One Night with the Sexiest Man Alive (The One 1)

“I’m full of dark secrets.”

“Do you suffer for your glamor?”

Not an ounce of suffering in his life now. There was pain. Losing Mom. Worry about his father’s health. There was struggle in the early days when he’d had nothing, not even a permanent place to live, just a succession of stinky couches he’d been pathetically grateful to crash on, and barely enough money to feed himself waiting on audition callbacks that never came. Until, on the verge of giving up, the one that did.

This life, the one where he got to buy a beautiful woman he barely knew clothing that was stupidly expensive for the fun of it wasn’t anything he’d ever seen coming. That’s why he had to use his luck, leave the world a better place than he found it for people who didn’t get the chances he’d had.

“I have no complaints.”

“Your wrist?”

“Only a bad sprain. But shake a couple of hundred hands and I’d have been feeling it. The brace is more of a protective measure than anything else.”

“You took it off to shake my hand.”

“I wanted to shake your hand.”

“Do you have full use of your fingers?” She wiggled hers at him.

“Are you planning on kicking me out of bed if I don’t?”

She laughed. “You’ve never been kicked out of bed in your life.”

“Not true. It’s very difficult to pull off a seduction when you’re sharing a couch with a drooling Mastiff.” Under cover of Teela’s laughter, he moved to the underwear section and selected a matching set in navy. Flimsy, frivolous G-string and push-up bra, laying them on the counter.

“Don’t tell me you moonlighted in ladies’ lingerie?”

“I specialized in ladies’ lingerie.” He had no idea if he’d chosen appropriately but he liked stirring her up.

The pile on the counter eventually included the navy dress, its matching jacket and the red shoes, two sets of underwear, his selection in a larger size, which she wore, and a more practical beige set Teela chose. He threw in a silk dressing gown and Teela put it on for the trip back to the suite, leaving the terry robe and all the tags to be added to his hotel bill.

They’d had their meet-cute on the balcony, their second act in the rain and the night was still young as they moved into act three.

THREE

Teela felt more naked in the champagne-colored robe and the barely there underwear, sitting across from Haydn at a table stacked with food choices, than she had when she was legitimately naked in the changeroom.

That made no sense. He’d had his hands on her butt, and he’d watched her dressing. There was very little of her body he hadn’t seen, and he’d made out with her tonsils, and yet now, comparatively fully dressed, neck to ankle, without even cleavage on show, she might spontaneously combust.

It had something to do with the way he was looking at her. Relaxing in the chair opposite, one arm slung along the back of it, the other holding a teacup. His posture said casual elegance, but the way he watched her eat was all carnivore.

In the bedroom after showering, she’d sent Evie a message. If I should go missing, it’s because I’ve experienced the world’s sexiest cock and have died of pleasure. Don’t mourn me.

It might’ve been more appropriate to say she’d died of seduction because that seemed to be Haydn’s intention. He wasn’t simply stalling, playing with her, deliberately dragging things out when he could’ve pushed her against a wall and been done with her in five minutes. This was a calculated assault on her senses designed to rearrange her sexual DNA. He was going to unravel her with kindness, courtesy, clothing and cuisine before he put a hand anywhere near a critical point of entry, and just thinking about that made it hard to remember what they were talking about.

“I started the company four years ago,” she said.

He put his cup down on its saucer. “You mentioned that.” Had she? He couldn’t possibly be interested in her business. She could be telling him anything. He had her senses scrambled. “You also said you haven’t had a lot of time since then for a private life and that’s a shame.”

Why did he have to be a better listener than she was a conversationalist? This wasn’t at all how she’d expected this to go. Something frantic, hasty, ill-considered but carnal and opportunistically essential.

And already over.

It was astonishingly better.

“The failure rate for new businesses is high and I don’t want to be a statistic.” But she was one. She was whatever the statistic was for a woman who focused too much on her career and had her husband-to-be check out, because she wasn’t focused enough on him. She wasn’t even bitter about that anymore. Imagine thinking she could make a life with a man who couldn’t support her ambition. “It’s easier being single.”

“On that we agree.”