On the Steamy Side (3 page)

“Excuse me,” she said to Devon. “I hate to interrupt, but I need to speak with your friend here.” Simon glared at him in an angry appeal for help, but Devon spread his hands wide and said, “How can I deny such a polite request?”

The woman turned those glowing green eyes on Devon for the first time. One white, long-fingered hand swept the dark brown curls off her forehead and revealed a fresh-scrubbed, pink-cheeked face.

The face wasn’t so much beautiful as it was interesting. Her chin was too pointed, her dark brows a touch too heavy for her face, and her skin was too pale, making her brilliant green eyes appear almost startling. This woman spent zero time at the spa getting buffed, plucked, and tanned. She looked nothing like the perfect, sophisticated women he usually dated, models and socialites and actresses.

But there was something compelling about her, some mysterious allure in her sweet, wide-eyed gaze that kept Devon’s attention.

Even when he knew, instinctively and immediately, that she was way too nice for him.

“Thank you,” she said in that husky voice that somehow carried over all the combined chatter and hubbub of the crowded bar. “You’ve restored my faith in Yankee mothers—I was starting to think none of you boys up here had any home training whatsoever.”

Too nice, maybe, Devon amended silently, but she’s no fragile flower.

An opinion confirmed when she poked one stiff finger into Simon’s chest and faced him down like a scrappy terrier. “You, however, ought to be ashamed. What would your momma think if she saw you treating a woman this way? Hmm? Throwing a tantrum like a little baby and soaking my shirt, which is probably ruined now, and all you can do is point out some napkins? Which is about as useful as a pogo stick in quicksand.”

Simon smoothed back his sandy hair, tightened his tie, and tried for a charming smile. He fished out one of his embossed ecru business cards.

“Please feel free to send the dry cleaning bill to my secretary.”

“No, thank you, that won’t be necessary,” she said with a disdainful sniff.

“Then what do you want?”

The woman gave Simon a look that bordered on pitying. “Merciful heavens, you really don’t know, do you? An apology.”

Devon leaned one elbow on the bar, getting a certain amount of perverse pleasure out of watching the slippery bastard wriggle.

Finally, through white lips and gritted teeth, Simon gathered enough of his customary sangfroid to choke out an unconvincing, “I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience. I’d just received a shock,” here Devon got another glower, “and wasn’t as careful as I might have been.

“Apology accepted,” the woman said graciously.

Simon managed a smile, then rescued his PDA from the bar, dusting it off compulsively. Waggling it at Devon, Simon said, “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

He vanished into the throng standing three-deep by the bar before Devon could assure him he wouldn’t be changing his mind.

“Your friend could use a refresher course in manners.”

Devon looked back at the brunette. The shirt she’d been so incensed about was fit only for a consignment shop, as far as Devon could tell—brown and purple stripes in some dull fabric that looked scratchy. But when she plucked at the back of it, screwing her face up in distress at the cold cling of wet cloth, the front molded to high, generous breasts and a gently curved waist.

She glanced up and caught him looking, and the spark that struck when their eyes met was hot enough to ignite the alcohol she was drenched in.

Not at all his usual type, Devon thought. Then again, he’d just told the guy who’d made him famous to go take a flying leap.

Clearly, today was a day for embracing the unusual.

All of Lilah’s sass and bravado dried up under the scorching heat of this man’s eyes.

She swallowed, the clicking sound of her throat loud in her ears, and tried to remember what she’d been saying.

A trickle of moisture down her spine brought her back to herself.

Right. Rude friend, itsy-bitsy altercation where timid, spineless Lolly let new, improved Lilah out to play, and the whole while, this one lounging back on his barstool, watching with a lazy smirk and the most intense ice-blue eyes she’d ever seen.

Now Mr. Rude was gone, and evidently he took Lilah’s gumption with him, because she was blinking at the vision of masculine perfection before her like he was the first bunny ever to hop into her briar patch.

And was he ever a hot one. Like, movie-star hot, with the sardonic charm and sexy smile to match.

Artfully tousled brown hair, knife-blade cheekbones, and a pair of eyes the same color blue as a blazing summer sky. And those eyes were trained on her like a bird dog with a duck in its sights.

Lilah wasn’t too used to being the focus of anyone’s attention. For most of her life, she’d tended to fade into the background, especially around extra-beautiful people like this man.

Even her decidedly unglamorous and average-in-every-way ex-boyfriend took years to notice Lilah existed. Humiliating, considering they’d both taught at the same high school.

The man before her lifted his drink and gestured at the clammy shirt sticking to her skin. “That looks uncomfortable.”

Why are you still talking to me?

“Yeah,” Lilah said, fanning the fabric and trying to encourage air movement. “I don’t know about dry cleaning, but it could sure use a run through the wash. Me, too, I guess! I don’t know what the heck was in that drink, but I’m all sticky.”

Those intense blue eyes flashed darker, and he arched a brow. “What you need is a long, hot shower.” Breathing fast and not really sure why, Lilah took momentary refuge in glancing around the bar for Grant. Her longtime best friend and brand-new roomie had abandoned her upon arrival at Chapel. His best bud, and boss at the restaurant, was about to leave for two weeks, so they were having some kind of good-bye boys’ pow-wow. Lilah hadn’t really felt comfortable crashing it.

“I don’t know where my friend has got to,” she said. “Or I’d head on home and hop straight in the bath.”

“You don’t want to go home alone?” His voice was like rough silk.

Lilah shivered, then laughed at herself. “I just moved here; I wouldn’t bet two nickels on my ability to navigate my way back to the apartment on my own.”

He smirked a little. Lilah had never much cared for smirking, but this guy had it down pat.

“In fact, I had divined that you are not from these parts,” he said. “You don’t hear a lot of pretty Southern drawls like yours up here in the heart of Yankee territory.” Lilah hoped it was too dim inside the bar for him to see her blush. “Well. When they were handing out the charm, you must’ve gotten all yours plus your friend’s portion, too.” He smiled at her, sparkly even white teeth bright against his tanned skin.

Lilah grinned back. She felt a little like Rosalind Russell trading barbs with Cary Grant. Was this bantering? She’d always wanted to banter! It was every bit as stimulating as she’d imagined.

He seemed to like it, too, because he was unfolding himself from his barstool and sauntering over to her, every move imbued with lithe grace. He came close enough to whisper in her ear. His breath was warm where it fanned through the curls at her temple.

“If you’re ready to get out of here, you want to come home with me? I’ll let you use my shower. I promise it’ll be good and hot.”

Holy cats, was this really happening?

Five days ago, Lilah had been stuck in a boring town with her boring ex, teaching Shakespeare to a bunch of bored teenagers.

Now?

Lilah blinked hard to clear her eyes. Yep, still standing in a dingy, underground Lower East Side dive with the handsomest man she’d ever seen live and in person cooing unmistakably indecent—and undeniably enticing—proposals in her ear.

Moving to Manhattan might have been the smartest thing she ever did.

The woman blinked at him, a visible tremor rushing through her.

Devon knew he was coming on strong, probably stronger than a woman like this, who clearly bathed in eau d’innocence every morning, was used to. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to back off—she was too enticing. Her open, unguarded face was like a shaft of pure sunlight burning through the dim underground bar.

Though clearly taken aback, she wasn’t speechless for more than a second, which only made Devon want her more.

“Well, shoot, sugar. I guess it’s true what they say about New Yorkers.”

“What’s that?”

“That all y’all are in a boot-scootin’ hurry every minute of every day.” Devon shrugged and finished his drink, enjoying the blaze of bourbon in the back of his throat. “I don’t see the point of wasting time. We’re both adults. I want you. You want me. Why shouldn’t we have what we want?”

She drew in a sharp breath, her gaze heating. “Lots of reasons,” she said. Then, with a self-deprecating laugh, “None of which I can seem to recall right at this very second.” Devon grinned. “So what are we waiting for?”

Not wanting to give her time to remember the many logical and reasonable arguments against going home with a total stranger, Devon grabbed her by the hand and started for the door. Paolo would be waiting on the street with the Bentley, no doubt relieved that Devon was calling it a night this early.

“Wait!” She dug in her heels and pulled against Devon, laughing. He really liked the sound of it, he decided, kind of husky and low, but full of happiness.

“No, you said it, babe—I’m a New Yorker, and time is money to me. I’ve got places to be, showers to run . . . women to kiss.”

“But I don’t even know your name or anything about you,” she protested, and Devon felt the world screech to a halt.

She didn’t recognize him. She wasn’t just playing it cool, doing a good job of pretending to treat him like a regular guy—she actually thought he was one.

Devon got hard so fast, the southward rush of blood actually made him dizzy.

Weird.

Devon couldn’t remember the last time he had any interaction that didn’t somehow involve or reference his celebrity status. His chef friends ribbed him mercilessly for selling out and becoming successful, all the while wishing they could find some sucker to sell their shtick to. Women mostly tended to fawn and gush, all with an eye toward getting into his Ferrari, bed, and wallet. Not necessarily in that order.

“I don’t know your name, either,” he hedged, wanting badly to prolong the moment. “Does it matter?”

“What’s in a name?” she said, as if to herself. Her gaze dropped slightly; Devon wanted to kiss the adorable furrow between her brows.

“Is that really all that’s stopping you?” Devon wanted to know.

“Well. Not your name, as such, but the fact that we’ve only just met . . .” Devon studied her, the way consternation drew those straight, too-heavy brows together. The way she nibbled at her lower lip, making him wonder what it would be like to suck that plump, pink morsel into his own mouth.

She was clearly nervous, out of her depth, and Devon found himself strangely moved.

Nope, not his usual type, not by any stretch.

Knowing his dick was going to hate him for it, Devon sighed and said, “Look. If you want, we can have another drink and hang out for a while, maybe wait for your friend to show up. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

When she met his eyes again, Devon saw a flame of desire hot enough to match his own, plus a new, steely determination.

“Uncomfortable,” she said. “Lord. I’ve been doing the comfortable thing my whole life, it seems like.

And what did it get me? I think it’s about time I did something a little uncomfortable.” He needed to buy a minute or two to calm down or risk shocking a bar full of people. Giving his intrepid companion his best seductive smile, he said, “How about a kiss to seal the deal, then?” Oh, now there was a brilliant plan. Sharing a kiss with the most compelling woman he’d met in weeks—months—maybe years? That was a surefire way to calm things down.

Then she slid one tentative hand around the nape of his neck, stood on tiptoe, and laid her rosebud mouth gingerly against Devon’s—and he knew it was absolutely the best plan he could possibly have come up with.

In the instant before her lips touched his, Lilah was equal parts terrified and intensely proud of herself.

Terrified, because what in the name of heaven was she thinking of to be fooling around with this man who, whoever he was, was obviously good-looking enough to get any woman in this bar, much less a transplanted ex-high school teacher from Appalachia.

And proud of herself, because she was, to all outward appearances, confidently ignoring the ludicrous gulf between their relative levels of suavity and sophistication and going for what she wanted.

Right then and there, Lilah came up with a new mantra: What would “Lolly” do? Okay, now do the opposite!

So far, following the mantra was a huge success. How huge a success she didn’t even comprehend until the moment their lips met and Lilah was forced to redefine everything she thought she knew about kissing.

The gentle brush of his mouth on hers sent electricity arcing down her spine, shivering out to her fingers and toes, heating and coiling things low in her body. The deepest, most-involved soul kiss she’d ever shared with Preston, back home, couldn’t compare to this—and the man hadn’t even slipped her any tongue!

Lilah’s mouth buzzed and tingled and she thought dazedly that the fact that this guy could send shivers racing up and down her spine with a peck on the mouth in the middle of a crowded nightclub spoke volumes about . . . something.

She gave up trying to puzzle it out and surrendered to the moment.

The man gave her one last nuzzle and lifted his head. Lilah blinked hard to clear the clouds from her vision.

“Wow,” she said, then immediately wanted to kick herself.

“I know exactly what you mean. So what do you think? Want to embrace discomfort and see where the night takes us?”

Lilah studied him as well as she could in the muddy light.

Maybe she was naïve—okay, no maybe about it, she was definitely naïve—but she knew in her heart that this guy was no ax murderer. And the way he’d pulled back and offered her a graceful out made her feel, perversely, a hundred times more willing to follow him home like a lost puppy.