxed and leaned back against the chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “Okay, then.”
“You don’t like reporters.”
“Nope.”
“And why is that?”
“They lie.”
“About you.”
“All the damn time.”
“What kind of lies have they told about you?”
“I don’t want to talk about me. Let’s talk about you. You have a beautiful southern accent, Savannah. Where are you from?”
Not at all what she’d read about him. That he was an egomaniac, that every conversation centered around him, his stats, his prowess in the bedroom, that he hit on women as a second career, pressuring them to go home with him.
Maybe the media did lie.
“I’m originally from Atlanta.”
“But you don’t live there now.”
“No.”
He smiled when she didn’t offer any more information. He had an amazing, off-kilter smile that made her stomach flutter. She had to stop being such a girl about him. He might be flirting but she was here on business.
“Do you want me to guess?”
“Not at all. I live in Los Angeles.”
“You don’t look like the L.A. type.”
She arched a brow. “There’s an L.A. type?”
“Yeah. And you’re not it. You’re a Georgia peach. All southern re-fined, laid-back beauty. Not fast paced, get famous and noticed L.A.”
“I have many clients in Los Angeles. That’s why I live out there.”
“But you travel—for your job? Is that why you’re gone a lot?”
He listened. A good quality. “Yes.”
“And what do you do for a living, Savannah?”
“I’m a consultant.”
“Broad concept. What kind of consultant?”
“An image consultant.”
“What does an image consultant do?”
“I assist clients who need help either boosting their image or changing it.”
“That must be an interesting job.”
“I love my work. To have a positive impact on people’s lives is very rewarding.”
He grinned. “Good for you.”
“And what about your job, Cole?”
“I’ve played football since I was a kid. To be able to do this for a living? It’s a dream come true. I’m very grateful.”
He was poised, confident and polite. Why didn’t he come across like this in interviews? Why was he portrayed in such a negative light? There was more to Cole Riley than what she’d read about in his file.
“Would you like a drink, Savannah?”
“No, I’m fine with the sparkling water, thank you.”
“Okay. You still haven’t told me what you’re doing at this shindig.”
“I’m meeting a new client.”
His eyes widened. “Yeah? About to redo someone’s image?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
“Huh. I wonder who screwed up and needs a makeover.” He looked around the room, studying all the players in attendance. “Couldn’t be our star quarterback. He eats, drinks and pisses charm.”
She resisted the laugh. It wouldn’t be appropriate.