She stares back at me silently. A furrow forms between her brows. When she pulls her full lower lip between her teeth, I realize how close my face is to hers.
She has a beauty mark near her right eyebrow, a tiny, perfect spot of velvet brown. Otherwise, her skin is flawless. Creamy, I think you’d call it. And those eyes, sweet Jesus, those eyes that can turn a man to stone can also light his imagination on fire.
Smelling her skin, sitting so close, looking into those jungle cat eyes, my imagination is definitely ablaze.
Tabby abruptly withdraws. She licks her lips, swallows, turns her attention back to her glass of water. In a flat voice, she says, “Well. Thanks for that, but I work alone. Also I just remembered I hate you.” She downs the water all in one gulp like it’s whiskey, stands, and, without looking at me, says, “See you in another life, jarhead.”
She turns and walks away.
Fuck.
I call out after her, “Think about it, Tabby. I’m at the Carlisle until six tomorrow morning if you change your mind.”
She keeps walking, making no indication she’s heard me. Feeling a little desperate, I add, “You got something better to do, sweet cheeks? Go back to New York and work on your Hello Kitty handbag collection? Get a few more tattoos?”
Over her shoulder, she flips me the bird. The old guy on the stool next to me cackles.
I turn around and give him my signature death glare, the one that always shuts dumb motherfuckers up.
But he’s a scrappy old goat, not easily scared. He just cackles again, shaking his head. He says, “Don’t worry, son. I’m sure someday you’ll figure out how to talk to a woman.”
I growl, “Mind your business, Grandpa.”
Another cackle. Must be his signature thing, like my death glare. He says, “A little finesse wouldn’t kill you, boy.”
The fucking balls on this geezer! “Excuse me?”
“Convincing a woman to do something you want her to do isn’t like Operation Desert Storm. You can’t go in all shock and awe, balls to the wall. Trust me, I been married four times. You gotta make her think it was her idea. You know.” He wiggles his fingers in the air. “Finesse.”
I look back to the entrance of the bar just in time to see Tabby disappear around the corner, her shoulders stiff, her head held high.
Finesse, he says. Not exactly my strong suit.
Fuck.
Three
Tabby
When I get back to my room, I lie on the sofa and do deep-breathing exercises for ten minutes before the urge to break something passes.
What. The hell. Was that?
Just seeing him was strange enough. Out of the blue after three years, Connor Hughes materializes from thin air in my hotel room like fucking Cowboy Dracula, all Hiya! Howdy, pardner! Have I got an offer for you!
As if we don’t have history.
As if he doesn’t know I hate him.
And then the mysterious, cloak-and-dagger, I’d-tell-you-but-then-I’d-have-to-kill-you job offer.
I admit I was tempted by the thought of meeting Miranda Lawson. I’ve always admired her. She’s a true genius, and those are rarer than unicorns. Graduated MIT—my alma mater—at seventeen, then attended USC film school and received an MFA in film and television production. Became the youngest female studio head in any movie studio’s history at twenty-five. Founded her own studio at thirty. In the decade since, she’s churned out blockbuster after blockbuster, attributed to a proprietary statistical analysis software she developed which can apparently predict what the movie-viewing public will enjoy with frightening accuracy.
She’s fiercely intelligent, utterly unapologetic, and more competent than any man.
What’s not to like?
Sure, she’s got haters. A lot of them, from what I’ve read in the press. But the number of fucks she gives about what people think of her is equal to the number of times Connor Hughes has said, “I don’t know.”
Arrogant prick.
Although I grudgingly admit he shocked the hell out of me with that “you’re the smartest person I’ve ever met” shtick. Not sure if it was even in the neighborhood of genuine, but he definitely managed to look sincere.
He looked a few other things too. Like…intense. Intimate.
Aroused.
And we’re breathing.
I’m sure there are women who’d consider his kind of rugged, mountain-man type attractive, but I’m definitely not one of them. Two-day growth of beard, thighs like tree trunks, shoulders like a linebacker…ugh. He’s fucking uncivilized is what he is. A big, barbarian ape. He probably chews with his mouth open.
Why would he even think I’d consider working with him?
The last time I saw him, I was in crisis mode. My best friend and employer, Victoria, had disappeared, the police had just interrogated me about my relationship with her, and in walks Victoria’s ex, Parker, with his hired gun jarhead, demanding answers. It all turned out fine in the end, but I’ll never forget how insensitive Connor was. How he laughed at me.