Flirting with Sin (5 page)

The man was lethal to her senses…to her resolve.

“Problem?”

Forcing a smile, she glanced at him, keeping her attention focused squarely on his face. Any lower—especially to the nipple piercings—and she might dissolve into a slobbering hot mess incapable of holding a conversation.

“Nope. Would you like some breakfast?” She set the plates on the counter.

He shoved a hand through his unruly dark-brown curls before rubbing a palm over the stubble covering his jaw and chin. With a sigh, he settled on one of the stools lining the kitchen bar. “Yeah. Thanks.”

She nodded. Seconds later, she slid a plate heaped with bacon, potatoes and more than half the omelet toward him, along with a fork. He murmured his appreciation and immediately dove in as if he hadn’t eaten in years. Setting her own plate on the breakfast bar, she stood across from him, her fork clutched in her hand.

“Um…” She hedged. He lifted his gaze from his breakfast to meet hers and she flicked a couple of fingers in his direction. “You don’t want to put a shirt on or something? I’d hate for you to, uh, burn yourself if food fell on you.” She shrugged. “Or, you know, it’s kind of chilly in here.”

Her cheeks flamed at the flakey and
so damn transparent
excuses but, shit. She was fighting for sanity here. How did he expect her to sit next to him, shirtless, and do something as mundane as eat breakfast? Nope. Not going to happen.

Those amazing eyes fixed on her, studying her with an intensity she struggled not to shrink from. God forbid he caught even a hint of the riotous need playing havoc with her body like some groupie who trailed him from city to city. How humiliating would that be? Uh. Very.

“I’m good,” he finally answered, biting off a piece of bacon. Damn, the man should be charged with violating a hotness criminal code just for the way he chewed food. “But if you have a problem with it…?” An eyebrow arched along with the pierced corner of his mouth.

“No, of course not,” she lied, adding a small, chuckle for good measure. Too bad the laugh sounded as if she were choking on her eggs, completely ruining the nonchalance she’d been aiming for.

Folding his arms on the top of the bar, he leaned forward, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Are you sure? Because if you’re really bothered, I’ll go put on a shirt.”

“I said no.” She stabbed her omelet with her fork, wishing she’d just shut the hell up and hadn’t mentioned the damn shirt in the first place.

He lifted the dragon-head shoulder in a shrug. “Okay. Actually…” His eyelids lowered, the mock sincerity from moments ago melting under the heat of his hooded sensual gaze. Her breath snagged in her throat. “I find it kind of warm in here. If you wanted to get rid of your sweater, I wouldn’t object. Whatever you need to feel comfortable.”

Like a physical caress, his intent study of her lowered, and damn if her nipples didn’t bead into rigid points under her bra and top. Jesus, one look. One. Freaking.
Look
. She gripped her fork tighter, the silver pressing into her fingers.

Get a grip
. She wrestled her stubborn—and obviously sex-deprived body—back under control.
This is what he does
. Flirt. Make a woman feel like she’s special and wanted. It was how he sold records, for God’s sake.

Disgusted over her lapse in common sense, she ignored his question and
the look
. Men like him—famous, gorgeous, hot rock stars—didn’t go for women like her—ordinary, more super nerd than supermodel loan officers. Only in romance novels and hooker-turned-Cinderella movies did people from totally different worlds fall in love. She hadn’t even been able to hold onto the conservative, average investment banker she’d dated for two years.

Boring. Frigid
. Those had been the words Troy had tossed at her as he’d strode out the door of their apartment without a backward glance. In what world would she capture the interest of someone as fascinating and exotic as Ari Sincero?

The cold reminder accomplished what her ragged resolve couldn’t. The need simmering in her chest and between her legs cooled until not even embers remained. Troy had demolished her pride and self-esteem. She refused to offer both up to Ari along with a battering ram.

Minutes later, she removed his scraped clean plate and scooted hers over to him. He wolfed down the remaining pieces of bacon and eggs.

“I take it you aren’t feeling any after-effects from getting drunk off your ass?” She crossed the kitchen to the refrigerator and removed the orange juice.

“If you mean am I hung over, no.” He popped the last of the food into his mouth. “I didn’t drink yesterday, though. Just crashed.” A frown creased his brow for a second, and Neveah held her breath. Was he thinking about Monday night? Did he remember?

His forehead cleared, and she silently expelled the air trapped in her lungs. “It’s been,” his full mouth firmed into a grim line, “hectic. I guess I was more exhausted than I thought. Everything caught up with me, and I slept all day.”

“Well that’s good.” She poured the juice into a tall glass and placed it in front of him.

He studied the drink for several quiet seconds, his elegant, musician fingers wrapped around the glass. When he raised his eyes to meet hers, they were inscrutable. But his penetrating examination left her unnerved. Bothered.

“What?” she demanded, unable to stand his scrutiny and silence any longer.

“I’m trying to remember the last time I drank orange juice without gin or Vodka in it. Or the last time someone fixed breakfast for me. It’s been years…for both.” He paused. “Thank you.”

Warmth having nothing to do with the beauty of his face or body suffused her. Troy had often accused her of hovering, of being too obsequious. So, she’d stifled the part of her that enjoyed taking care of others, of comforting and serving so her ex wouldn’t feel smothered. Now here, a man who people probably catered to and tripped over themselves to pamper and dote on, had thanked her for a simple breakfast and glass of juice.

Unbidden tears stung her eyes, and she squeezed them close. Ashamed and horrified at her reaction to his kindness, she whipped around.
Christ, really?
They were words. Just words. She mentally shook her head, replacing the carton in the refrigerator. Yet…yet her heart—her bruised and battered heart—pounded at the simple “thank you.” Because it had been so fucking long since she’d heard those two words. From family, from Troy…

“Hey.” Big, strong hands closed over her shoulders and, for the second time that morning she jumped, startled. Except, this time, a tall, hard body pressed against her back and ass. Goddamn, was that his… Oh, hell yes, it was. Surely the long, thick length nudging her bottom was a biological, morning-wood-man thing, and not due to his standing so close to her. She froze, snared like a fish on a hook between shrinking away from him and crowding closer.

“Look at me.” The command was soft, but his firm grip brooked no argument. He didn’t wait for her to obey, but turned her around to face him. His musician’s fingers pinched her chin and tilted her head back. She didn’t have a choice but to do as he directed. Those too-knowing eyes studied her until she fought not to squirm like the aforementioned fish. “What’s wrong? And don’t tell me nothing when I can see the tears in your eyes.” She parted her lips to object, but he placed a finger against her mouth. “What did I say?”

Maybe she should confess. Maybe she should admit that, with a simple phrase—thank you—he’d reminded her how she’d allowed herself to be taken advantage of for so long. Admit she’d willingly subjugated a part of herself to conform to her ex’s endless and impossible expectations.

Sure. She could come clean right now…and appear pathetic and weak in his eyes.

“Nothing.” His gaze narrowed, and she shrugged. “I’m just PMSing.” Any red-blooded male would turn tail and run at those three dreaded letters.

He snorted, not releasing his grasp on her face or appearing the least bit intimidated. Well, shit.

“Nice try. Now,” he whisked the pad of his thumb along the tender skin beneath her bottom lip, “tell me who hurt you.”

Shock stampeded over her. The combination of his incisive—and intrusive—statement and the sensual touch grazing her mouth… She shivered. Jerked out of his grip. But not before she caught the darkening of his eyes. Standing this close, no way could he have missed her body’s reaction to his caress. Humiliation crawled through her.

At eighteen, she’d fantasized about him giving her “the look” and choosing her out of all the screaming, half-naked women in the audience. The wish had been a school girl dream. And, years later, never would she have believed one day she would meet the object of those fantasies in real life. On stage, on television, on posters, he was charismatic, vibrant. In life—less than five feet away—he was irresistible. Potent. Dangerous. An unrealistic, impossible fantasy had suddenly sprang to life, and the odds of her falling hard scared the shit out of her.

Troy she could get over—had gotten over.

But Ari?

He would leave a hole no man could fill.

Okay, she needed space. From him. From the heat radiating from his bared flesh. From the temptation of skin begging to be petted, kissed, licked. Worshipped.

Her hips bumped the edge of the counter as she backed away from him. Grasping on to the only weapon he’d left her, she hurled words at him like a Hail Mary grenade.

“Share with me why you got wasted. What had you locked up in a room drinking alone? And don’t tell me nothing,” she mocked, throwing his demand back at him.

His lashes lowered, concealing his gaze. A cold mask descended over his face, the sharp angles stark and harsh. Instantly, she regretted the words and wished she could renege and snatch them back. Desperation—hell, survival—had propelled the verbal slap from her mouth. She had to spend the next five days with him. If she wanted to survive with her pride and, God forbid, her heart intact, she had to place distance—emotional and physical distance—between them.

Because she knew herself. Too well.

Troy. Jacob. Harrison.

Their names were etched into the tombstones littering her love life. Men she’d
believed she’d loved. Believed had loved her in return. All because she’d fallen so hard, so fast. Greedy for someone to need her, want her, adore her, she’d turned a blind eye to the glaring, neon caution signs—
Asshole Ahead
.

Yes, she knew herself. It would be easy to dive head and heart first into an infatuation with Ari. What woman with working ovaries wouldn’t? Gorgeous. Fierce. Sensual. And with a wounded heart still grieving for a woman he’d lost three years earlier.

She needed to keep her distance.

Because if she didn’t, five days from now she would walk away from this castle with her heart ripped to shreds by a rock star.

“T
o forget.”

Neveah skidded to a halt several feet from the door of their suite and turned toward Ari, confusion etched on her face. Not that he blamed her bewilderment. An hour and a half had passed since she’d basically run from the kitchen—and him. Ninety minutes was a huge lag in conversation time.

She frowned. “I’m sorry. What?”

Propping a shoulder against the wall next to his bedroom door jamb, he crossed his arms. “You asked me why I was alone in the room getting wasted. To forget.”

He forced the explanation past his throat and lips even though his brain roared a
WTF
? The subject of Caro was taboo. He didn’t talk about her to anyone. Joseph had tried to convince him to grant interviews about her death, but Ari had refused. And when overzealous reporters had tried to sneak in questions, he’d cut the interviews short, leaving them staring at their cameras and his empty seat. She was off-limits.

So why he’d broached the subject, even peripherally, with Neveah, a woman he’d known for days? Hell, he didn’t know, couldn’t explain it to his damn self. But whenever he studied her pretty face, the vulnerable curve of her lips and the liquid darkness of her eyes where shadows and old—and not-so-old—hurts seemed to linger, he trusted her. Trusted her to not betray his confidence. Trusted her to not judge him by his demons.

The past had taught him confiding his secrets, cares and pain in the wrong person wounded the soul worse than a lethal gunshot or knife wound. Living with the scars of betrayal, disillusionment, bitterness and lack of belief in his own judgment lasted much longer than the brutal abruptness and finality of death.

Yet, here he stood, ready to risk stepping off the shaky ledge called Faith and expose himself to a woman he barely knew. Earlier in the kitchen, he’d asked her to share her past hurt with him. As if he could squeeze into a suit of armor and fight the monster responsible for inflicting the pain reflected so clearly in her eyes. But she’d just stared at him as if he’d suddenly sprouted fur, dagger-sharp teeth and claws, and had threatened to huff, puff and blow down the protective shields she’d erected.

He knew a little something about those shields. His kept him safe and others out.