She winced at his question. She’d give anything to do something exotic and sexy that would impress this man. But she was who she was. She sighed and answered reluctantly, “I’m a forensic accountant.”
“What does that mean? You do dead people’s taxes?”
She smiled. “No. It means I take apart companies’ books and find the discrepancies they may or may not be trying to hide.”
“You’re some sort of auditor, then?”
“Not exactly. Forensic accountants are used mostly in criminal investigations to find the money trail.”
“Who do you work for?” Trent asked.
“I’m a freelance consultant at the moment.”
“Sounds … interesting.”
She laughed. “About as interesting as watching grass grow, right? Actually, I find the work fascinating. But I don’t expect other people to get it.”
He wandered around the suite examining every detail, and although she enjoyed the view of him from so many angles, she was eventually prompted to ask, “Are you always so restless?”
“Hmm, what? Oh. Yes.”
“And what do you do for a living?”
“Nothing.”
She frowned. “How do you support yourself, then?”
He stopped roaming and turned to face her in surprise. “You mean you can’t smell the trust fund at a hundred yards? I thought all women could do that.”
“Sorry. Not me.” Trust fund, huh? Big enough that he didn’t have to work at all? Must be nice.
He resumed roaming, poking around behind the bar. “Aha!” he crowed. He turned around with a bottle of whiskey in hand. She recognized the label vaguely as an expensive single-malt variety.
“So, how do you fill your time if you don’t work?” she asked curiously. She’d put in sixty- and eighty-hour weeks for so long, juggling bookkeeping jobs and school while she got her accounting degree and master’s in forensic accounting she couldn’t imagine doing anything else.
He set two shot glasses side by side on the wet bar and poured generous shots of amber liquid into each. He looked up at her and grinned. “I play for a living.”
Play? She couldn’t ever remember a time when she’d done that. Maybe when her folks were still alive. But even then, her hippie parents had been such flakes about money that she’d ended up taking over the family finances before she’d turned ten. She’d always been more of an adult than anyone else in the Jordan clan. And when her parents died in a boating accident halfway around the world from her and Sunny, orphaning them at ages thirteen and ten respectively, she’d grown up for real. Fast.
Trent thrust a shot glass at her and, startled out of her grim thoughts, she took it.
“Drink up. You need it.”
She frowned down at the whiskey.
“You had a bad shock and your nerves are fried. Think of it as medicine,” he coaxed.
Mentally holding her nose, she lifted the shot glass and tossed down the shot of whiskey in a single gulp. Fire exploded in her throat and roared down into her belly. She coughed and swore as tears streamed down her face. Trent, the cad, laughed as she mopped at her eyes.
He neatly downed his own shot and went back to the bar for refills. When he came back with another shot glass for her, she waved it off.
“Second time, it goes down as smooth as silk. I promise.”
She snorted. “That’s because every nerve in my digestive track is incinerated at the moment.”
He smiled winningly. “Exactly.”
“I shouldn’t. I’ve already had too much champagne—” she started.
He cut her off gently. “Don’t overthink it. Just trust me. You need this.”
She did have a tendency to talk herself out of everything fun in life. And she was safely in her hotel room with a man her sister swore was a great guy. That pleasant, warm feeling spreading outward from her belly button really was very nice, too. She took the second shot and slammed it back before she could change her mind.
This time it made her feel light-headed. A little silly, even. Just what the doctor ordered.
“Another?” Trent asked.
“Are you trying to get me drunk, sir?”
He grinned unrepentantly. “I am.”
“Why?” she blurted. Whoops. She hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but it just slipped out all by itself.
He answered, “You’ve looked uptight all day long.”
“I am not uptight!”
“Honey, if you were wound too much tighter, you’d snap in two.”
Okay, she was starting to feel a little dizzy. But nice dizzy. Like she wanted to throw her arms out and dance to the sensation.
“Why don’t we get you out of those shoes?” Trent murmured, guiding her over to the edge of her bed and sitting her down on it. He knelt at her feet, sliding his big hand down the back of her calf with sensual leisure. “I never have been able to understand why women wear these things. They look blasted uncomfortable.”
He tossed one red shoe over his shoulder and she giggled as she wiggled her toes. “But heels make our legs look so nice,” she explained earnestly.
“You don’t need any help to make your legs look great,” he announced as the other red stiletto went flying.
She stood up and hiked up her torn skirt enough to reach under it. It occurred to her in a distant corner of her mind that she would never, under normal circumstances, do something as intimate as take off her hose in front of a man like this. She stated, “Now if you want to know what’s really uncomfortable and stupid in women’s fashion, it’s panty hose.”
She started to peel hers down, but then warm, strong hands were there, pushing her fingers aside.
“Let me get those for you.” His hands were a warm slide down her thighs, leaving a trail of wanton destruction in their wake. As her legs positively wobbled, she grabbed his shoulders to steady herself. She lifted first one foot and then the other so he could remove her hose.
“I say we outlaw panty hose,” he declared as hers went flying over his shoulder.
She laughed gaily. “I second the motion.”
“Turn around,” he instructed.
She did so and was startled to feel her gown’s long zipper sliding down. Cool air caressed her back. Warm hands kneaded her shoulders and she let her head fall
