One Night Wife (The Confidence Game 1)

“You’re safe with me. But if you want, you should phone a friend and tell them where we are. You have my card still. Give them my name and details.”

More than the way he’d handled her body, taken her mouth, brought her here, that made her pause, and as the clerk handed over two room pass cards, he saw it—uncertainty washed over her eyes, settled like a crust of salt at a tide line to mark the point where hesitancy warred with desire.

He should say goodbye, let her have the suite for the night, go home and hope she forgot him, but he wasn’t ready to sever the connection, even if it meant not touching her again.

Since Rory left, he’d been lonely for the company of women. Not three hours ago, she’d reappeared in his life and shown him with a well-placed wallop that six months hadn’t been enough time for her to recover from their breakup.

Finley Cartwright might be the diversion he needed, but his heart was heavy, and the timing was off.

“Are you hungry? I was thinking we could order room service and work on your pitch.”

“My pitch.” Her tone was a hiccup of surprise that kicked up a bunch of octaves. It made him smile.

“It’s not a euphemism. We got carried away. It might make sense to slow down.” Saying that made him feel like a heel. She was revved up and willing, and he wanted her, and they were both unattached adults. “Are you hungry?” Where exactly was his survival sense if he did this?

“I’m starving.”

“You can eat and tell me what started all this.”

“You’re sorry.” She turned her head and looked out to the street. “I should go. I forced myself on you.”

No sense at all. “I liked it.” Maybe there was a full moon.

He

saw the sly smile curve her cheek in profile. “You did.” A confirmation, not a question.

“Very much. Come and eat with me. Tell me about Finley Cartwright.”

She gave him her hand. “If you’ll tell me about Caleb Sherwood.”

He’d tell her what he could afford to.

They rode the elevator hand in hand, and when he opened the door to the suite, she gave a whoop that made him think of kids at a fun fair. “This is lavish.”

He held the door open for her to walk inside. “Only the best for women who accost me in Irish pubs.”

“I didn’t accost you.”

He closed the door but didn’t bolt it and followed her into the room. “What would you call it?”

She stood in the little sitting room area. He’d done terrible things to her hair. “Ravish. I ravished you,” she said.

And goddamn, that had felt good, pit of the stomach, spine electrified good. “You did.”

She fanned her face. “I think you ravished me back. I didn’t expect that.”

He looked her over, made no attempt to veil his interest. “You’re difficult to resist.” He had the urge to do rude, wonderful things to her for as long as his body would hold out.

“Me?” Hands to her hips. “Or are you saying any woman who accosts you in an Irish pub with a ravishing in mind would be hard to resist?”

“It’s a tough question.” He took his suit coat off; it would need dry-cleaning. He flung it over a chair. Let her sweat on his answer. She’d damn well made him sweat.

“Oh for God’s sake, play along,” she said, exasperation in her laughter.

“Isn’t that what I’ve been doing?”

She looked around the suite. “You sure know how to up the stakes.”