It’s his reputation. It’s only because you’ve been told over and over and over what a sex god he is.
But it wasn’t just his reputation. He looked at her—steadily, implacably, judging. His blue eyes hadn’t been graphics-program enhanced. Maybe they were colored contacts? Maybe he really was some paranormal creature? Min’s mind circled, giddy, all out stupid.
Then he walked closer. Close enough for Min to figure they weren’t contacts, his eyes really were that ice blue.
“Araminta Jones,” he said slowly, almost seeming to savor her name—except there was that edge.
A lethal bite was but a second away.
She inclined her head but didn’t answer. She should. She should say ‘Logan Hughes’ in an equally cool, patronising voice. But her damn vocal cords were unreliable when she was this nervous.
Her best chance of avoiding a stutter was to speak with a whisper. Put on a ‘voice’. But damned if she wanted to do her Marilyn Monroe impression for this guy. He’d think she was coming on to him. And that was never happening. Ever. Even if he did look like a cross between a Hollywood bad boy and a Greek god—chiselled, stony perfection.
She could handle this situation some other way. Theoretically she could handle any situation. Her mother had hammered manners into her from the moment she was born, as part of her ‘you must marry-well’ plan. The plan mom had enacted for herself several times over.
Min could apologize, bow, scrape, grovel, smile and get out of here relatively unscathed.
Except there was something in Logan Hughes’ eyes that made her want to refuse to apologize. She didn’t want to bow and scrape and grovel to him. If anything, she had the wicked urge to piss him off even more. That fallen angel face reflected it all, he was an arrogant jerk who’d had everything his own way for far too long. The whole world knew that.
“Please take a seat.”
He gestured to the large sofa. She glanced at the chairs either side of his big desk. He didn’t want to go formal? He wanted to sit on the sofa next to her? That entirely inappropriate awareness shot through her system again—a wave of heat connecting her lips and breasts to that ache burning deep within her belly.
All those parts wanted to be touched—taken—by him.
Oh for Heaven’s sake, get a grip.
She’d stand. She’d stay here only long enough for the bullet to her career and then she’d leave. Five minutes, tops.
He walked to the other side of the room, taking a moment to glance out the window. She turned to face him and caught his gaze briefly resting on her butt. Oh he was shameless. And she was not blushing.
“You don’t want to sit?” He actually smiled.
Min’s ‘impending danger’ alarm rose. So did her temperature. It was too hot in here. Why was he smiling, why wasn’t he shouting at her already?
The last thing she wanted to do was use her breathy voice. But it was either speak slow and airy and sound bubble-headed, or be stuck on the first letter of his name for the next half hour. Or just be stuck.
She could manage telephone conversations so much better. She didn’t have to look at the person. She could keep her eyes on the catch phrases she used most often and had written down and had practiced to death. Most of the time it was manageable. But right now it was in the forefront of her brain.
Don’t stutter, don’t stutter, don’t stutter.
The words of her mother overlaid the tune in her head—turning into a cacophony, a mash-up of disapproval and defiance.
Speak properly Araminta. Don’t stutter. Come on, hurry up. Don’t stutter. Speak clearly. Don’t stutter. Don’t be silly. Out with it. Don’t stutter.
It was mortifying. There was nothing else for it. Min breathed in and breathed out her whispering response.
“I will when you do.” Marilyn Monroe all the way.
She saw his sharp glance, the way his head tilted like a hawk who’d just heard the soft rustle of prey miles down on the ground below. She felt the sudden intensity of his focus.
No, she wasn’t coming on to him. She was just trying to speak smoothly.
He sat on the far corner of the sofa, angling towards her. His eyes alert, his expression serious. He still looked like a fallen angel. Beautiful, masculine. So promising, yet a threat to any sane, sexually-aware female.
Min perched on the opposite end of the sofa, keeping her knees locked together, wriggling her toes in the toes of her sneakers to let some tension escape her body. Five minutes. Five minutes, she’d weather his fury and then be out of here. Then she’d ensure she was never in the same physical space as him again.
“So apparently I’m engaged.” Logan said in that deep, amused, sinful voice.
“This really doesn’t need to be a problem,” Min tried not to blush as she adopted her breathy-speak technique. “If you’d let me delete it—”
“The rest of the world has already read it.” His lips twitched and he leaned back, seeming to study her. “And any deleted tweet gets double the exposure, right?”
He knew his stuff.
And she knew he was surprised by something. Most likely her husky voice.
“You can say it was a joke,” she said.
“Why would I joke about getting married? It makes me look a fool.”
Min swallowed. “Well, ‘she’ c-could be anyone. And the ‘yes’ could be to anything.”
“Such as?”
Hell, she didn’t know. “A model, agreeing to work with you?”
“And that would make me the ‘happiest guy on earth’? How disappointing.” He kept his eyes fixed on her. “I’m the trending topic in Manhattan at the moment. There needs to be a very good story behind the ‘yes’.”
&nb
sp; Well how was she supposed to think when he was staring at her the way a hawk would a mouse? With those damn piercing eyes.
She thought desperately. “Do you have a g-girlfriend or someone who—”
“No.”
She gritted her teeth and tried again. “It could be your mother—”
“No.” He snapped before she’d hardly started.
Annoyance began to seep through the professional veneer she’d tried to assume. “Are you going to say ‘no’ to every suggestion I make?”
“Possibly.”
For a moment she met his eyes directly. Sexual awareness zinged through her. He made the room shrink, made her see only him.
She’d better not be blushing.
“We should have met before,” he said thoughtfully. “That was remiss of me.”
His gaze idly swept over her body and then returned to her eyes. His were so very cool blue. Very intent. She wasn’t sure what kind of intent.
She swallowed, but refused to break the eye contact. Her ancient Scooby tee was too thin. That was the trouble with genuine vintage, the fabric was precarious. And right now her nipples were tighter than two little bolts. She wasn’t thinking about his hands. Oh no. Oh she so wasn’t going to succumb to the man’s charms. She was a professional and she worked for this guy and she’d just screwed up. She would not be sexually attracted to him. “I prefer to work remotely from my clients.” Very, very remotely.
“You like working from home, Ms Jones?”
“It has its perks.”
“Such as?”
“I can wear what I like.”
Big mistake, he was looking at her body again. She lifted her chin and defiantly offered him the same discourtesy.
He, like she, wore jeans. Only his weren’t torn, weren’t faded and weren’t fraying at the hem. His tee bore no slogan, it was a thicker material, but it clung to his chest. There were muscles. Min reproached herself. The man was a model, he probably spent most of his morning honing his physique.
“You don’t like me very much, do you Ms Jones?”
His direct question startled her. “It’s not my job to like you,” she answered, desperately trying to regain some kind of professionalism.