head lift, knew that she was listening to their conversation. He felt her eyes on his face, sensed her interest. He didn’t mind—hell, she was gorgeous.
But many, many gorgeous women strolled in and out of this wine bar, through the tasting rooms back at the vineyard, through their restaurant, their art gallery, hotel … his office, his life. He never picked up random women. If he required female company—he was only thirty-five and he frequently did—he had a couple of women on speed dial. Women he knew, liked, was comfortable with. Women who understood that he only wanted a couple of hours’ strings-free fun.
Bo placed his forearms on the bar and looked at his foot resting on the gold rail, resisting the temptation to look her way and initiate conversation. He should be heading back to the estate, to the first of the four luxury houses they’d had built when they’d decided to turn the Belleaire mansion and family home into a boutique hotel. The houses were tucked into the east end of the estate, beyond the vineyards, and were far enough away from each other so that he didn’t feel as if he was living in his sister’s or his cousin’s pockets. The fourth house, smaller than the rest, they kept for visiting family and friends.
He had a full day tomorrow, a crazy week ahead, and he was nuts to be even considering chatting up this beauty with shadows under her eyes. He knew instinctively that she wasn’t his type. He liked women like himself: cool, collected, calm. He could tell from the short sundress she wore with kick-ass cowboy boots, from her curly down-to-the-waist hair and make-up-free face, that this woman was a free spirit.
He always ran as far and as fast as he could away from free spirits, adventurers, women who marched to the beat of their own drum. He preferred women who were uncomplicated, undemanding, easy-going. Calm … He really liked calm.
He just knew that this woman was anything but …
So toss back your whiskey and get out of here, Tessier. And there’s no point in running pickup lines through your head. You are not going to use them on her or anybody else.
Smart, very successful—rich, if she had to judge by his subdued designer threads—and a little or a lot lost, Remy thought. His broad shoulders looked tight and his thumb tapping against his tumbler suggested tension. His hair held the furrows of frustrated fingers raking through it.
She recognised stress when she saw it—after all, she’d once been the living, breathing embodiment of it—and she sympathised. He needed more than one hastily thrown back whiskey and some conversation. He needed to relax, to laugh, and probably a healthy bout of really good sex.
She could help with one and two, and she couldn’t emphatically state that three was out of the question. She was that attracted to him …
Here’s hoping you have a sense of humour, cutie, because if you don’t I’m about to fall flat on my face …
‘You are just the way I like my coffee. Tall, dark and strong.’
He half turned towards her and she sucked in her breath at her first proper look at his eyes, which were gunmetal-grey, framed by dark, spiky lashes.
His straight, dark eyebrows pulled together. ‘Excuse me?’
Remy made a clucking noise and pretended to think. ‘Didn’t work? Well, what about this …? I’ve been looking for a man with a VCR and I’ve finally found the perfect one … That’s a Very Cute Rear, by the way.’
He rolled his eyes but she saw humour flash in them. Thank God.
His strong face remained impassive, and if it hadn’t been for that flicker of fun she’d noticed she would have run for the hills.
‘Seriously?’
Remy flashed her naughtiest grin. ‘Really cheesy, huh?’
That sexy mouth tipped up just a little at the corners. ‘Very.’
‘Okay—last one. Aren’t you the guy who’s going to buy me my next drink?’
He stared at her for a moment, before releasing a smile which took him from cool and remote to vaguely accessible.
Oh, cutie, you definitely need to smile a lot more.
‘Not great, but tolerable.’
His voice was low, melodious, and as smooth as the expensive whiskey he was drinking, she thought as he turned away to order her a drink. Then he took the vacant seat next to her and, as she’d expected, blinked when he noticed her eyes. Instead of commenting on the pale golden colour, as so many people did, he just crossed his arms, big biceps pulling the sleeves of his dress shirt tight across his arms. She longed to loosen that perfectly knotted red tie, to undo the top button of that blindingly white shirt. She wondered what he would look like in lived-in jeans and a T-shirt … how he looked naked. Fantastic, she decided.
‘So, do those dreadful pickup lines usually work for you?’ he asked, his eyes unreadable again.
‘You bought me a drink, didn’t you?’ Remy pointed out.
‘This is true.’ He pushed the glass of wine in her direction. ‘Got any others?’
‘Pickup lines? Sure.’
‘Hit me.’
‘They are pretty dreadful,’ she warned him, her expression inviting him to flirt a little, laugh a lot.
‘I don’t know … the VCR one was dated and dreadful.’
Remy tapped her finger against the bar and pretended to think. ‘Okay, what about … your body is a wonderland and I want to be Alice?’
He groaned.
‘Could you please step away from the bar? You’re melting all the ice?’
There was that smile again.
‘Are you a dictionary? Because you just gave me the definition of gorgeous?’
Yeah, the smile’s growing bigger. C’mon, I know it’s in there somewhere.
‘You’re so hot a firefighter couldn’t put you out.’
His unexpected laughter rumbled over her and Remy couldn’t help her shiver, which was quickly followed by heat flowing through her veins. She’d got him to smile properly, to laugh. She felt as if she’d won a seriously important prize.
She sent him another dazzling smile. ‘I’m Remy.’
‘Robert, but most people call me Bo.’
Robert was too uptight, too formal, Remy thought as she took a sip of her wine, but she supposed it suited his cool, calm, Lord of the Manor attitude. ‘Bo’ suited the laughing man she’d seen behind the stick-up-his-ass façade.
And she really found that man far too attractive.
This is a good time to get up and leave, Draycott. Before you do something really stupid like inviting him to inspect your panties—which just happen to be red and barely there. Take your reality pill, honey. Remember the last time you had sex?
