“Not until you tell me what’s wrong,” he stated firmly, studying her with an impassive expression she was too tired to decipher.
“Why are you even being nice to me?” She couldn’t handle anyone being fake around her any longer. It was what the entire ghastly scope of her life had been, and she was done with it, for as long as she could manage. She didn’t even know who she was anymore. Only that she was an engaged woman not in love with the groom, who detested her life, who had boarded a plane and traveled five thousand miles to escape it all.
And in one week, she was happier here than she had been in the past year.
He shrugged those wide, muscled shoulders in a nonchalant manner, stretching the confines of his navy plaid shirt. “You looked like you could use a friend. Figured I’d lend a hand if I could.”
“How about a drink?” The offer left her lips before the words connected with her brain.
Bollocks! What the bloody hell was she thinking?
Mortified that she had made the offer, she ignored the temptation to peep at his face because she didn’t want to find horror in his expression at the invitation. She was ready to play it cool and act like it had never happened.
“I could join you for a drink,” he replied, and held out a hand to help her to her feet.
She kept her mouth from dropping open at his response, but just barely. She nodded, unsure what to do with the big cowboy, and rose from her seat without taking his hand. Every time she touched him during riding lessons, sparks flared in her body. It was the last thing she wanted to feel when her life was in such disarray.
“I don’t have any beer,” she said in a last-ditch effort to avoid having him in her cabin.
“Wine works, in a pinch.”
The blasted man was being far too reasonable. And nice. It set her teeth on edge.
“Actually, I could use some scotch,” she said. His eyes widened in disbelief. Those thick brows disappeared beneath his cowboy hat.
At this point, she could use the entire bottle of scotch. She had earned it.
Bianca headed inside. If Maverick followed her, he did. If not, that was fine too.
Behind her, the firm clomp of his boots against the hardwood floor trailed her. He’d chosen door number two. Bianca went directly into the kitchen and headed to the cabinet where she was storing alcohol for the duration of her stay. Eyeing the cabinet interior, she thought she should probably be concerned about the sheer volume of wine and spirits tucked inside. But at the moment, she couldn’t care less.
Actually, what she should do was toast her foresight to have it all on hand.
She withdrew the unopened bottle of Glenlivet 25 Year scotch, choosing that brand instead of the Macallan Edition Number Two which, while a stellar whiskey, she reserved for special occasions. From another cabinet, she removed two clear glass tumblers. They weren’t the Waterfords her father preferred but they would do.
Bianca shot Maverick a glance over her shoulder. He stood there, power and testosterone pumping off him, leaning back against the kitchen island. “On the rocks, or straight up?” she asked. She liked it on the rocks herself, and withdrew an ice tray from the freezer.
“Straight up is fine.” He was pensive, analyzing her. And not for the first time, she wondered what he saw when he looked at her.
Did he see that she felt like she was suffocating in her own life? That she was running away from everyone and everything she had ever known, and didn’t want to go back? Did he see that she was terrified that somehow, some way, she would be dragged back to that life, and end up being one of those empty shell people others looked at and couldn’t help but think: what the hell happened to them?
With those thoughts swirling in her mind, she poured three fingers for each of them and handed him a glass.
Maverick toasted her and then took a sip. Sheer delight and appreciation filled his visage. “Now that’s some fine scotch. What is that?”
“The Glenlivet 25. I can always open the Macallan Edition if you would prefer that.” She cursed internally. Always the people pleaser, Bianca. Could take the girl out of her polite society but couldn’t seem to shake her manners.
His brows rose at her response. “This is fine. Some of the best I’ve tasted.”
She studied him over the rim of her glass as he stared back, then took a sip of the scotch and let the smooth flavor roll around on her tongue as a reckless idea surged to the forefront of her mind. But as the notion surfaced, her entire being lit up and made her feel alive—just as alive as painting had done for her the last few days.
She swallowed the potent drink, the slick burn sliding down her throat into her belly, and said, “I think we should have sex.”
He choked on a sip of whiskey, pounded on his chest, cleared his throat, and said, “Excuse me?”
“I said, I think we should have sex. We’re both rather forthright individuals, are we not? You’re a rather strapping guy, and I figure we’re always sniping at one another. It would likely make for some interesting bed sport.”
Maverick stared at her like she suddenly had grown snakes for hair that fanned around her face, Medusa style.
But did the man do anything or answer her? Nope. That was new for her: stunning a man silent.
“Oh, did I cross some cultural line? Are women not as open about sex in America?” She tried to play it off like she wasn’t absolutely mortified.
“No, you surprised me, and I’m not easily shocked. I doubt it would be a good idea, you and me.”
“That’s rubbish. Does your cock not work properly? Or am I that unattractive? Oh god, you’ve got some little tart at home, is that it?” She put a hand against her chest because in truth, when the idea had struck her, she hadn’t even considered that he could have a significant other at home. Pot, meet kettle.
With a guarded expression, he shook his head. “No. But I like sex on the rough side, and doubt someone with your… sensibilities would be able to handle it.”
Oh, was that all? He liked it rough? Good, she didn’t want romantic promises and feats of love. She wanted dark and dirty, balls to the wall, sex. She wanted to stop thinking about all the ways she had failed in her life and do something thoroughly irresponsible, like have a tawdry one-night stand with a man she didn’t particularly like but who stirred her body.
She knocked back the last finger of scotch like it was water. Maverick cocked a dark brow. Bianca approached him slowly. Put a little sway into her step. Unbuttoning her oversized paint shirt on her trek, she kept her gaze locked on his until she stood six inches from him, and let the material slip off her shoulders. He smelled of horse and leather and distinctly, utterly male. The combination was intoxicating.
She had fantastic breasts, she was aware of that. Men tended to look at them and not her. And the simple, white lace demi bra she was wearing beneath her top made her double Ds look fabulous.
“Look, princess, I don’t think this is a good idea,” he said. But that tawny, golden gaze slid down and stared greedily at her chest.
“Why?” Got him!
“Because I don’t.”
Bullshit!
She stepped close to his rock-hard body, and stared into his eyes. “I’ve been making all the right decisions throughout my life and have hated every blasted second of it. You might be a bad decision, but fuck it, I’m down for making some bad decisions. I don’t need gentle, or promises of tomorrow. Take me to bed, Maverick.”