Wicked Intentions

2

Of course it is. Wolves are no match for me.

Smiling, I rise from my chair and head to the bar, walking slowly so Golden Boy can take his time eyeing my bare legs. He slides off the edge of the pool and stands waist-deep in the water so he can get a better look at me.

I make a bet with myself on how long it’ll take him to make his move. Judging by the way he’s staring, another five minutes, tops.

“Do you have a lunch menu?” I ask the bartender as I slither onto a barstool and cross my legs. I’m wearing a plunging white maillot that sets off my tanned skin and showcases my cleavage, white kitten heels, and a sheer cover-up that skims the tops of my bare thighs. Even from this distance, I can feel Golden Boy’s gaze on my skin, hotter than the Caribbean sun.

“Of course,” says the bartender, a serious young man with a gap between his crooked front teeth. Not an American. He hands me a leather folio. “The conch croquettes are amazing.”

I pretend to study the menu while eavesdropping on Golden Boy and his companions. The first thing I note is that my mark has a sleepy Southern drawl to go along with his muscles and baby blues. Texas? No, Georgia.

“I’ll try them, thank you,” I tell the bartender, letting the lilt of a fake Parisian accent infiltrate my words. Then I close my eyes, tip my head back, and fan myself with the menu as I stretch my neck. My hair slides off my shoulders and down my back. A waft of humid air drifts between my breasts. Golden Boy falters in the middle of his sentence, and then abruptly continues.

“…got Tabby on a plane.”

“Connor gives incredible pep talks,” says a female voice, warm with laughter. “I think this man could convince me to do anything.”

“Oh yeah?” says a male voice, not Golden Boy’s. Judging by the deep, commanding tone, my money’s on the big beast, not the pale one with the African-American woman. Tabby must be the redhead, then.

I listen, lazily fanning air over my cleavage, swinging my leg back and forth, a black widow patiently waiting for her prey to enter the web.

“There’s a few things I’d definitely like to convince you to do, woman,” says the beast, chuckling. Then there are some exaggerated kissing noises, which prompt a chorus of groans.

“Get a room, you two!” scolds another female. Must be Yellow Bikini. The voice is too adult to be the scarred girl.

“They spend any more time in their room, Darcy, we won’t see ’em at all,” drawls Golden Boy.

“They’re newlyweds! Give them a break!” says a different male voice. He has a German accent. Zey’re newlyvedz. Black speedo.

“Speakin’ of breaks, I need another beer. Anybody else ready?”

Golden Boy takes drink orders from his companions. I hear the splash as he jumps out of the pool. Trying not to smirk, I start a silent countdown in my head. Five, four, three, two—

“’Scuse, me, bartender? Can we get another round?”

I open my eyes to find Golden Boy standing next to me. He’s looking at the bartender at the end of the bar, who nods in acknowledgment. Then Golden Boy turns his head and looks at me.

Electricity jolts through me when our eyes meet. It’s disturbing how strong it is. It’s been years since I felt serious attraction to anyone, and muscular blonds aren’t my type in the first place. Dark and dangerous is more my thing.

Although, admittedly, Golden Boy has the dangerous part down. The look in his eyes is anything but tame.

“Hi,” he says, staring at me with blazing intensity.

Here’s the part where I need to figure out his type. Dumb and bubbly? Smoldering seductress? Girl next door? There’s a key that unlocks the door to every man’s libido. And once his libido is engaged, his brain takes a nap for the duration.

I’m so grateful I’m a woman. We can get turned on without completely losing our intellect to our genitals.

“Hello,” I say neutrally. I remove my sunglasses. Neither of us smiles.

He asks, “What part of Paris you from?”

I have to physically force myself not to blink. There’s a slight difference between a Parisian accent and other French accents, and the fact that he picked it out is alarming.

And impressive. I’m inclined to like him, but of course I don’t allow myself to.

“You know Paris?” I ask coyly, avoiding his question.

He c***s his head. “A little.”

Hmm. That could mean he’s only seen the city in movies, or he lived there for years. He’s giving away about as much as I am.

“The eighth arrondissement,” I parry, testing him. “Gare Saint-Lazare.”

His face remains impassive. “Swanky neighborhood. You from there originally?”

I get the sense he’s testing me, too. Why do I like it? I decide to change the subject to see how he handles it. “What’s your name?”

One corner of his mouth turns up. A roguish little dimple appears in his cheek. “You avoided my question.”

“And you just avoided mine.”

“Yeah, but only because you started it.”

“Funny, you don’t strike me as a man who lets anyone else take the lead.”

He chuckles. “With a rear view as fine as yours, darlin’, you can take the lead anytime you like.”

Now we’re smiling at each other. For the first time in a long time, I’m having what could almost be described as fun.

The bartender arrives with the drinks. “Shall I charge it to your room, Mr. McLean?”

“Yep,” Golden Boy answers without looking away from me.

The bartender leaves with a promise that my conch croquettes are almost ready.

I say, “So, Mr. McLean, where in Georgia are you from?”