It’s the exact thing I’d found concerning minutes before, but coming from him, it’s pure seduction. “I like me in your jacket because it smells like you.”
“You can keep it as long as I’m in it.”
“You aren’t in it now,” I point out.
“You won’t be either in a few minutes,” he promises, turning us toward the entryway and wrapping his arm around my waist, under the jacket. “Finally, I’m going to have you to myself.”
“Which wouldn’t be happening had I driven the Bentley and wrecked it,” I say as the double glass doors part for us and we enter a fancy lobby with a long oak registration desk to our right, and chairs and tables speckled here and there to our left.
“You weren’t going to wreck it,” he assures me. “And you had other reasons for declining and we both know it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say quickly, and it’s the worst lie I’ve told. I know and I’m now certain he knows that I didn’t want my lost dreams punishing me any more than they already have tonight.
“Besides,” he says, giving me an escape, and directing us toward the elevators, “I wouldn’t have let you wreck it.”
“All that confidence and command won’t stop me if I want to crash, fall, or spill something, I promise you.” We turn a corner and stop at what appears to be a private bank of elevators. “There’s a law of nature element to it.”
He punches the call button. “I don’t believe in the law of nature any more than I do the power of the universe.”
“Never. Not at all?”
“No. To do so would infer I have no control over the outcome of a situation and if that’s the case, why keep fighting? I want control. That means I have to believe I can take it.”
“What about how you just happened to come downstairs tonight when I was at the desk? That’s fate. Or the stars aligning, or whatever you want to call it.”
He steps to me and shackles my hips, something he does often, and I could easily get used to it, but of course, I will never get the chance. “I chose to come after you,” he states.
“But you wouldn’t have had the opportunity if the timing hadn’t been perfect.”
“Semantics.”
“That’s not even close to the definition of ‘semantics.’”
“It is if I say it is. That’s how I win over juries. I believe what I’m saying and I make them believe it too.”
“So you’re not just good at your job, you’re good in the courtroom.”
“Being good means rarely going to court.”
“And you do that how?”
“Know what makes everyone tick, which means knowing more than your client and the people influencing their situation and life. Know the same about your opposing counsel.”
The elevator doors open and he leads me into the empty car, keying in a code and punching the button for what I think is the top level. The next thing I know I’m in the corner, and he’s crowding me, his hands back on my waist, and the air around us thick with sexual tension.
“Right now, I want to know you.” Right now. Those are the two words that make his attention to details sexy, not dangerous. He leans in closer and inhales. “You’re the one who smells good. Like vanilla and flowers.”
“It’s vanilla and lilac. A special scent I have made at—” I stop myself before I place myself back in Texas, not Los Angeles. “It’s the only scent I wear.”
“It’s addictive,” he declares, his cheek brushing mine, the newly forming shadow on his jaw rasping against my delicate skin and I have no idea how but my nipples pucker in response. “You’re addictive,” he amends. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it all day.”
Oh how easily he can make a girl feel special. “You know just what to say. No wonder you never make it to court.”
He inches backward, his gaze pinning mine. “Don’t do that, sweetheart.”
The endearment does funny things to my stomach. “Do what?”
“Don’t make what I say to you about something else or even about me.” His hand slides under my hair, around my neck, “I have nothing on my mind but you, and you have no idea how nearly impossible that is tonight. Obviously I need to work harder to make that clear.”
“No I—”
He drags my mouth to his, his lips gently brushing mine, his tongue a tease against mine that promises so much more. “You are all that matters tonight. Understand?” The question plays on his tongue as an erotic command, as does his hand on my neck.
“Yes,” I reply, quaking inside with the way he manages to possess me and arouse me when everything about my history says those things shouldn’t make me respond. But it is him I respond to, the way he somehow makes right what was always wrong for me.
The elevator dings behind us and he links our fingers, an act that, more and more, feels intimate, leading me out of the car, and it hits me then that he holds on to me like he is afraid of losing me, like I matter. And he looks at me like he really wants to see and know me, when earlier today, I was certain that I was invisible in every way.
“This way,” Shane instructs, leading me left down the hallway, and the butterflies that erupt in my belly are almost too much to handle. Each step I take is laden, adrenaline pours through me like buckets of his triple-shot lattes. Too soon, we are at his door and he’s turning a lock. He opens the door and he motions me forward, when he’s all but led me everywhere else.