For a few seconds I just stared at him as my abdomen twisted into knots and my pulse quickened. The guy was hot and, judging from his wicked grin, definitely not the kind of man you bring home to meet your parents. He was tall, at least a head taller than me. Maybe six feet two. His wet, dark hair was a tad too long and disheveled—like he had run his hands through it. His coat, now damp from the rain that had been cascading on downtown New York for the last three days, did nothing to hide his broad shoulders and muscular build, nor his insolent stance. In the dim light of the bar, his electric eyes shimmered like emeralds.
I had never seen eyes like his. Dark green. Smoldering. Ready to undress a woman with a single glance. Already I felt naked in spite of several layers of clothes. His gaze traveled down the front of my shirt appreciatively, and lingered on my legs for longer than was polite. My skin prickled from his gaze. I tucked a stray strand of curly hair behind my ear and moistened my suddenly dry lips. The effect he had on me was both unnerving and exciting. I crossed my arms over my chest and bit my lower lip hard to regain my speech. He regarded me with raised eyebrows and unconcealed amusement, as though he knew what a single glance from those eyes did to me. But it wasn’t his obvious arrogance that made me instantly angry. It was the way his spread fingers lingered intimately on the small of my back as though they had caressed the spot before. As though they belonged there.
“Why would you say that? Because I’m not wearing a skimpy G-string and stilettos, and my boobs aren’t half falling out of a leopard print bra?” I asked through gritted teeth, ignoring the delicious pull gathering somewhere in my abdomen.
“Jett Townsend.” His lips twitched. “Mayfield couldn’t make it, so you’ll have to make do with me. But don’t worry, you and I will get on just fine.” The skin around his stunning eyes crinkled, and his mouth quirked up in a grin, flashing perfect dimples. Why did I get the feeling there was a double meaning to his words?
“Brooke Stewart,” I said. My gaze lingered on his pale blue shirt and faded jeans with a stringy fringe that brushed his cowboy boots, and I couldn’t help the scoff forming at the back of my throat.
“Wine?” I asked, ready to order.
“I’d rather have Sex on the Beach.” He winked at me with a devilish grin. I figured his words could be interpreted in two ways, but judging from his flirtatious smile, I doubted he was talking about the cocktail. Heat began to pour through me at the unwelcome image of us having sex on sand and water. My skin tingled from the magnetic pull between us.
What the heck?
I peeled my gaze off him in the hope the instant attraction was nothing but a figment of my imagination.
“So, Brooke. Tell me all about yourself.” He leaned forward, flashing me a drop dead gorgeous smile.
I inhaled a sharp breath, suddenly fuming. How dare he call me by my first name? And most importantly, how dare he look so darn sexy doing it?
“May I remind you this is a business meeting and not a date?”
He raised his brows. “Do you want a date?”
“What?” My cheeks caught fire, and my heart pumped just a little bit harder. “That’s not what I meant. I—”
His eyes twinkled with humor. “Apparently, you like what you see, and so do I. So…” He shrugged and trailed off, leaving the rest to my imagination.
I hated hot guys, and particularly those who knew just how gorgeous they were. “Trust me, there’s nothing I haven’t seen before.” My lie sounded ridiculous and he knew it. I could tell by the irritating, self-assured yet gorgeous grin he was sporting.
My temper flared.
This was supposed to be an initial attempt at finding out where our companies stood in terms of a potential partnership. The fact that Mayfield Properties would send someone who couldn’t even dress to suit the occasion was laughable. Why would Mayfield want to be represented by someone who clearly lacked any knowledge of what is acceptable when dealing with a potential business partner? Or maybe Mayfield didn’t value our cooperation, and this was his way of telling me to fuck off. Either way I wasn’t pleased, and I had no intention of making a secret out of my displeasure. Mayfield was known to be a real son-of-a-bitch. He was also known to take no crap from anyone. If I wanted to make it in this cutthroat business world dominated by men, I had to mirror his tactics, or give up on a career which was already going nowhere.
“Look, I appreciate your coming, Mr. Townsend, but I’d rather speak with at least a regional vice president. Please tell Mr. Mayfield to call me once he’s ready to reschedule. Good evening to you.” Grabbing my purse and coat from the polished counter, I jumped down from the barstool and headed for the exit when strong fingers curled around my upper arm. I froze in my tracks.