She hummed—a long, drawn-out sound that said I’d stated the obvious—then gave me one of her imploring looks. “We’ll need treats to accompany the coffee . . .”
Mamie could manipulate with the best of them, but she was also transparent as hell about it. My lips twitched. “I’ll take care of it.”
I put my foot back on the ladder tread, when she made her final attack.
“Oh, and you must pick Emma up at the airport.”
And there it was. I knew without a doubt that my meddling grandmother was matchmaking. We both knew. The difference being Mamie actually thought she had a good chance of succeeding. How wrong she was. She could plunk down the most perfect woman in the world, and it wouldn’t matter. Not anymore.
“Mamie . . .”
“Her flight gets in at ten—”
“No.”
“So you’ll need to get going fairly soon.”
“Mamie—”
Green fire flashed in her eyes. “Do not try my patience, Lucian. I have already promised Emma that someone would pick her up. You will go.”
When my grandmother spoke in that manner, you listened. No exceptions.
“All right, Mamie. I’ll go.”
I sure as hell didn’t miss the glint of satisfaction in her eyes. “Good. She’s in Oxnard.”
“Oxnard,” I all but shouted. “Why the hell didn’t she fly into Santa Barbara?”
She gave another one of her Gallic shrugs. “There is some sort of union strike, and the airline diverted flights.”
“Great.” Oxnard was an hour away, and that was if traffic behaved. Which it never did.
“You are a hero, mon ange.”
Yeah. Right. A hero.
I didn’t say a word but simply packed up my tools. Let her think she won. I’d pick Princess Emma up at the airport. I’d be as polite as I was capable of, and then I’d stay the hell away. And my grandmother would just have to live with the disappointment.
Emma
I noticed the guy in baggage claim immediately. Mainly because he was gorgeous. With swagger. There were different types of gorgeous. The flawless pretty-boy, take-a-picture-and-hang-it-on-your-wall-to-admire gorgeous.
And then there was the rough-and-tumble, oozing-sexual-energy, make-your-knees-weak-and-your-insides-flutter gorgeous—with swagger. This guy had swagger to spare.
Swagger in the loose-hipped, confident stride as he headed my way. I watched him approach, unable to pretend I didn’t notice him. How could I not? He was at least six feet four, with wide shoulders, narrow hips, flat abs, and thick thighs. Inky hair that contrasted with olive-toned skin fell in a messy tumble over his forehead.
He was still too far away for me to discern the color of his eyes other than that they were pale and staring back at me from under stern dark brows.
Oh my.
Another wave of attraction swept through me, so strong that I nearly pressed my hand against my belly to brace myself. But I caught it just in time and shook it off. Because no matter how hot the guy was, no matter how very sexy the swagger, any occasion in which someone approached me these days was cause for caution. From the moment I’d decided to major in theater, I’d been chasing fame, needing its protection and power so I could land the roles I’d wanted. Now that I had achieved it, I found myself struggling with its constraints; no longer could I go out on my own without risking uncomfortable encounters with press or a fan who didn’t understand personal boundaries. The first times it had happened, I’d been terrified. Now, I was simply guarded.
For a flickering moment, I regretted the lack of a protection detail, which I had been traveling with since Dark Castle became a hit, but it was too late to do anything about that now. I was on my own, and he was definitely headed my way.
Maybe he needed directions or something. In which case, he’d be out of luck. Like a thousand other passengers, I wasn’t supposed to be here. My flight from Iceland via San Francisco was supposed to land in Santa Barbara. We’d been diverted to Oxnard, and the place was a veritable zoo.
Because of the change in arrival, I’d been told that my driver would pick me up but might be a little late. So I’d tucked myself near a bank of chairs and kept my eyes peeled for someone in a uniform carrying a sign with MARIA written on it. Maria was my code name when I traveled. Not very imaginative, but it did the job.
From behind the safety of my white Jackie O. glasses, I watched Mr. Swagger draw near.
He didn’t attempt to charm with a smile or even a pleasant expression. In truth, he appeared slightly annoyed, those severely straight brows knitting together, his firm mouth tight at the corners. It didn’t dampen the effect of his hotness. At all, damn it.
If anything, I was in serious danger of tittering like a teen with a crush as he stalked up to me, stopping far enough away to be polite but close enough that I could take in the details.
His hair wasn’t black but a dark, rich brown. Blunt features that were strongly carved in the way an old master sculptor would admire. Midway down the high bridge of his nose was a bump, as though his nose had been broken at some point. There wasn’t a hint of softness in that face, except for his mouth, which was generous and could have been plush if he ever stopped pressing it in a grim line.
The true showstoppers, however, were his eyes. Oh hell, his eyes. I gaped. I couldn’t help it; they were stunning. Deep set under the angry slashes of his brows and framed by long thick lashes, his eyes were an eerie icy green.
When it came to my looks, I had been a late bloomer. In high school, because of my too-big eyes and sharp, thin face, boys had called me mouse or rabbit. I had hated it and had been uncomfortable with men for a long time. But time and acting had changed everything.
I was around gorgeous, charming men all the time. They went hand in hand with the profession. Attractiveness was simply another commodity. Even so, I had been wide eyed and gawky around men at first. But I’d never felt weak at the knees with just one look. None of them had ever struck me senseless the way this man did with his scowling eyes.
I wasn’t even sure my sudden breathless state was attraction or crumbling nerves; it wasn’t every day an insanely gorgeous guy with swagger walked up and gave you a look like he’d rather be anywhere else on earth. I frankly had no idea what he was about. I was tempted to glance over my shoulder and make sure there wasn’t a camera crew filming this to put on some national let’s-fuck-with-the-celebrity show.
There was something oddly familiar about him, as though I’d seen him many times before. But that couldn’t be right. I’d remember a guy who looked like this. I’d have made a note of it in my mental diary and underlined it twice.
And then it got so much worse. Because he spoke. And sweet hot cream, the man had a voice. I felt that voice in the back of my throat, behind my knees.
“You’re Emma Maron.”
I let that rich rubble of a voice roll over me, soaking in the sheer enjoyment of listening to it, before what he said truly registered. He knew who I was.
A fan.
Disappointment tweaked. Fans were definitely out of the potential dating pool. It would be too weird and . . . why the hell was I even thinking of dating? I wasn’t here to meet someone. I was here for a relaxing getaway, to read some books, maybe sleep all day, lick my wounds in private. And all this man had done was ask a question.