He parked at the base of a stoop that looked like it belonged to a library, not a personal dwelling. There weren’t any lions or gargoyles that she could see, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have some gigantic animal head mounted over the fireplace.
Oh, a fire would be perfect on a night like this. Nothing chased the fall chill away like the warmth from crackling wood. She could picture it now. The soft rug, the kindling flames casting golden sparks over his dark hair. His broad chest on display, gilded by firelight. His abs rippling, her panties dampening—
Lord, she was in deep.
With effort, she pulled herself out of her daydreams and met him on the stoop. The overhead light cast the area beyond the porch in shadows, emphasizing the seeming vastness of the property. She tilted her head back to note the scrollwork in a pane of glass above the door—it looked like some kind of crest—and endeavored to sound unaffected. “Nice digs.”
Michael chuckled and hitched the backpack up on his shoulder. “Thanks.”
“Sure this isn’t a long-lost uncle’s place?”
To her utter relief, he only laughed. “My name’s on the deed, Kim. I promise.”
She liked how he said her name with that twinkle in his normally pitch-black eyes. For an instant they seemed to lighten, and he smiled.
Addictive smile. Gorgeous house. Waning conscience.
“You also promise you’re not a serial killer?”
“Yes. Just the occasional lady.” When she frowned, he laughed at his bad joke and waved for her to walk ahead of him. He leaned around her to open the door, his mouth hovering too close to her ear. “Enter my lair, beautiful spider.”
In spite of herself, she shivered. He obviously knew how to turn on the sexy when warranted, but she wasn’t some wide-eyed innocent. She couldn’t be lured.
She was almost sure she couldn’t be.
“Oh dear God,” she whispered, reaching back to grab his hand to steady her shaky knees.
Again he laughed, soft and husky. “I know it’s a lot to take in.”
Was it ever. A gigantic chandelier adorned the front hall, sending prisms over the glossy black marble floor. The spiral staircase hugged the wall to the second-level loft and a hallway full of doors, probably to bedrooms beyond her wildest imagination. A tall archway to her right led into a living room with a classic brick-fronted fireplace, a cathedral ceiling and regal jewel-toned sofas and chairs that somehow looked as comfortable as they were elegant. Large black-and-white photos of sights like the Eiffel Tower and Big Ben hung on the cream walls, offset by sconces that offered soft, romantic light.
And in front of the fire sat a plush red circular rug that made her want to stretch out and purr. While naked.
“So let me get this straight. You’re young, work as a nude model for an art
class, have some other unknown job that requires early hours at least on Thursdays, drive a beat-up pickup and live in a mansion. Am I missing anything so far?”
Michael scratched the scruff darkening his jaw. “Nope. Seems like you’re on point so far. Except young is a relative term. And my pickup is not beat-up. It’s rugged. Remember that.”
She fought back a smile, unwilling to give him even one more inch until she figured out how he’d already taken a mile. “Are you a spy? A military operative? A real-life Christian Grey?”
“Who’s that?”
“Never mind.” Blowing out a breath, she decided she’d save her official tour of the house for when she wasn’t so starstruck. When that would be, she had no idea.
Alcohol would help. Alcohol always helped.
“Do you have any wine?” she asked, staring up at the sparkling chandelier in the hopes that it might blind her and render her incapable of seeing Michael’s ridiculously handsome face.
It wasn’t fair that a guy who looked like he did also owned this kind of place at his age. She’d met up with him after class expecting a quick meal, and if things went well, hopefully a long ride. She’d also expected him to be the usual sort she’d slept with. Friendly enough, probably middle income, passably intelligent. How had she even ended up here, in this palace? She was a gift-shop manager with dubious taste in men. This one, it seemed, had vaulted right out of the backstreets of poverty and into a gold mine.
“No, sorry, I’m not a big drinker. I don’t have any wine.”
“Of course not,” she muttered. “I’m amazed you ordered a soda and not a soy latte, since your body’s a temple and all that.” Before he could reply, she whirled on him and steeled herself not to be fazed by his innate sexiness. He was a toad in sex god’s clothing. Good luck convincing yourself that. “Is there a convenience store anywhere around here? If I go driving through these woods, will I come across a cabin and some one-eyed, slobbering half-man, half-beast with a shotgun?”
Yet again he laughed, shaking his head at her as if she were the most amusing woman he’d ever encountered. Pedestrian sort that she was. “Why do you have to go to a convenience store?”
“I need a drink, just something to get the chill out of my bones and—” And the impulse to jump you on that thick rug out of my brain.