High-Heeler Wonder (Killer Style 1)

“Can’t go off half-cocked.” He tucked her hand into his bigger one, pulling her out of the chair as electricity zapped up her arm. “Come on. Let’s eat and figure out a plan.”

Chapter Ten

“If you wear a short enough skirt, the party will come to you.”

—Dorothy Parker

Flames crackled in the screened fire pit built into the slate patio. The earlier wind had died down to the occasional rustle of leaves across Tony’s expansive backyard surrounded by a six-foot-tall privacy fence. Growing up in the city, she’d never had a yard of her own to play in. However, sitting on a teakwood lounge chair wide enough for two and watching the stars begin to twinkle, she could imagine how nice it would be for a kid to have this kind of space to run around and play in.

Tony closed the grill, hanging a ridiculously huge spatula on a hook on its side. He took a pull off his beer and settled onto the lounge chair next to her. Their forearms brushed against each other, his heat seeping through the thin cotton of her sweater and pooling in the pit of her belly. The relaxed ease brought on by their earlier steak-and-potato dinner fled her limbs, and her skin buzzed with anticipation.

The breeze ruffled her skirt, inching it higher up her thighs. An image flashed through her mind of Tony’s firm hands spreading her legs wide and his warm lips making their way north from her knees until he reached her core, vibrating with want.

“You keep sucking on your lip like that and I’m going to forget I’m only pretending to be your boyfriend.” Under his light tone, something darker reverberated. Something heated and daring.

She practically spit her lip out of her mouth—if that was even possible—but it was too late. A wanton flush reddened her olive skin, and everything from the waist down melted. Keeping her gaze locked on the last pink hues of the sunset, she prayed he would assume the chilly wind had hardened her nipples.

Or not…

He’d forget he was pretending…

“Would that be so wrong?” Oh God. Where did that breathy voice come from, and why in hell was she sitting here talking instead of fleeing to her room?

“Very wrong.” He sprang up from the lounge chair and strode over to the railing. “There are rules.”

To Sylvie, playing by the rules wasn’t just a cliché; it had become her life’s mantra. Somewhere along the line she’d become so petrified of disappointing her fathers and nearly everyone else in her life that she’d regularly scuttled or adjusted her plans in order to maintain the façade. The silver lining of having a stalker might turn out to be having to face reality…

It seemed so clear to her now. She was the only one who gave a damn about that false image of perfection. Tony had been right at Anya’s wedding—some people are good at hiding things.

Especially from themselves.

Sylvie hadn’t created the High-Heeled Wonder persona to protect her fathers. She’d done it so she wouldn’t have to take a chance and risk public failure.

That ended now. This second.

With this man.

Tony stood with his back to her, his broad shoulders outlined by the day’s last dying rays. Her fingers itched to trail across the strong muscles of his back, sneak underneath the hem of his lightweight black sweater, and explore his abs as they flexed to her touch.

In his tux at Anya’s wedding, Tony had been a stranger who looked like an Italian James Bond—a hot guy to take her mind off her public humiliation by Daniel. Tonight, she knew him, knew what kind of man he was—intelligent, determined, sexy as hell. She didn’t just want a hot guy any more.

She wanted Tony. And he wanted her.

And they were supposed to forget about the sparks lighting up the very air between them just because of some self-imposed rules? Fuck the rules. It was high time she stopping hiding behind an avatar and started living in the real world.

She pressed her palms against the wooden chair hard enough that the grain would probably leave an imprint. Her instincts screamed for her to sink back into her comfort zone. She refused.

Ignoring standard operating procedure, she pushed out of the lounge chair and crossed the deck on shaking legs until she stood hip to hip with him. Heat zapped between them like flashes of lust-induced static electricity.

The vein in his temple went haywire and his thighs locked inside the tight confines of his jeans, giving her a perfect view of the hardness pushing against his zipper. Her mouth turned to cotton and her brain to mush. God, the man was magnificent. There was nothing more in the world she wanted right this second than to slide her hands across his denim-covered cock and feel it jump beneath her touch. Her gut, however, warned against it, so she covered his clenched hand with hers, letting her fingers weave with his.

Showing her only his square-jawed profile, his grip tightened on the deck railing but he didn’t pull away. “You’re my client.”

His strained words did nothing to shake her intentions…or the tingling vibrations building steadily in her core. “And if I wasn’t?”

With a muffled groan he slipped his hand from beneath hers and pivoted so his solid frame faced her. Arms crossed and legs planted wide on the deck, he peered down at her. He had the intimidating look down pat—almost. Nothing short of a miracle could camouflage the desire turning his brown eyes to charcoal, or the growing cock outlined against his jeans. The view took away what little breath she had left.

“Wouldn’t matter.” His deep voice shook. “There are things you don’t know. That I hope you never find out. All you need to know right now is that you are my client, and this is a bad idea.”