Wickedly Hot. Leslie Kelly

do with this man very, very soon?

      “You look wicked in that dress.”

      Nothing subtle about this man.

      “Compared to the other ladies in their pastels and jewel tones, I mean.”

      She knew darn well he hadn’t been talking about the color of her dress. He’d meant her. That she looked wicked.

      Wicked as in hot. Not bad.

      Which was good, since she didn’t want him to know yet just how bad she could be. Particularly when she had payback on her mind.

      “You mean I’m dressed inappropriately?” she asked, smoothing her hand across the front of her dress in a provocative stroke.

      His response—a laugh—caught her by surprise. When she frowned, he quickly explained. “My landlady tried the exact same move on me not ten minutes ago. Trust me, it works much better on you than it did on someone whose chins almost meet her cleavage.”

      Having no liking for Mamie Brandywine—who’d been downright rude to Jade’s mother on more than one occasion—Jade smiled, and forgave him for his laughter. “You should see her in a bathing suit.”

      He visibly shuddered.

      “I’m sure she’d be happy to join you in the spa.”

      “I’d rather be boiled in oil.”

      “Warm oil. I’m sure she could arrange that, too. She’s, uh, rather fond of her male guests.”

      He raised an offended hand to his chest and shook his head. “You mean, it’s not just me? She wasn’t bowled over by my manly charms and extraordinary looks?”

      Jade couldn’t help it. She let out a little snort, amused by his self-deprecating tone. “Don’t flatter yourself. She’d be trying to get Attila the Hun naked in the hot tub if he were here. I think that’s why she had it installed.”

      “I don’t think the two of them would fit.” Then he added, “And if she’s used it a lot for her ‘dates,’ I think I’d better make a mental note—no hot tub for me.”

      Against her will, Jade reacted to his good humor. She liked his snappy comebacks and quick mind. Then she remembered what had gotten them on the subject of Mamie Brandywine to begin with. “By the way, I was not making a come-hither move.”

      “You weren’t?” he asked, his voice growing husky. “You mean, you didn’t deliberately move your open hand across your breasts, until your nipples got hard against your pretty black dress?”

      She gasped. How on earth did he think he could get away with speaking to a complete stranger, in public, like that?

      He didn’t even pause. “You didn’t intentionally run your thumb under the neckline, inviting a man to imagine the way your skin tastes?” Then he lifted her hand and laced his fingers through hers. “Not to mention your long fingernails just barely scraping across your skin, dipping between your breasts, inviting him to anticipate what it would be like to kiss you there, lick the hollow of your throat, then follow the path your own hand had taken?” He gave her a wicked look, silently daring her to lie. “None of it was intentional?”

      Jade froze, her legs turning to lead and her lips parting to suck in breath. Lord have mercy, what had she gotten herself into here? This man used words the way an artist used paint. He’d woven a spell around her, as heavy and intoxicating as one of Lula Mae’s brews. And he’d done it with only his voice.

      She suddenly began to wonder if she’d made a very serious miscalculation.

      Because instead of being the seducer, she was very much afraid she might end up the one seduced.

      HE HAD HER. HE KNEW IT at that moment. The cool, confident goddess had turned into a stammering high school girl.

      Women. Unbelievable what kind of verbal B.S. they fell for.

      Though, he hadn’t entirely been B.S.’ing. He’d had to force his voice to remain steady as he’d seduced her with words because, in truth, he’d meant everything he’d said. Though, in any other situation, he’d never have been so outrageous and suggestive with a woman he’d just met. The women he knew were the same cool, mature businesspeople he interacted with every day.

      Not like her. Not like Jade. The kind who had him thinking of nothing but what her curves looked like under that black dress, how her mouth would taste, how her hair would feel spread out across his naked chest.

      How she stole from your own family, asshole!

      Yeah. That, too. This hot seductress used her Southern act to convince others she was intelligent, respectable, in control.

      And honest.

      She’d fooled his very astute grandmother into thinking she was a professional restorer of valuable art. That’s how she’d conned Grandmother out of the beautiful Jules LeBeuf portrait. The elderly woman would never have handed over the painting, done by a lesser-known French Impressionist in the 1850s, without believing it was in good hands.

      Such pretty hands. Such soft hands. Such talented hands…most especially when it came to things like picking locks. Or pockets.

      “You seem to think you know how to charm a woman. I suppose you’ve had a lot of experience?”

      Her voice was a little shaky. She was obviously still affected by the outrageous things he, a stranger, had just said to her. But there was also a hard note, as if she had her back up for some reason.

      “No more than any other man,” he said, lifting his shoulders in what he hoped looked like self-deprecation. Then he quirked a brow. “That’s what I’m supposed to say, right? So I don’t appear too confident?”

      “I don’t think that’s possible. You wear your confidence like some men wear their clothes.”

      “Attractive and in good taste, I hope?”

      “I was thinking more along the lines of flashy and overdone,” she replied, though her insult lacked the punch she’d probably intended.

      “Should I go away?” he asked, knowing the answer.

      She shook her head. “So far you haven’t done anything completely unredeemable.”

      No, she didn’t want him to go away. She was still wrapped in the cozy, intimate place they’d stumbled into here in the midst of all these people. And she was still as affected as he was. He just hid it better.

      Jade began rubbing her hand up and down one bare arm, as if warming herself. But the noticeable goose bumps on her skin weren’t caused by cold—the room was sweltering.

      No, their interaction was putting her entire body on high alert. But before he could call her on it, her attention was diverted by someone who paused to speak to her.

      Ryan watched quietly, silently admitting that he, too, was on high alert. He tried to analyze it. This hot flush of awareness and excitement couldn’t be brushed off as righteous indignation or the culmination of a couple of weeks’ buildup. Being truly honest about it, he believed he’d have reacted just as strongly to Jade Maguire if this really had been a chance meeting at a party.

      Ryan had known a lot of women over the years, and been involved with his fair share. Probably more than his fair share. He’d even come close to commitment, getting engaged to a Manhattan lawyer he’d met at a cocktail party a few years ago. But he hadn’t been able to go through with it, and neither had she. They’d both figured out that while the two of them made a picture-perfect couple, they’d never shared the kind of deep, soul-stirring passion a marriage should have.

      His grandmother would probably never believe it, and she’d laugh in his face if he told her. But one of the main reasons Ryan had never settled down—never even tried to feign interest in any of the women she, his mother and his sister had set him up with over the years—was because of the example his family had set.