Stealing the Bride

He smells good. Indecently so. It’s the kind of scent that can make a woman lose all sense and logic. And I, Pascal Snyder, can’t afford that.

“What did you do to my dad?” I ask him to buy myself some time to reorient. “Jedi mind trick? Vulcan mind meld?”

He laughs. “No.”

“Did you send him something?” Dad said Court didn’t send flowers, but said nothing about anything else—like a bottle of premium liquor.

“Of course not. He’s a guy. Did you like the flowers? They reminded me of you.”

It’s hard to stay focused when he says things like that. His blue gaze is so deep that I feel like I could plunge right in and never come out.

“They were all right,” I lie, hoping it’ll discourage him. Those are some incredible flowers. If I act untouched by them, he has no hope of impressing me with any others.

“Next time I’ll send you tulips.”

“Why tulips?” I’ve never received anything other than roses. Bright red roses. Well…until today.

“They’re cheery and colorful. Like you.”

The smile he sends me is entirely too sincere and disarming. I can feel my shields drop despite my best intentions.

“By the way, you don’t really have over an hour for lunch, do you?” he asks.

This must be a new routine. Mr. Astute.

Oh, this isn’t new, my traitorous mind whispers. He was damn astute in bed.

The memory of what happened in the Aylster Hotel breaks through the dam I put up. Sweat mists over my suddenly hot skin, and liquid heat pools between my legs as though he has his mouth on mine, his hands on my breasts and his hard cock rocking against me. Sizzling shivers run down my spine. Closing my eyes, I bite my lower lip so I don’t make an inappropriate nois

e.

“Skittles?”

He really shouldn’t be saying my name in such a low, intimate voice. We’re in an elevator, after all. “Hmm?” And maybe I shouldn’t be responding in such a breathless tone. Or does it matter? We’re the only ones in the elevator.

“The lunch break?”

What’s that again? What about lunch break?

My brain finally pulls itself out of the crazy hormonal haze. Oh crap. The lunch hour.

“No.” The word comes out husky and slightly raspy. Even though he can’t possibly know exactly what was going through my head, my face is burning anyway. I clear my throat, unable to meet his gaze. “I normally take about half an hour or so. And usually at my desk.” So I can stare at charts while nibbling on a sandwich.

“That’s what I thought. And you don’t get comp time.”

“No. There’s no such thing at the firm.” It seriously annoys me that Dad said that. Nobody working in finance gets comp time. Except maybe if you’re working in retail banking.

I steal a glance in Court’s direction. He’s smirking. What’s so amusing?

“So. A fancy lunch is out. How about something simple and quick? Sandwich or a burger good?”

“Yes. Either one.”

He takes me to a burger joint. It’s not fast food, but not anything fancy, either. We have a table waiting for us. Must’ve been reserved.

“Aren’t you presumptuous?” I ask.

“What?”