“We’ll leave,” Suit Number Two interjects quickly, and just when I think that he’s smart enough to see the way trouble has turned from Ms. Winter to them, he looks at her and says, “We’ll be in touch,” with a not-so-subtle threat in his tone, before he elbows Suit Number One. “Let’s go.”
Suit Number One doesn’t move, visibly fuming, his face red, a white ring thickening around his lips. I arch a brow at Suit Number Two, who adds, “Now, Jordan.” Jordan, formerly known as Suit Number One, clenches his teeth and turns away, while Suit Number Two follows.
Ms. Winter faces me, and holy fuck, when her pale green eyes meet mine, any questions I have about this woman—and the many I suspect she now has of me—are muted by an unexpected, potentially problematic, palpable electric charge between us. “Thank you,” she says, her voice soft, feminine, a rasp in its depths that hints at emotion not effortlessly contained. “Please enjoy anything you like tonight on the house,” she adds, the rasp gone now, her control returned. Until I take it, I think, but no sooner than I’ve had the thought, she is turning and walking away, the absence of further interaction coloring me both stunned and intrigued, two things that, for me, are ranked with about as much frequency as snow in Sonoma, which would be next to never.
Ms. Winter maneuvers into the crowd, out of my line of sight, and while I am not certain I’d label her a mouse at this point—or ever, for that matter, considering what I know of her—I am most definitely on the prowl. I stride purposely forward, weaving through the crowd, seeking that next provocative moment, scanning for her left, right, in the clusters of mingling guests, until I clear the crowd.
Now standing in front of a wide, wooden stairwell, I direct my gaze upward to a second level, but I still find no sign of Ms. Winter. A cool breeze whips through the air, and I turn to find the source is a high arched doorway, the recently opened glass doors to what I know to be the “Winter Gardens,” a focal point of the property and a tourist draw for decades, settling back into place. Certain this represents her escape, I walk that direction and press open the doors, stepping onto a patio that has a stone floor and concrete benches framed by rose bushes. No fewer than four winding paths greet me as destination choices, the hunt for this woman now a provocation of its own.
I’ve just decided to wait where I am for Ms. Winter’s return when the wind lifts, the floral scent of many varieties of flowers for which the garden is famous touching my nostrils, with one extra scent decidedly of the female variety.
Lips curving with the certainty that my prey will soon be my prize, I follow the clue that guides my feet to the path on my right, a narrow, winding, lighted walkway, framed by neatly cut yellow flower bushes, which continues past a white wooden gazebo I have no intention of passing. Not when Ms. Winter stands inside it, her back to me, elbows resting on the wooden rail, her gaze casting across the silhouette of what would reveal itself to be a rolling mountainside at daybreak. The way I intend for her to reveal herself.
I close the distance between us, and the moment before I’m upon her, she faces me, hands on the railing behind her, her breasts thrust forward, every one of her lush curves tempting my eyes, my hands. My mouth. “Did those men know you?” she demands, clearly ready and waiting for this interaction. “Did you know them?”
“No and no.”
“And yet they knew the nickname Tiger.”
“My reputation precedes me.”
“I’ll take the bait,” she says. “What reputation?”
“They say I’ll rip my opponent’s throat out if given the chance.”
“Will you?” she asks without so much as a blanch or blink.
“Yes,” I reply, a simple answer for a simple question.
“Without any concern for who you hurt,” she states.
I arch a brow. “Is that a question?”
“Should it be?”
“Yes.”
“It’s not,” she says. “You didn’t get that nickname by being nice.”
“Nice guys don’t win.”
“Then I’m warned,” she says. “You aren’t a nice guy.”
“Is nice a quality you’re looking for in a man? Because as your evening counsel, Ms. Winter, I’ll advise you that nice is overrated.”
She stares at me for several beats before turning away to face the mountains again, elbows on the railing, in what I could see as a silent invitation to leave. I choose to see it as an invitation to join her. I claim the spot next to her, close but not nearly as close as I will be soon. “You didn’t answer the question,” I point out.
“You wrongly assume I am looking for a man, which I’m not,” she says, glancing over at me. “But if I was, then no. Nice would be on my list, but it would not top my list; however, nowhere on that list would be the ability and willingness to rip out someone’s throat.”
“I can assure you, Ms. Winter, that a man with a bite is as underrated as a nice guy is overrated. And I not only know how and when to use mine, but if I so choose to bite you—and I might—it’ll be all about pleasure, not pain.”
Her cheeks flush, and she turns away. “My name is Faith.” She glances over at me again. “Should I call you Nick, Tiger, or just plain arrogant?”
“Anything but Mr. Rogers,” I say, enjoying our banter far more than I would have expected when I came here tonight looking for her.
She laughs now, too, and it’s a delicate, sweet sound, but it’s awkward, as if it’s not only unexpected but unwelcome, and an instant later she’s withdrawing, pushing off the railing, arms folding protectively in front of her body, before we’re rotating to face each other. “I need to go check on the visitors.” She attempts to move away.
I gently catch her arm, her gaze rocketing to mine, and in the process her hair flutters in a sudden breeze, a strand of blond silk catching on the whiskers of my one-day stubble. She sucks in a breath, and when she would reach up to remedy the situation, I’m already there, catching the soft silk and stroking it behind her ear.
“Why are you touching me?” she asks, but she doesn’t pull away. That charge between us minutes ago is now ten times more provocative with me touching her, thinking about all the places I might touch next.
“It’s considerably better than not touching you,” I say.
“My bad luck might bleed into you.”
“Bleed,” I repeat, that word reminding me once again of why I’m here, why I really want to fuck this woman. “That’s an extreme and rather interesting choice of words.”
“Most bad luck is extreme, though not interesting to anyone but the Tigers of the world, creating it. You’re still touching me.”