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Now, while a local cardiologist—whom his company was panting over as a client to represent in nuisance malpractice suits—explained the advantages of jetting to Brussels in the spring, he watched the chocolate-loving blonde rearrange strawberries on the fruit platters and considered how she’d feel about comparing body decorations.
Even as the arousing picture of that played through his mind, he strangled his libido and remembered his career. His life. His future. And the future of those who depended on him.
He’d come to Atlanta to change direction. To amend for the past. To remind himself why he’d started down the road of law in the first place.
Beautiful, butterfly-tattooed blondes would just have to wait.
He tuned into the European-vacation discussion. He smiled at appropriate times. He didn’t talk too much. Or too little. And when the esteemed doctor excused himself to dance with his wife, Lucas’s business card was in his jacket pocket.
With a smile, he turned to find the next conquest. But as he continued to schmooze, she was there. He felt her. Her smile and her grace. Her glowing skin. The heat her body would undoubtedly radiate.
Why couldn’t he forget her? Or at least set her aside until the business of the night was done?
Nothing came before business. At least nothing ever had before.
Tonight, though, he knew where she was at every moment. He knew she hovered nearby. Lovely. Tempting. Forbidden.
His muscles grew tired of holding back. His fingers tingled in anticipation. He even got a crick in his neck from craning in an effort to constantly keep her in sight. For a man who’d fought for and gained control over his life and his emotions, the night was becoming both a torture and a curiosity.
Oddly enough, the moment he buckled was when he saw her holding out a tray of strawberries to an elderly couple.
After they moved away, he approached her. “I’d rather have them dipped in chocolate.”
Her head jerked up, and she met his gaze with a surprised jolt, as if she’d been lost in her own thoughts.
Smart move, chère, with this crowd.
“They’re better with a bit more sweetness,” he added, somehow knowing he wasn’t through giving in to temptation.
ALL THE AIR LEFT Vanessa’s body.
She shook her head to clear it, certain she was hallucinating.
A tall, trim, black-haired, green-eyed, strong-jawed, impeccably dressed vision of a man was not standing in front of her. Popping out while she was rearranging the fruit.
Quick, girl. Think of something clever. Knock that hard head of yours against something if necessary.
Instead, she stared.
His smile was just a tad too confident, but his eyes were bright, as if lit from within. His posture and broad shoulders communicated assurance and reliability, giving her the impression that he was capable of slaying dragons, should such a drastic measure be necessary. She noted the crystal champagne flute in his hand, and the Rolex encircling his wrist, completing the picture of powerful elegance.
Why him? Why now? she wanted to ask somebody. Yell at somebody. Anybody. She was supposed to be working. Impressing the moneyed masses. Avoiding her mother’s criticism. Denying her sister access to her neglected, impulsive and sometimes romantic heart. And, last but not least, mending the family fence—even if it was made of iron.
All desire for those lofty achievements had faded. Gone poof like a Vegas magician’s assistant.
Somehow, someway, this man drew her to him, making her forget her goals and needs. Other than the most carnal ones. By self-assurance or warmth or the supernatural, she felt herself leaning closer, eager to catch the next words he said.
You’re supposed to say something, her libido reminded her.
To stall, she glanced down to note the silver tray trembling in her hands. What had he said? Strawberries. And chocolate.
“Sweet is good,” she managed to say finally, setting the tray aside. And those impulsive, rebel genes, no matter how deeply buried, popped out like a stripper’s implants. She stepped closer, and his eyes went hot. His subtle cologne and body heat enveloped her. “Tasty. Tart. Warm.”
“Exactly,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Desire slid through her body. When she’d first gotten out on her own, she’d picked up a few guys at bars, just to give her cramped wings a stretch, but her social life had quickly taken a backseat to work. The success of her business was vital to her wallet, her peace of mind and her pride. She hadn’t met a guy who could hold her admittedly short attention span for very long.
But her attention was riveted now. “I have strawberries just for the chocolate.” She licked her lips. “Do you need a demonstration on how to dip them?”
“Love one.”
She turned away, leading him to the chocolate fountain. Now that she wasn’t facing him, she could think a bit clearer. She thanked heaven, her lucky stars and her fairy godmother that she’d seen him before Mia. Friends they were, but wow, he would be hard to be friendly about.
When they reached the table, she felt the tip of his finger skim her shoulder. “I like the butterfly,” he said.
The warmth of his touch lingered on her skin, and she shivered as she glanced back at him. “Glad somebody does. My mother—” She had not just brought her mother into a discussion with Mr. Delectable. Mortification burned her face.
Those wicked green eyes twinkled. “Mine, too.”
“You have a tattoo? I thought Rolex cross-checked that sort of behavior before they let just anybody waltz around with their goods.”
He raised his eyebrows. “The tattoo came first.”
Damn. Another flub. He probably thought she was one of those gold-digging chicks who checked out the labels in a guy’s clothes before she tried to hook her claws into him. “What is it?” she asked in an attempt to recover.
“And here I thought you’d wanna know where before what,” he said, his voice low and seductive.
He even had a nice accent. Southern, but smooth. Not good ol’ boy and not suppressed as if he’d taken classes on how to lose his heritage like so many she knew. “Maybe you could show me instead.”
His finger trailed down her arm. “Not here I couldn’t.”
Oh, my. She swallowed. “Somewhere more private?”
“You don’t have to work?”
“Yes. No.”
Yes, you do, her conscience reminded her. Work, smirk, her libido countered.
“I’ve got a few minutes,” she said coolly, though it was hard to be cool when one’s knees were on the verge of buckling beneath the weight of Mr. Wonderful’s interested stare.
“To spend with me?”
“If you like.”
“You’re good at your job.” His gaze roved her face. “I watched you. For quite a while.” While her breath hitched in her throat, he glanced around before his gaze came back to hers. “The food is excellent. The layout and decorations shine with class. The guests…” He shrugged as he snagged two glasses of champagne from the passing waiter, then handed her one.
Though she didn’t normally drink her clients’ liquor, she sipped and couldn’t stop the eye roll for the guests.
He grinned. “A bit tedious?”
“A bit.”
“Self-importance tends to make the air thick.”
“I knew I was short of breath for a reason.” Though she very well knew the real reason. “Ninety percent of them are doctors and lawyers. Arrogance is a job qualification.” She started to smile again, but the amused expression on his face tipped her off to her blunder. Only occasionally had she paid attention during etiquette lessons. “Which one are you?”
He toasted her with his flute. “Lawyer.”
“Not around here.” No way this guy could have flown under the gossip radar, even if she was on the outer edges of the circle.
“I am as of Monday.”
She hadn’t heard this. She wondered if he’d be working with her father or rivaling him. Regret rolled over her. Why a lawyer? That hit too close to home. A home where she was no longer welcome. “Congratulations,” she said without any warmth.
“Don’t like lawyers?” He sipped. “Pity. I was looking forward to that chocolate-dipping demonstration.”
Glancing at him, at the interest, the regret in his eyes, she waved aside the old prejudice. And the memory of guys who’d used her to get close to her father. The pain of rejection she couldn’t seem to shake.
Thanks to the man before her, desire and curiosity had woven their spell, dispelling her conscience’s shouts of caution.
She turned to pick up a wooden skewer, slid a strawberry onto the end, then rolled it beneath the warm chocolate spilling from a spout on the fountain. The seductive, sugary aroma surrounded her like a lover, lulling her in its warm embrace. Mischievous thrills zipped down her spine.
An elderly couple approached and took their sweet time selecting a crystal plate and fruit, drenching it in chocolate, smiling at each other the whole time. Vanessa had seen the same effect on many people over the past few years. There was just something plain decadent about chocolate. Liquefy the stuff? Oh, boy. The sparks will fly.
With her own sparks ready to ignite, she turned.
Knowing she should take a cautious look around, but ignoring the call to respectability, she cupped her hand under the dripping strawberry and held it in front of his lips.
He turned his head. “Lose the skewer.”
She hesitated. She was a rebel, not a troublemaker. Most of the time anyway.
“Come on,” he added.
Hardly able to believe she was complying in a room filled with her parents and all their respected cronies, but unable to resist his dare, she slid the dripping strawberry off the skewer and held it between her fingers, against his mouth. His gaze never leaving hers, he bit in, his tongue catching the tip of her finger. The juices flowed over her fingers, dripping into her palm. Her body tingled; her stomach fluttered.
She wanted him. Wanted him like crazy.
Heart hammering, she popped the rest of the berry in her mouth, then chased the sweetness with champagne. As the icy drink rolled down her throat, she wiped her hand on a napkin and tried to find some balance, some reason to resist him. And came up flat empty.
“How fast can you get out of here?” he asked, setting aside his glass.
“I—” She put down her glass. “This is nuts. I don’t even know your name.”
“Lucas.”
“Is that first or last?”
“First. That’s enough for now, isn’t it? I’m tired of networking and dropping names to impress. I don’t want to compare stationery or brag about judgments and client lists.”
For a second, she was shocked by the naughty “first names only” suggestion. But it also appealed to her on a couple of levels.
First, it was naughty.
Second, if he learned her last name, he’d most likely connect her with her father. How many guys had she gone out with at her mother or sister’s suggestion, only to learn they were aspiring attorneys looking to break into her father’s firm?
“And your name?” her gorgeous companion asked.
Her mother would probably have a stroke if she found out her daughter had picked up a man—a stranger—at her dignified children’s hospital fund-raiser. Her sister would demand lineage and financial-status reports. Her father would want to see his law degree and standing with the American Bar Association.
Really, discretion was in order.
And yet she itched—in more places than just her brain—to take a chance. To plunge and then dive. To walk down an expected road and see where it led. She was literally on the edge of jumping in with both feet and not asking too many questions.
So she did. Ask a question, that is.
“Do you have a fiancée?”
He angled his head. “No.”
“A wife?”
He grinned. “No.”
She tapped her foot.
Then again, picking up a guy at a party would be a scandalous—and honest—way of telling her sister she was dating. Lately, she’d been assuring her matchmaking-minded sibling that she had all the dates she needed. Not exactly a lie. She just didn’t need any dates at the moment.
Mr. Scrumptious, however, could easily change her mind. She glanced up at him. And smiled.
“Vanessa,” she said, sliding her hand across the lapel of his suit jacket. “My name’s Vanessa.”
2
SHE WAS A CONTRADICTION.
Manners, but flaunted tradition. Elegant, but proudly sported a tattoo. Vanessa had cued in on his Rolex, but didn’t seem moved by the moneyed crowd.
A puzzle Lucas would like to solve. Later, much later.
Even though he stepped outside into the blast of a humid summer night, the heat couldn’t match the fire coursing through him. He could still feel the brush of her hand against his chest. Instead of the sweet scent of the magnolia trees dotting the country-club lawn, he smelled her alluring Asian-spice perfume.
As much as he valued the control he’d gained over his life and his actions, he’d only narrowly resisted yanking her against himself and kissing her until neither of them could breathe. Forget networking. Reputations and decorum be damned.
For the first time in a long, great while, the thrill of the hunt had taken over but had nothing to do with his career.
When his senses seized him, so did the memories. He longed for the cigarettes he’d given up, since trips into the past didn’t come without ghosts. Wandering past manicured flower beds behind a posh Atlanta country club, he instead remembered the scent of chicory, fish fresh from the stream, Spanish moss dripping like tattered lacy curtains over the swamp. He recalled friends he’d partied with in New Orleans, the small knot of family he’d left behind and crawfish boils shared with both—the potatoes, onions and dark red crustaceans spilling out across a newspaper-lined folding table, while the music heated up and whiskey cooled the fire.
