Okay, so maybe it was time to break with tradition.
* * *
Did he have to be heading to the same floor?
She’d had enough of arrogant arseholes for one day and here she was stuck in a lift with a self-professed one. She couldn’t deny he’d amused her with his honesty and self-deprecating introduction though.
But he was trouble.
He wasn’t like Charles. He wasn’t smooth a
nd perfect, clean-shaven and pristine.
No, this man was all about the stubble and the bedhead hair; a sun-kissed surfer plucked from the ocean, jazzed up and dumped in the city. The jeans and sweatshirt hugging his imposing frame looked laid-back but they screamed designer from top to toe. And the way he had her pulse tripping over itself, he was just as dangerous. On every level.
‘Now you know so much about me,’ he suddenly said, his accent thick and exciting her far more than was fair, ‘how about you let me take you for a drink?’
She almost swallowed her tongue, the portfolio digging into her side as she turned rigid. ‘I’m busy.’
‘Not right this second,’ he said, his amber eyes twinkling with amusement and holding her own. ‘But at a mutually agreeable time, of course?’
Of course. She mentally rolled her eyes. Would he just get the hint?
Her resolve was good, but she wasn’t immune. She could feel the temptation well enough and the sooner she got free of it, the better. She dragged her eyes away, forcing them on the intricate pattern twisting through the gold lift door ahead. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘Care to tell me why?’
Because I’m not a fool. ‘I know you.’
The lift announced the arrival of their floor and he spoke over it. ‘You do?’
‘Obviously not you exactly,’ she said, relief sweeping through her as the lift doors opened and she stepped out.
Purposeful, she turned left towards Julia’s and hoped he would take the hint or a different direction at least. He didn’t.
‘Obviously,’ he reaffirmed, falling into step behind her. ‘I’d remember if I’d met you before.’
Her tummy gave an annoying flutter and she squashed it. She was going to have to be more specific. Brutal even...
‘What I mean is, I know your type.’
‘My type?’
‘Hell, yeah, great in the sack, perfect bedroom material...’ she sent him a scathing look ‘...but beyond that...well, we don’t go there, do we?’
His step faltered. ‘Wow, hung, drawn and quartered.’
She could hear his surprise, feel his unease, and victory surged warm in her veins. Her harsh assessment had hit its mark, hopefully enough to send him running.
And if that didn’t, the hint of her being the relationship kind should do it.
‘You have quite the opinion of men.’
She gave a derisive laugh and turned a bend, the sanctity of Julia’s hotel room now only a few strides away.
‘So, you’re either an anti-male lesbian—’ it was her turn to falter mid-step ‘—or you’ve been burned before. Which is it to be?’
A lesbian...