When we lock eyes I expect him to look away, but he surprises me again by meeting my gaze head-on. A brazen challenge. My heartbeat ticks up as I take him in, registering several things at once: his barely concealed smirk as he swirls a glass of amber liquid in his hand; the air of brash confidence he’s wearing as comfortably as his midnight-blue suit; his brutal good looks, the kind that feel dangerous.
I fold first, breaking eye contact and feigning preoccupation with my bag, hoping that by the time I look up again he’ll have trained that unnerving stare elsewhere. But I must have a sixth sense, because when I furtively flick my eyes back up to check, the mystery man has cut the distance between us in half and is headed straight for me with the cool, unhurried stride of a stalking predator. It’s the kind of stride that says I own the place, or maybe No one tells me no. He’s sauntering, really.
The second surge of adrenaline in as many minutes courses through my veins as he stops before me and pins me under his gaze. “What the hell was that?”
Chapter 3
I’m sorry?”
“What. The hell. Was that?” He enunciates each word slowly, accusation thick in every syllable.
I feel my face heat, like a light bulb burning brighter and brighter until it shatters. “What was what?”
“That Three Stooges pratfall I just witnessed. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to pick his pocket.”
“Excuse me? I fell,” I say with as much dignity as I can muster—which, at the moment, isn’t much.
“You fell, or”—he leans in and drops his voice—“you were trying to pick him up?” He arches an eyebrow knowingly.
I cross my arms and take a moment to study this cocky stranger (who’s a little too observant for his own good). His dark hair is slightly mussed, like he attempted to style it but gave up when it refused to behave. His strong jaw is clean-shaven and jutted out slightly in practiced defiance. He’s what the Regency romances I sometimes read would describe as “broad of shoulder,” leanly muscled and tanned in a way that tells me he spends more time running outdoors than on a treadmill. He’s standing close enough that I have to look up at him, and I get the distinct feeling he enjoys that power dynamic.
He has an honest face, but under the surface there’s an unpredictability to him that has me on edge. He’s like Jamie Dornan in every frame of those Fifty Shades movies—he prowls around with calculated restraint, but you just know at any moment he’s going to snap and bend Anastasia over a table.
I match his conspiratorial tone, deciding my best course of action is to play along. “You got me. Throwing myself at him was the easiest way to get his attention.”
I smirk at my own cleverness. They say the key to pulling off a convincing lie is to keep it simple. What’s more believable than the truth?
He catches my eye and holds it. “Trust me, you don’t need to try so hard.”
I blink in surprise—and Chase chooses precisely that moment to reappear, a wineglass cradled in each hand. But before he can hand me one, my new companion intercepts it and passes it to me himself.
“Thanks for grabbing that for her,” he says smoothly, reaching a hand out to a clearly confused Chase. “I’m Jack.”
“Chase,” he answers slowly, casting me a quizzical look as he accepts Jack’s proffered handshake. I’m no help—I’m a deer in the headlights. “Are you two—”
“So what is it you do, Chase?” Jack cuts him off and takes a small step closer to me, wordlessly establishing dominance and staking his claim so shamelessly that I’m left speechless. Who is this guy?
Chase slides his eyes from Jack to me and back again. “Uh . . . I’m in investment banking. The retail and consumer side.” I would laugh at how accurately I pegged Chase but for the fact that I’m still openly gawking at Jack.
“No kidding?” Jack jabs a thumb over his shoulder. “I was just chatting with a friend of mine, you might know him. Neil Waltham?”
Chase goes bug-eyed. “Neil Waltham, as in CFO of Cohen Property Group? The largest owner of outlet malls in the country? He’s here?”
When Jack nods in the affirmative, Chase looks a bit sheepish. “Could you . . . point him out?”
“I’ll do you one better. Want an introduction? Neil and I go way back.”
I watch the exchange in mounting disbelief, simultaneously appalled and impressed by how effortlessly this guy’s managed to turn Chase into a pawn on his chessboard.
“Uh, yeah, if you’re offering,” Chase says eagerly, barely glancing at me, the now-forgotten footnote in their conversation. Really, Chase? I nearly ruptured my spleen for you!
Jack lightly cups my elbow and I startle.
“I’ll be right back.” He says it in the casual, just checking in tone of a significant other, and when I gape back at him, he shoots me a nearly imperceptible wink.
I take a generous gulp of wine as I watch their retreating backs and attempt to unscramble my conflicting feelings about this guy. His arrogance is completely obnoxious, that much is for sure. And yet, the ease with which he dispatched Chase was . . . pretty hot, if I’m being honest. I don’t know whether I’m offended or turned on. Before I can decide, Jack’s back at my side, his smirk somehow even cockier than before.
“Well, that was . . . something.”
“Thank you,” he replies seriously, like it was a compliment.
I eye him over the rim of my glass. “So what’s your game?”
“Funny, I was going to ask you the same thing.”
“You make a habit of running off perfectly nice guys?”
He considers the question. “How many’s a habit?”
I let out a puff of air. “What if I liked him?”
“Come on, that guy? Really?”
We both swivel to look across the room at Chase, who’s now talking the ear off a bored-looking older man. I think of a puppy wagging its tail.
“I am a little insulted by how quickly he gave up on me,” I admit.
“And after that stage dive you took, too. So much wasted effort.” He tsks.
“I fell,” I groan in exasperation, then move to leave. “You know what, forget it.”
He grabs my elbow to stop me, laughing as he holds his hands up in surrender. “I was just messing with you. Anyway, I did you a favor. You don’t want a guy who’s that easily manipulated.”
I wonder how many times this guy’s been slapped. “And I suppose you know what I want? You don’t even know my name.”
“Ah, now we’re getting somewhere.” He clinks his glass against mine in cheers. “I’m Jack.”
I eye him suspiciously, and he grins in a way that tells me unequivocally: I’m used to charming my way out of every sticky situation. The question is, will I let him off the hook?
My internal battle seems to amuse him. “This is the part where you tell me your name. Or you don’t, in which case I’ll definitely think you were trying to pick his pocket.”
I roll my eyes, but his challenge has the intended effect. “Cassidy.”
“Cassidy.” His eyes dance and I see they’re a deep blue, sharp and intense and sparked with intelligence. “Nice to meet you.”
“I’d say ‘likewise,’ but the jury’s out on you.”