When Staci Takes Charge (Leave Your Shoes On 2)

She said, “I’m not sure what’s worse. Me locked out of my room, caught in nothing but skimpy lingerie I paid too much for…or the fact that I’m wearing skimpy lingerie I paid too much for and there’s no one on the other side of this door to let me in.”

That just plain killed him.

Evan pried one of her hands from the silver container. Very gently, very slowly, he pulled her across the corridor, backing up because he still faced her, staring intently at her.

She came along willingly.

He pushed the door open with his foot, still lost in her eyes, though he lifted his free hand and gestured toward the security latch. “That’s how you keep from getting locked out.”

One corner of her luscious mouth quirked. “Way to beat your point to a bloody pulp.”

He chuckled. “Just sharing a little tip.”

“Uh-huh. You’re clearly an I-told-you-so type.”

“No. It’s not my first rodeo at a swank hotel, either.”

Now she gnawed her bottom lip. It was wholly distracting, so thank God she released it.

She asked, “You’ve done this before?”

Evan wasn’t sure what this really entailed. But he set the record straight by assuring her, “I don’t pick up women in hotel bars, if that’s what you’re thinking. And I’ve never come across one in lingerie in the hallway.”

“So no one else has been in that room this evening?” Her chin jerked toward the bedroom.

“Just the staff for turn-down service. Truffles are still on the pillows. Help yourself.”

“I already ate mine. It was the highlight of the past hour.”

“You should have a little more excitement than that behind closed doors.”

Had he actually said those words? Hmm. It was a little too pot-calling-the-kettle-black.

She told him, “I’m also not in the habit of hotel hookups. I’ve been a bit too far out of the game to start playing it now.”

“I’m not a player myself,” he said earnestly. And he could easily repeat her sentiment—she didn’t know the half of it. Evan had definitely become an all-work-and-no-play man.

As evidenced when she glanced around his biceps and spied the living room, where papers were strewn everywhere. Not to mention his clothes.

Her brow crooked. “Did a tornado blow through here?”

“Not exactly. I’ve been obsessed of late.” He was usually incredibly neat and orderly. Meticulous, even. An everything-in-its-proper-place sort. But after attending a conference here at the Four Seasons the past couple of days, his mind had raced with some new possibilities for a project, and he couldn’t quite keep up with the barrage of ideas and extensive research they spawned.

She asked, “What do you do?”

“I’m a doctor.”

“On TV, or in real life?”

“Ha, ha,” he quipped.

“PhD or MD?”

“MD.”

“Ah. Groovy.”

He laughed softly again. Giving one more tug on her hand so that she was in the entryway, he reached around her and flipped the latch so the door could shut behind her. Then indicated the phone on the desk and said, “You can make your call whenever you want.”