Tempting Teacher (The Pierce Family)

Chapter One

OPAL

The hotel bar is the perfect place for an illicit tryst.

Adult.

Anonymous.

Upscale.

This isn't a college party. Not even a college party at my famously fraternity-free university.

It's close to a high school party, really, given my background. Prep school, rich kids, thirty-million-dollar apartments overlooking the park.

The setting is right. But the sounds are all different. Soft jazz and quiet conversation, not hip-hop and truth or dare.

Which is more accurate?

Truth. Are you here to meet a stranger for a one-night stand?

Dare. I dare you to find Max and kiss him.

I take a deep breath and push an exhale through my nose. I don't fit into this world, not completely, but I understand it. My brothers thrive here. They've taught me how to blend into the demure, tasteful space of the rich and powerful.

And, hey, I have a fake ID, and I lie about my age. Max will believe I'm twenty-one. Probably. Hopefully.

I run my fingers over my leather clutch as I scan the space. A couple in a corner booth. Two women in suits, talking business. A working girl at the bar.

And there, in the other corner, a man in a suit and a hot pink tie.

Max.

The sliver of silk pulls me toward him. It's all I know about him, physically anyway. He's in a hot pink tie. I'm in hot pink shoes.

We match in the best possible way.

I take steady steps toward him. Slowly, he comes into focus.

Broad shoulders, dark hair, dark eyes, light skin.

The hot pink tie against his stark white shirt.

He's…

Perfect.

Not at all as I imagined him and exactly as I imagined him.

Handsome and powerful and intense.

His eyes stop on mine. They study me carefully, taking in every detail.

The intensity should unnerve me, but it doesn't. I want all his attention. I want him staring like I'm his favorite painting.

That's the other thing we have in common.

Art. And a mutual desire for him to tie me to his bed.

I stare back into his eyes. Nod a hello. Let my lips curl into a smile.

He doesn't smile back. Instead, he holds up his hand and motions come here.

On anyone else, the gesture would annoy me.

On Max?

Fuck. I'm already in over my head and we haven't even said hello.

With every step, my heartbeat picks up. My temperature rises. By the time I arrive at his table, I'm on fire.

He stands. "Opal?"

"Did the shoes give it away?"

His eyes flit to my feet. "They suit you."

"Thank you." My stomach flutters. "The tie suits you." Really. He has the high contrast complexion to pull off the whole bright pink on white on black thing. He looks bold and sexy and masculine all at once. I love that he's wearing pink. I love that he's secure enough to sit in a fancy hotel in a hot pink tie. I love that he's teasing me.

I already like him.

We've agreed to one night, and I already like him.

Fuck.

"Max." He offers his hand.

"Opal."

"Your coat."

I let him take it. "Thank you."

His fingers brush the back of my neck. He traces a slow line across the wool, then he shifts the coat off my shoulders and folds it on the booth. "Sit. Here."

I nearly drop onto the leather bench.

He sits next to me, at the curve of the bench, so he's perpendicular, so he can touch me and look me in the eyes at once. "Comfortable?"

"Yes. Thanks."

"Do you drink?"

"A little."

"What do you like?"

What can I order to sound elegant and mature? Without trying too hard? I don't know wine. Or cocktails. Or anything besides expensive whiskey and cheap vodka. The two alcohol choices of the prep school crowd. The booze from Dad's study or whatever they can convince someone outside the liquor store to buy for twenty bucks.

"It's not a trick question."

Is it that obvious I'm nervous? "Spicy."

"Only spicy?"

"Sweet too, but mostly spicy."

"Fitting." He smiles.

My heart skips a beat. His smile is gorgeous. Perfect. Addicting.

Max hails the waitress. Orders two cocktails, something called tropical heat, and asks for privacy.

"Of course, Mr.—Max." The waitress spins on her heels and leaves.

"Do you come here often?" My cheeks flush. "Sorry, that's a cliché, isn't it?"

"Don't apologize for feeling nervous." He looks me in the eyes.

We're not supposed to share personal details. That's one of our rules. But we can handle a little small talk. "Do you like it here?"

"I do."

"What do you like about it?" I ask.

"The company."

My blush deepens.

"Have you been here?"

"I've been to this type of place. My brother attends a lot of fancy events in hotel ballrooms. I come with him sometimes."

"Do you like them?"

"I like dressing up and sipping craft cocktails. But hotels always look like hotels, no matter how hard they try to make them look nice. And there's something sad about them."

"The transparently corporate attempt at decor?" He motions to an abstract painting on the wall.

Shades of grey in the shape of a martini glass. It's completely competent and utterly uninteresting. "I hate it, too."