Well, shit. As they say in the movies, ‘Mischief is my middle name.’
I don’t know this guy from Adam, but then again, I don’t know anybody here, so if there was ever a time to make out with a smokin’ hot stranger, now would be it. That look in his eyes is a challenge if I’ve ever seen one, and I’m not one to walk away from a challenge, especially one that looks and smells this good. Raising slowly onto my tiptoes, I run the tip of my nose up the side of his warm, tanned throat while sliding my hands up his firm chest. I’m rewarded with his sharp intake of breath that tells me he wasn’t expecting me to play along.
Grinning wickedly at my small victory, I graze my teeth along his sculpted jawline. His hands tightly squeeze my shoulders before one leaves its perch to trace lazily down my spine, and the other fists into the back of my long, glossy black hair. Pulling softly to force my chin up, it feels like he stares directly into my soul as he thoughtfully runs his tongue across his very kissable bottom lip. At that moment, I catch the slight glint of the stud piercing his tongue.
Good lord, I’m all in.
Feeling me strain lightly against the fist in my hair, he releases just enough for me to reach up and capture that bottom lip between my teeth before letting it slowly slide free.
The game is real now, and I’ve just upped the ante.
Growling low in his throat, he turns and flattens me up against the alcove wall, the hardness growing between his legs pressing against my hip. Wrapping his beautifully tattooed arm around my waist, he pulls me more tightly to him, tracing the seam of my lips with his velvet tongue before engulfing me in the hottest, most panty-melting kiss I have ever experienced.
Unfortunately, before I even have time to catch my breath, let alone fully enjoy the warmth of his lips, his back pocket starts to vibrate. He pulls away slightly, swearing under his breath as he reaches for his phone.
Startled back to reality, my face flushes faintly pink. I flash a cheeky grin before quickly disentangling myself from the gorgeous stranger’s embrace and dart out of the alcove, heading toward the luggage carousel and not looking back.
Wow.
Wow wow.
That was intense and incredible and insane. I can’t believe I was just brazen enough to make out with a total stranger. Realizing now that the entire thing happened without a word, I find myself wondering what his voice sounds like. A laugh tumbles out as I notice my nerves aren’t quite as taut as they were.
Sex and music, my go-to magic anxiety relievers; thanks for your assistance, random hottie.
Absently nibbling on the inside of my cheek and deep in thought, I almost miss seeing my suitcase go by, the hot pink ribbon tied to the handle fluttering at me in greeting. My feet are moving before my brain fully engages, and I lunge forward, reaching awkwardly to snatch for my bag. My still-unsteady knees betray me, and I stumble into another passenger waiting for his own luggage. Throwing my arm out to catch myself before I fall over, my palm collides with a familiar chest, and his warm, steady grip closes around my wrist. Snatching my hand away without looking at his face, I slip through the crowd and move closer to the belt, managing to grab my bag on its second pass and feeling his eyes on me as I take off at a run.
Utterly overwhelmed by the past seventy-two hours and my little erotic interlude, I slow down once I’m out of his eyeline. Moving mindlessly with the crowd toward the arrivals waiting area, the echo of his tantalizing scent floats in the back of my mind.
The churning in my stomach starts up again in full force, though, as I scan the nameless faces in front of me. It hits me that I have no idea who I'm looking for.
None.
Zero.
Shit.
Just as I'm about to turn tail and find the quickest and cheapest way back to New York, a small white card held in a masculine but well-manicured hand catches my eye. Miss Bradleigh is written neatly on it in fine black marker. Putting away my phone, I take in the perfectly tailored black suit and the careful smile of the older man who belongs to the hand. By sheer force of will, I convince myself to move close enough for me to speak and be heard over the noise of loved ones greeting each other with familiarity and excitement.
"Uhm, hi. I'm Stella Bradleigh?" My voice breaks on the taste of the unfamiliar surname in my mouth, and the statement comes out sounding like a squeaky question.
"Good afternoon, Miss Bradleigh. I trust your flight was pleasant? The car is out front. Please follow me." His voice sounds just like he looks: efficient, smooth, and polished. Before I can reply—or even blink, really—he's already pried the suitcase handle out of my grip and is gliding his way swiftly through the massive number of people between us and the automatic doors leading outside. Since a substantial amount of my worldly possessions are crammed into that suitcase he's so effortlessly carrying, I get my ass moving in his direction. Sprinting, I finally manage to catch up with him just as the exit doors are sliding open. He must have forty years on me, yet I'm the winded one!
"Pretty spry for an old dude, huh?" I joke, my hands on my hips as I chuff and wheeze like an emphysemic buffalo, waiting for my lungs to re-inflate.
"Yes, Miss, spry indeed," he answers with a barely repressed grin. He takes my elbow gently and steers me toward the rear passenger side door of the glossy midnight blue Cadillac XTS.
After planting me in the backseat and tucking my bag neatly into the trunk of the car, Mr. Spry Fancy-pants slips behind the wheel and we're on our way. We pull smoothly into the line of vehicles leaving the airport heading north, and I keep my eyes trained on the water of the San Francisco Bay on my right, wondering for the zillionth time if I’ve made a massive mistake.
As we cross onto the island and drive past a discreet sign for the Folkestone Yacht Club, I start to pay more attention to the small, exclusive town around us. The coastline still runs beside the car on one side, but now stunningly long driveways wind their way lazily up the other side to large houses perched on the hillside and nestled among majestic trees. My eyes devour the beauty of the landscape surrounding us, marveling at the dappled afternoon sunlight tracing lacy patterns over the streets.
"Spry, I'm a thousand percent sure this is some nasty joke, and I'm an idiot for falling for it,” I manage to choke out around the lump of tears caught in my throat.
Tears now? What the hell? This whole situation is seriously fucking with my juju.
I don’t cry over sentimental, pretty things. In fact, I don’t cry much at all anymore. Catching my eyes in the rear-view mirror, the driver flashes me a small, reassuring smile.
"Don't worry, Miss Bradleigh. You'll do just fine." I don't remotely believe him, but there's no time to delve into the full breadth of my insecurities as we turn into a partially obscured driveway, and a pair of massive iron gates silently swing open. The house ahead comes into full view, and my throat tightens further at the grand estate before me.
As we roll to a gentle stop, I notice the lone willowy figure waiting in the wide welcoming entryway. Waiting, I assume, for me.
Chapter Three
Frozen in the backseat, I stare through the tinted side window in wide-eyed disbelief at the woman on the porch as panic starts to crawl across my skin with little spidery feet. Spry comes around to open my door, and when I make no move to leave the relative safety of the backseat, he reaches for my hand.