too long in the back and around his ears, and that it bad a tendency to curl at his nape.
Even in profile she could see that his forehead was high and his dark eyebrows were arched. His nose bordered on the patrician, but a telltale bump on the bridge meant it had been broken at some point in his life. His mouth was taut, the lower lip was fuller than the upper. His chin was square and jutted with determination. His ears were slightly small, nicely shaped and tucked close to his head. His hands were large and masculine, yet graceful.
Then he turned his head—just his head, nothing more, nothing less—and she saw his eyes, dark, intelligent, somewhat mysterious, piercing and definitely predatory.
Desiree Stratford had met many men in her life, from temperamental artists to affluent collectors, from the homeless on the streets of Boston to wealthy philanthropists, from heads of state to leaders of industry, even those who claimed royal blood or who were, indeed, royalty. She had known men with that implacable air of self-confidence, men who wore the mantle of power as though they were born with it, men with a core of inner strength that seemed to defy logic.
This was one of those men.
She was suddenly tempted to turn tail and run just as fast and just as far as she could.
“Don’t let your imagination run away with itself, Desiree Marie Stratford,” she chided herself under her breath.
She was no lily-livered female, no fainthearted damsel in distress. She was a modern woman with her own career, her own money, her own apartment and her own life.
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