a woman worked to enhance those fine lines and fluid form? He appreciated it all the more. Without a doubt, the woman who had taken a seat across from him put in more than sufficient time to hone her form. She’d done such a magnificent job that, embarrassingly, Isaac found himself staring.
Appreciating.
Craving.
The woman began tapping a well-manicured fingernail against the small bag in her lap. “Let me know when you’re done with the physical assessment. The timer on our little meeting starts in—” she twisted in her chair, then twisted back “—about three minutes.”
“Plenty of time, then.”
“Time for...”
“Surely you’ve heard how important first impressions are.”
Her finger—the one tap-tap-tapping her handbag—went still. “And what, exactly, are you doing to secure that all-important first impression?”
“I’m sitting here trying not to intimidate you.”
She laughed then, the sound as promising as room-temperature bourbon poured over chilled whiskey stones.
“Do that again,” he said quietly, his gaze hovering at the highest point of the slit in the dress, the one that exposed a thin strip of smooth skin on the outside of her upper thigh.
“Do what again?” she asked in that sin-and-redemption voice.
“Laugh.”
“Make me.”
Isaac leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. Who was she, this stranger, that she thought she stood a chance in hell of ordering him to do anything at all?
Had the dress she was wearing been displayed in a museum, it would have been called “Temptation in Textiles.” And with just cause. It was cut so that it showcased her best physical assets—long legs, trim waist, pert breasts, pale skin and that elegant neck, half-hidden by the mass of loosely curled mahogany hair. That strong jaw.
He liked defined characteristics in a woman—knew men who much preferred their women softer, both in form and personality. Not him. As far as Isaac was concerned, strength was strength. And strength trumped softness each and every time.
Whoever this woman was, she understood the value of strength.
But she didn’t realize whom she was facing off with.
He tried to decide what color he’d call her skin. From that glimpse of thigh to the line of her jaw, the tone was that of diluted honey—warm but not quite tan. The sun would give her more warmth if she spent much time outdoors. But he knew she didn’t. The finger that had tapped her bag was too smooth, unblemished, to belong to someone who did anything outside besides, perhaps, run.
Another look at her legs and, yes, she was a runner.
She smiled, and his attention shifted to her lips.
Lush but not bee-stung. Not thin. Lips that framed a decidedly smart mouth.
For now, that was amusing. And now was all they’d have. He glanced at the meeting timer. Forty-three minutes.
“If you’re bored, you could try conversation. It’s a universally accepted means of passing the time.”
One corner of his mouth twitched. “Are you always so...”
“Quick-witted?” she offered.
“Snarky.”
She shrugged. “Semantics.”
He quieted, waiting to see what she would add in the hanging silence.
She stared at him, also waiting on...something. What? Conversation? Yet the longer they sat there, the more clear it became that she might just be able to wait him out.
Seconds passed, crossing the one-minute mark and dragging on before she couldn’t stand the building tension and broke the silence.
“Okay,” she said, leaning forward and resting her forearms on the table, her breasts pressed together by her biceps so that her cleavage nearly doubled. “I’ll get the ball rolling. What’s your name?”
He rose.
She followed suit.
He held out a hand.
She stared at it for a moment and then offered her own hand in return.
A jolt of awareness passed through him not unlike a mild electrical shock. “I’m Isaac Miller.”
“Rachel Stephens.”
“And what do you do for a living, Ms. Stephens?”
“Please, call me Rachel.”
He didn’t blink, didn’t look away. “Isaac.”
“I’m a lawyer... Isaac.”
He sank back into his seat and folded his hands across his abdomen. “You’re a rare woman, Rachel.”
“And how did you come to that determination in under five minutes?” There was a smile hidden in the question as she sat down.
“You’re an attorney.”
“Yes.”
“Are you successful?”
“Each person measures success against different markers.”
“By your own, then.”
She lifted one shoulder, her head tilting to the side as she considered him. “By my measure? Yes. But there are still mountains to climb and glass ceilings to shatter.”
He nodded in agreement. “You’ll get there. You clearly have a mind that complements your appearance.”
“I look smart?” Surprise played through her wide gaze.
He fought the urge to smile. Letting go of his iron control now wouldn’t do. But she deserved clarification. “You look absolutely stunning, to be frank. What I meant was that your mind seems as attractive as your—”
“My body,” she said, surprising him.
He had wanted to say “body,” but that wasn’t acceptable. Not by his or society’s standards.
“Admit it,” she teased. “That’s what you were going to say, but you backed yourself into a conversational corner.”
“Certainly...not.” One corner of his mouth turned up against his will when Rachel laughed again. The sound shot through him, landing at the base of his spine, making his balls draw up tight.
She leaned forward and, in a stage whisper, said, “That was a pathetic cover.”
“It
