Hush (Just This Once 1)

Chapter 1

Evan

"I'm not a coward. I am not a coward." A soft, smooth feminine voice catches me off guard.

I turn toward it and grab a quick glimpse of what looks like the world's most perfect ass in a pair of black lace panties. They vanish the second the woman in question stands upright again, the red umbrella in her hand mangled from the brutal wind.

"You don't strike me as a coward, sweetheart." I raise my near-empty glass of bourbon in a mock toast because any person brave enough to venture out in January in a New York City blizzard, dressed like it's the middle of July, deserves a medal. This one earns bonus points for having an ass that can halt a snowstorm in its path.

That may or may not be a fact, but the timing is sure as hell spot-on.

The deluge of snow that has blanketed the city for the past five hours has stopped abruptly. That wasn't the case up until a minute ago when I was standing, alone, outside this hotel contemplating what my next move will be.

Big picture stuff, not which-of-my-casual-hook-ups-should-I-call-tonight stuff.

"Thanks, stranger." She smooths her hands over the short skirt of her frilly navy blue dress as she takes in the length of my six-foot plus frame. "I'm not your sweetheart, though."

Wheat blonde hair, warm hazel eyes, glossy full pink lips, and an attitude.

Forget the big picture. My next move needs to involve this woman.

My eyes don't leave her angelic face even though I want to trail my gaze and my mouth over every inch of her body. "Fair enough. Introduce yourself, and while you're at it, I'd love to meet your imaginary friend too."

I can't resist the urge to look when her nipples pebble into hard points beneath the airy fabric of her dress. As much as I want that reaction to be from the rich baritone of my voice, I suspect it's from the burst of wind that just picked up her skirt. There's a brief flash of sheer lace covering smooth skin before she yanks the hem of the skirt back in place.

My evening just got a whole hell-of-a-lot better.

"My imaginary friend?" She tucks a piece of her windswept hair behind her ear. My fist clenches in envy. I want those waves balled in my hand so tightly that the only noise she makes is one that tells me she wants my cock deeper.

I crack a smile. "You were hell bent on convincing someone that you're not a coward. Since we're the only two out here and there's no phone in your hand, I take it that your imaginary friend is the asshole who thinks you're a coward. I'll argue your case if you point me in his direction, or is it her direction?"

"Are you a lawyer?"

I'll be anything she wants me to be. I'm a surgeon, vascular to be precise, and I have to be. Tonight, I don't want to be Dr. Evan Scott. I'd rather be the star of her future fantasies; that one awe-inspiring lay all women look back on for the rest of their life when they get themselves off.

"Not guilty." I hold my hand up in mock surrender. "Your name, beautiful. What is it?"

Her thickly lashed eyes widen as the heavy metal awning above us creaks under the weight of the wet snow. "It's Jane. Jane Smith."

She's the third Jane Smith I've met this month.

I'm not offended that the name offered is as fake as the smile plastered on the face of the doorman who is watching our every move from the warm comfort of the lobby. Experience has taught me that women in this town hide behind a false persona for just three reasons.

One is that their wedding ring is tucked in a pocket or a purse and they don't want the night to seep into their two kids, bake sales, walking the dog in the park, day-to-day life.

For the record, I avoid those women at all costs. They're easy to spot, even if they think they're fooling everyone, including themselves.

The second reason women morph into Jane Smith, Jane Doe or just plain Jane is they're prepping to hand over a fake number.

Eye contact is everything, and if a woman I'm after can't make it with me, I tap out. There are too many women on this island who are interested in what I'm offering. I'm not into wasting my time on someone whose type isn't tall with dark brown hair, blue eyes, muscular pecs, that cut V that women dream of, and a thick nine-inch cock.

Yeah, I measured. Every man does. He's a fucking liar if he doesn't admit it.

The third reason is why my new blonde friend tossed out the name Jane Smith to me just now. She's looking for the same thing I am. One night of no-personal-details, uninhibited, I-dare-you-to-walk-straight-after-that fucking.

"It's nice to meet you, Jane." I extend a hand because in public I'm always the perfect gentleman.

She takes a step forward, dragging her sorry looking umbrella behind her. Her hand lands in mine for a soft shake. It's just enough pressure to stir my cock. "What's your name, stranger?"

I could easily be the Jack to her Jane, but I want to hear my name from those lips tonight. "Evan."

The look on her face is all surprise and awe like I've already got two fingers inside her and I'm honed in on that spot that will etch my name into her memory forever. "Is that your real name?"

I crane my neck to look at the lobby. The last thing I need right now is for anyone I work with to breeze past us and call me Dr. Scott. I have to get this woman into a hotel room and out of that dress now.

"According to my driver's license, it is." I circle the pad of my thumb on her palm before I let her hand go. "I'm going inside to refill my drink and then I'm heading upstairs. Can I get you anything, Jane?"