Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
I sigh inwardly. Men are so easily amused. My nerves begin to settle, and I’m just about to follow up with something a lot less amusing when he turns and robs me of words.
“You.” My eyes narrow as I take in a magnificence that’s not a stranger to me. Not a complete stranger, anyway. Raif Deveraux, apparently.
“Last time I looked.”
“What?”
“Last time I looked, I was me.”
“Do you spend a lot of time looking at yourself?” He has good reason to look, I decided. His face is striking, all angles and shadows in the muted light. He has dark, almost feline-shaped eyes and sharply chiseled lips that look like they might’ve been made for cruelty but chose sensuality instead.
Meanwhile, I’ve resorted to winged liner and a swipe of pump-it-up-gloss that promised a full pout but only made my lips feel like they’d been attacked by a swarm of wasps. It’s so unfair.
His hair is dark, though much darker than mine, slightly too long, and sprinkled with salt at the temples. I’ve never found gray hair sexy before. Never had a thing for men in posh suits, either. Not that he’s so formally attired. His jacket lies abandoned on a nearby stool, his shirtsleeves rolled to mid-forearm and opened at the neck. The silky strings of his bowtie lie open like a gift unwrapping interrupted.
“Hello, Lavender,” he says, leaning back on his elbow. “You’re a lot feistier than I remember.”
“In the gallery. Where I work.” I let the implication speak for itself. I’m always nice in the gallery, especially when there’s a chance I might make a sale.
As I recall, he was looking for something a little more traditional than what we stock, but it didn’t stop him from studying the pieces on display. He’d made astute observations and asked intelligent questions. Then he’d spoiled it all by asking me out.
“You let me down gently, that’s for sure.” As he lifts his glass to his lips, it somehow highlights the smile lurking there.
I don’t encourage the punters. I need their business more than I need wining and dining because most art galleries fail before their third anniversary.
Especially ones existing on a shoestring like mine.
Besides, if I said yes every time I got hit on, I’d never get any work done. Men and sometimes women seem to judge me by my age and promptly assume I’m a gallery assistant, one of those posh girls looking for someone wealthy to keep them in style.
No one thought I was serious when I said I wanted to open an art gallery. None of the usual banks would entertain my business plan, thanks to my lack of capital and experience. But I suppose that’s one good thing about having a wealthy banker for a brother. Not that he made it easy for me. I had to produce a solid business plan and profit projections out the wazoo. I also downgraded my dreams for an illustrious address to a repurposed shipping container in Shoreditch.
It’s not as bad as it sounds. The whole block is made from the stuff. The vibe is artsy, the cafés, bars, and eateries attracting the kind of clientele who might invest in art.
I’m still subject to a nit-picky quarterly meeting with Whit since I’m still in debt. He calls it keeping an eye on his investment, but I really think he’s just keeping an eye on me.
Not that I can blame him. He’s dragged me out of more trouble than we care to remember, which would be another reason to decline the hot punter’s invitation. Like attracts like, and I know trouble when I see it.
“You told me you had a boyfriend.” The corner of his mouth tilts, more sardonic than amused. “He can’t be much of a boyfriend.” His gaze dips to his glass as he swirls the ice.
I take another moment to study him. I did the right thing by turning him down. No girl wants to date a man hotter than she is. Seriously, stick him in a toga and shove a laurel wreath on his head, and I could pass him off as a piece of ancient Hellenistic statuary. I bet he’d look good in a toga, not that he doesn’t look good in a dress shirt. The way it stretches across his broad chest…
He lifts his head, revealing eyes the color of Turkish coffee. “Not when he was willing to sell you out.”
So we’re cutting to the chase.
“The way Tod explained it to me, he didn’t think he had.” I take another few swaying steps closer: you don’t scare me. Much.
Your goons outside, however…
“And the way Tod explained it to me, he didn’t think you had a boyfriend. Let alone that boyfriend was him.”
I give him a sultry smile and enjoy the way his gaze drifts lazily over me.
At least someone appreciates this dress.