The Charmer (Harbor City 2)

“Because they are.” Firm. No argument could sway her.

He leaned over, bringing his mouth within a hairsbreadth of the shell of her ear. “I bet they look hot.”

Blushing as an older couple strolled by, the woman giving her a knowing smile, Felicia decided it was the evening chill that had her nipples puckering and pushing against the lace of her bra. “Not hardly.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” he said, his breath dancing against the sensitive skin of her ear before he straightened up and let his hand drop an inch lower as they walked. “Anyway, anything’s better than that black dress you wore to the fundraiser.”

What? She jerked to a stop. “That was a brand-new dress. A classic, black dress that everyone looks good in.”

He snorted. “And it belongs in the donation bin.”

The man was crazy

. She’d just bought that and had been lucky to find it in the 70 percent off rack in the junior’s section at Dylan’s. She scrambled to match his long stride, ready to defend her birthday dress to the last stitch.

“It’s the perfect little black dress,” she said. “It works for funerals and parties.”

“There is nothing right about what you just said,” he said, stopping at the top of the stairs leading down to her apartment door.

Honeypot was caterwauling, but he didn’t even glance in the lovelorn cat’s direction. His attention was completely centered on her, so much so that Felicia could practically feel the touch of his gaze. The sounds of the city faded away until the horns from the cars inching their way through rush-hour traffic barely made a beep, and the throngs of people rushing home as the sun dropped lower and lower in the sky melted into the background. It was thrilling…a little bit scary…a total rush…and something she should not be feeling with Hudson Carlyle. Transference was one thing. Getting lost in the pretend world he offered up on a silver platter was something else, something dangerous to any woman who wanted to keep her wits about her and not forget the real reason why one of Harbor City’s most eligible bachelors was carrying the new dresses he bought for her. He delivered Tyler Jacobson to her, and she helped Hudson reforge the bromance bond between his older brother and her lifelong crush. That’s all. Nothing else.

Well, and she’d agreed to pose for him in a painting. Not nude, of course. It was strange he’d not mentioned the painting since that first night. Maybe he couldn’t even paint, and art was just a pickup line for him—one he no longer needed since she’d straddled her ottoman.

“Did you ever consider that you spend a little bit too much time thinking about my clothes?”

What Hudson did with his mouth wasn’t smirk or a grin. It was a full-on sex smolder that could turn brainiacs like her stupid if they weren’t careful.

“Matches, I spend a lot more time thinking about you out of them,” he said, a gruff edge to his words—the kind that reverberated down her spine. “Trust me.”

Heat hit her with the force of a Mack truck. Shit. She had no idea what to do with that. Out of some desperate corner of her mind came a feeble whispered shout: Tyler.

Yes. Tyler.

She shifted her focus so that she was looking past his left ear instead of at his face. “I could have used your help this week.”

“What happened?”

“Tyler called, and I tried flirting but ended up giving him a fifteen-minute lecture about how male ants die after sex.” God. Just saying it out loud was like reliving her latest humiliation all over again. It had been mortifying, but she hadn’t been able to keep her trap shut.

“And this didn’t make him fall to his knees and beg you to go out on a date with him?”

“No, you ass.” She walked down the steps, past where Honeypot sat in the window plaintively meowing, to her front door and started digging through her cross-body bag for her keys.

“So,” Hudson said, following her down—his massive ego coming along for the ride. “You’re saying you need me.”

She stopped mid-search and glared at him. “Fine. Yes. I need you.”

“Then let’s go inside.” He held up the garment bag with Dylan’s Department Store’s logo on it. “We can come up with some conversational go-tos while you try on the dresses for me.”

“No way.” That was not going to happen. Even the idea of it had her searching her bag for her keys with greater urgency.

Hudson came to a stop next to her, leaning one shoulder against her doorframe. “If you’d rather stand around in your underwear, I’m good with that, too.”

A week ago, that comment would have thrown her, but she was on to him now. Thanks to all their text exchanges and conversations, she’d cracked the Hudson code. This was how he exerted control; he teased and flirted and charmed his way into having the upper hand. Call it Small Woman’s Syndrome, but she couldn’t help herself from jumping into the fray and letting him know, he didn’t have control of her.

Looking up at him, she took in the confident bordering on cocky way he stood with one finger hooked around the hanger of the Dylan’s garment bag that was tossed over his shoulder. The light from the streetlamps highlighted the strands of blond in his light brown hair and added in some shadows that made him look more angular and dangerous than he did in the daylight. The sight called out to some part of herself she didn’t recognize. Still, she couldn’t back down. The idea struck the second she wrapped her fingers around her keys and pulled them from her bag. This was, after all, lessons in seduction and were part of the bargain they’d struck.

Emboldened, she slid the keys into the deadbolt before turning so her back was to the door and her front to him. “Hudson, sweet boy, what makes you think I’m even wearing panties?”