What had Kutcher done to her? How had she gone from being a proper Wesleyan girl to a slutty-minded runaway? She’d met Carl Kutcher at a party for one of her interior design clients. He was tall and dark with a trim beard, eyes as black as night, and a quiet confidence that gave him an aura of importance. Stella had learned too late that there were two sides to the man who seemed too good to be true. He moved like the sea, calm and alluring one minute, angry and dark the next. His moods changed with the wind, and when they did, he left no room for escape.
Stella pushed thoughts of Kutcher away and tried to concentrate as she served up two more drinks, feeling the heat of Mr. Blue Eyes rolling over her breasts as she leaned down to wipe the bar. Hell if it didn’t make her entire body go hot. She’d been through enough over the past few months and knew better than to let a man intimidate her, but every time she tried to meet his gaze, she couldn’t do it. He was intimidating, in an edgy sort of way. Everything about him, from his thick dark hair and chiseled features to his iridescent baby blues, screamed sex, power, and intensity. Even his scent was musky and sensual, like liquid amber. She’d like to roll around in his scent, revel in the feel of his big hands on her breasts, her rib cage—
What the hell am I thinking?
She was pretty sure that her landlord, Mrs. Fairly, wouldn’t be thrilled with a midnight romp in her basement bedroom. Stella wasn’t exactly the quietest of lovers. She’d been lucky enough to find a place to stay where she could pay cash for rent and didn’t have to provide her social security number for the lease. She had to be completely untraceable, which meant no credit cards, no checks, and never using her ATM card. Fucking Kutcher had tracked her down everywhere she went, which was why she’d finally left Mystic and come to the Big Apple to disappear.
So far so good.
A large hand landed on the bar just beneath her chest, fingers splayed. No wedding ring, soft, unmarred hands, manicured fingernails. The hand of a wealthy man, that much was for sure. Her eyes traveled up to a thick, masculine wrist, suit jacket stretched tight across flexed biceps, to the piercing blue eyes she’d been fantasizing about. Her breath caught in her throat at the intensity of his stare. He circled her wrist with his index finger and thumb, drawing her eyes downward and sending her heart into panic mode. She’d been here before, restrained by Kutcher, unable to break free.
She forced her mind to function and pulled her arm free, rubbing it as if it had been burned.
“Sorry, darlin’. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” His deep voice slithered over her skin as his gaze softened, penetrating in a different way. Not intense and threatening, but the kind of heated gaze that felt safe and seductive at once.
Stella swallowed her initial fear, gathering her wits about her. She wasn’t a meek girl. At five foot five, a hundred and twenty-five pounds, she was curvy and solid, and until Kutcher, she’d had the confidence to match her strong body. Now it took a few minutes to reclaim that confidence. She hated that even after a few months Kutcher’s memory could still swamp her.
“Just one of those nights.” With her words his eyes went from seductive to assessing, his dark brows knitted together, and he lifted his hand from the bar and rubbed the sexy scruff peppering his chin. A slight smile curved his full lips as he glanced over his shoulder at the loud bachelor party, then turned and lowered his voice.
“Yes, I can see it is.” He held up his glass. “When you have time?”
“Sure.” She picked up on a faint Midwestern twang that came and went and pictured him in tight jeans, cowboy boots, and a Stetson. She turned to mix his drink, thinking about the man behind her whose eyes burned a path through her back. She wondered what he did for a living, dressed like that and alone at a bar on a Friday night. A man with eyes like Chris Pine’s, a face like Channing Tatum’s, and a voice like melted chocolate, which made her want to lick him from head to toe. Unaccompanied on a Friday night? Gay? No way. Not with the way he’d been eye-fucking her all night. Freak? Probably.
On that lovely thought, she turned and pushed his drink across the bar. “That’ll be—”
He placed his hand over hers, stopping her cold and making her body hum and rattle with fear in equal measure.
“I know how much it is, darlin’. Thank you.”
She withdrew her hand from beneath his, instantly missing the connection. It’d been too damn long. She just might have to break out her battery-operated boyfriend tonight and satisfy the itch she’d been ignoring since arriving in the city.
He handed her a twenty. “Keep the change. You’re new here.” He sipped his drink, eyes locked on her.
She worked the register, trying not to think about the man behind the generous tip. Yeah, right. She wiped the bar to give her hands something to do besides wanting to touch his again, and eyed him warily.
“I started a few weeks ago.”
“That explains it. I’ve been in and out of town the last few weeks. Where’d you work before this?”
She leaned one hand on the bar, finding her confidence once again. It came and went like the wind these days, and she was glad when it decided to blow back in. The guy’s eyes turned sultry, and a rush of excitement heated her insides. It’d also been a long time since she’d been properly flirted with.