women chatter in English about their hemlines. Why were the conversations he could understand the boring ones?
A crew of well-suited men passed him, each with a gorgeous looker draped on his arm. Stryke tilted back his shoulders. He didn’t need a woman to look important. He preferred his females a bit tussled and wilder, anyway. The princess of his pack would need endurance, patience and, hell, she must be fun, too. And like beer.
“But maybe I should reconsider lace,” he muttered as his eyes landed upon a sheath of black lace caressing the most gorgeous figure he had ever seen. He felt sure he couldn’t even dream up something so luscious.
Black lace caressed long legs and hugged a tight ass and narrow waist. Red-manicured fingernails glided over a hip before gesturing as she spoke to another woman. The gesture directed Stryke’s eyes to the deep-cut neckline that exposed the cusps of perfect, round breasts. And up the slender neck where a single diamond glinted, yet didn’t distract from the soft, pale skin.
Petal-pink lips caught his interest. Kissing those lips would be better than tasting the home-brewed beers he enjoyed and brewed in his basement. Kissing those lips, and running his fingers through that soft dark hair that was pulled up in back yet fluffed on top to frame black-lined eyes could ruin a man for other women.
After a man kissed those lips, there would be no going back. And to stroke his fingers down her neck and arrive at the curves of her breasts? Mercy.
Think rednecks and beer.
Stryke smirked and caught himself laughing quietly. He didn’t do stuff like moon over a gorgeous woman. That chick was so out of his league he’d never get closer than the nosebleed seats. He bet she would never wear flannel or even consider a hike through the pine forest out back of his home.
And yet, she was something to look at. Much more intriguing than the sculpture of a naked man immediately to his left.
So he let his gaze linger as he strolled closer, hoping to catch a whiff of her scent. It would be expensive, for sure. His werewolf senses picked up too much from the room. Perfume, aftershave, champagne, salted crackers, sweet treats, body odor. The sensory assault was overwhelming, but he knew how to turn it down and had done so within minutes after arriving.
Now he sought to home in on her scent. A piece of her to tuck into his memory and take along with him tonight. Something upon which to dream.
As he neared, she dismissed the person she was talking to and brushed close to him, not noticing him, but Stryke felt her heat pierce his borrowed suit and dress shirt. Her body heat was visceral. And her scent was sweet but not like sugar, more like a garden full of flowers with bees buzzing among the petals. Subtle yet intensely heady.
His wrist jerked as she passed, and Stryke swung to see what had happened. “Oh, shit. Uh...” He followed as she walked, unknowing, until she did realize and turned to bump chests with him.
“Sorry,” he said. “My cuff link is hooked on your dress. You passed so close.” He twisted his wrist, but could feel the resistance. “Uh, parlez vous Anglais?”
“Interesting way of picking up a girl,” she said in a cultured voice that belonged in a jewelry box aside all that was precious. And on the box? A sign labeled Don’t Touch. “Oui, I can manage English when I must. Can you get it unhooked?”
“Give me a minute. Your dress is all lace and so delicate. I don’t want to tear it.”
“Please do not, monsieur. It’s one of my favorites.”
He’d snagged her right over the ass, and he worked the back of his hand against her derriere, feeling guilty for the stolen touch, yet at the same time, loving the freebie. The diamond cuff link Vail had loaned him was worth a pretty penny, he felt sure. One of the clasps holding a stone had dug its clutches into the thin black lace.
He straightened, standing beside her with his hand behind her and fingers curled so he didn’t blatantly cup her ass. Causing a scene was the last thing he wanted to do, so he’d act casual. Mercy. She smelled good. It was all he could do not to tilt his head against hers to sniff her hair.
“My name’s Stryke Saint-Pierre, by the way.”
“Blyss Sauveterre,” she offered. And oh, yes, she was. “What sort of pre nom is Stryke?”
“The one my parents gave me. Uh, I’m from the US.”
“That is obvious from your accent,” she said with not even a smile.
Nope. He wasn’t going to win her over this way. Damn. Way to spoil things. Worst pickup ever. Now to extricate himself without humiliating her more than himself.
“Uh, could we move over near that column where there’s more light?”
He nodded toward a marble column at the edge of the gathering. Not a lot of people milling on that side of the gallery. They’d be granted some privacy to perform this delicate operation.
“If it’ll deliver me of your groping hand, then oui.”
She started toward the column and he followed, but it was easiest to let his fingers gently curl about her behind. Yeah, it wasn’t cool, but what about this situation was cool?
Once at the column he pulled her around to the other side, where they found privacy and better light.
“Excuse me for what I’m going to do,” he said.
Her lips pursed. Her bright green eyes were the most valuable jewels in the room tonight. And those pink lips. They looked moist and so wanting of a kiss. No chance of kissing them after this embarrassing debacle. Not as if he’d a chance with this delicious bit in the first place.
Stryke bent behind her to work at the tangle. She slid a hand down her hip, uncomfortable, he guessed. And impatient. God, she smelled amazing. All flowers covered in sugar and fluttering over him until he was buried in sweetness.
“So this is how American men meet women?” she asked over her shoulder. “Snag them like a poisson?”
Poisson? What was that? Poison? Hell, he didn’t know. “Not generally. I like to take a less aggressive tact when I’m interested in a woman.” Though certainly he was on the hunt. Wrong breed, though. This one he’d have to toss back. Ah! Poisson meant fish. “I suspect I’m not your type anyway.”
“What, or rather, who do you guess is my type, Monsieur Stryke?”
When she said his name like that Stryke wished they were the only two in the gallery, and that he had the courage to kiss her and steal away more of her elegant French words.
“Your type...” He stood and kept their close proximity by running his hand over her hip, and said, “...is rich.”
She quirked a perfectly arched brow. The eyeliner circling her beautiful bright eyes had been drawn out at the corners in a catty tease. As he had with the marble statues, Stryke reminded himself not to touch. This wasn’t the venue or crowd that appreciated his kind of sensual curiosity. He’d have to save the smoothing of his fingers over her skin for the bedroom. Which was never going to happen.
“So you do not qualify?” she asked. “Rich?”
“I
