Kira was temporarily waiting tables while looking for a museum curator position. Since her mother always turned a deaf ear to Kira’s excuses, rather than explain, Kira had decided to walk her dad’s hunting spaniels while she nursed her injured feelings.
The brilliant, red sun that had been sinking fast had been in her eyes as the spaniels leaped onto the gravel driveway, dragging her in their wake. Blinded, she’d neither seen nor heard Quinn’s low-slung, silver Aston Martin screaming around the curve. Slamming on his brakes, he’d veered clear of her with several feet to spare. She’d tripped over the dogs and fallen into a mud puddle.
Yipping wildly, the dogs had raced back to the house, leaving her to face Quinn on her own with cold, dirty water dripping from her chin.
Quinn had gotten out of his fancy car and stomped over in his fancy Italian loafers just as she got to her feet. For a long moment, he’d inspected every inch of her. Then, mindless of her smudged face, chattering teeth and muddy clothes, he’d pulled her against his tall, hard body, making her much too aware of his clean, male smell and hard, muscular body.
“Tell me you’re okay.”
He was tall and broad-shouldered, so tall he’d towered over her. His angry blue eyes had burned her; his viselike fingers had cut into her elbow. Despite his overcharged emotions, she’d liked being in his arms—liked it too much.
“Damn it, I didn’t hit you, did I? Well, say something, why don’t you?”
“How can I—with you yelling at me?”
“Are you okay, then?” he asked, his grip loosening, his voice softening into a husky sound so unexpectedly beautiful she’d shivered. This time, she saw concern in his hard expression.
Had it happened then?
Oh, be honest, Kira, at least with yourself. That was the moment you formed an inappropriate crush on your sister’s future fiancé, a man whose main goal in life is to destroy your family.
He’d been wearing faded jeans, a white shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. On her, jeans looked rumpled, but on him, jeans had made him ruggedly, devastatingly handsome. Over one arm, he carried a cashmere jacket.
She noted his jet-black hair and carved cheekbones with approval. Any woman would have. His skin had been darkly bronzed, and the dangerous aura of sensuality surrounding him had her sizzling.
Shaken by her fall and by the fact that the enemy was such an attractive, powerful man who continued to hold her close and stare down at her with blazing eyes, her breath had come in fits and starts.
“I said—are you okay?”
“I was fine—until you grabbed me.” Her hesitant voice was tremulous … and sounded strangely shy. “You’re hurting me, really hurting me!” She’d lied so he would let her go, and yet part of her hadn’t wanted to be released.
His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Sorry,” he’d said, his tone harsh again.
“Who the hell are you anyway?” he’d demanded.
“Nobody important,” she’d muttered.
His dark brows winged upward. “Wait … I’ve seen your pictures … You’re the older sister. The waitress.”
“Only temporarily … until I get a new job as a curator.”
“Right. You were fired.”
“So, you’ve heard Father’s version. The truth is, my professional opinion wasn’t as important to the museum director as I might have liked, but I was let go due to budget constraints.”
“Your sister speaks highly of you.”
“Sometimes I think she’s the only one in this family who does.”
Nodding as if he understood, he draped his jacket around her shoulders. “I’ve wanted to meet you.” When she glanced up at him, he said, “You’re shivering. The least I can do is offer you my jacket and a ride back to the house.”
Her heart pounded much too fast, and she was mortified that she was covered with mud and that she found her family’s enemy exciting and the prospect of wearing his jacket a thrill. Not trusting herself to spend another second with such a dangerous man, especially in the close quarters of his glamorous car, she’d shaken her head. “I’m too muddy.”
“Do you think I give a damn about that? I could have killed you.”
“You didn’t. So let’s just forget about it.”
“Not possible! Now, put my jacket on before you catch your death.”
Pulling his jacket around her shoulders, she turned on her heel and left him. Nothing had happened, she’d told herself as she stalked rapidly through the woods toward the house.
Nothing except the enemy she’d feared had held her and made her feel dangerously alive in a way no other man ever had.
When she’d reached the house, she’d been surprised to find him outside waiting for her as he held on to her yapping dogs. Feeling tingly and shyly thrilled as he handed her their tangled leashes, she’d used her muddy clothes again as an excuse to go home and avoid dinner, when her father would formally announce Quinn was to marry her sister.
Yes, he was set on revenge against those she loved most, but that hadn’t been the reason she couldn’t sit across the table from him. No, it was her crush. How could she have endured such a dinner when just to look at him made her skin heat?
For weeks after that chance meeting, her inappropriate attachment to Quinn had continued to claim her, causing her much guilt-ridden pain. She’d thought of him constantly. And more than once, before she’d returned his jacket to Jaycee, she’d worn it around her apartment, draped over her shoulders, just because his scent lingered on the soft fabric.
Now, retrieving the magazine she’d dropped, she set it carefully on the side table. Then she sucked in a deep breath. Not that it steadied her nerves.
No. Instead, her heart raced when Quinn Sullivan’s secretary turned away, saying, “Follow me.”
Kira swallowed. She’d put this interview off to the last possible moment—to the end of the business day—because she’d been trying to formulate a plan to confront a man as powerful and dictatorial and, yes, as dangerously sexy, as Quinn Sullivan.
But she hadn’t come up with a plan. Did she ever have a plan? She’d be at a disadvantage since Sullivan planned everything down to the last detail, including taking his revenge plot up a notch by marrying Jaycee.
Kira had to sprint to keep up with the sleek, blonde secretary, whose ridiculous, four-inch, ice-pick, gold heels clicked on the polished gray marble. Did he make the poor girl wear such gaudy, crippling footwear?
Quinn’s waiting room with its butter-soft leather couches and polished wainscoting had reeked of old money. In truth, he was nothing but a brash, bad-tempered upstart. His long hallway, decorated with paintings of vivid minimalistic splashes of color, led to what would probably prove to be an obscenely opulent office. Still, despite her wish to dislike everything about him, she admired
