Trouble (4 page)

Hell, he probably wouldn't even care if she were married.

Look at me, sweetheart
, he silently told her.
Look at me, look at me
.

Dara had the strangest feeling suddenly, as though the air in the room had changed. Without warning, it seemed to prickle with electricity and the tension of waiting, the way the wind shifts before a storm. For no discernible reason, she turned her head to the right and her eyes locked into place with
his
.

She froze, her smile still on her lips.

This wasn't one of her law school classmates. Not hardly.

She'd never seen him before. Would never forget seeing him now.

He was, by a factor of about ten, the most attractive man she'd ever seen in real life.

Actually … scratch that.

The most attractive man she'd ever seen.

Very tall, well over six feet, probably in his early thirties, he had broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. He wore an ivory cotton sweater, and the long sleeves emphasized the lean muscles of his arms and chest. His jeans, faded and baggy, couldn't hide the powerful cut of his thighs. He had midnight black hair that wanted to curl around his ears and nape. His skin was warm and rich, the color as velvety smooth as coffee ice cream. He had the kind of high cheekbones, long, straight nose and full lips that ancient Roman sculptors spent their time capturing in marble.

Man, he had great lips.

For emphasis, they were framed by a mustache and a killer five o'clock shadow that struck her as evidence of his supercharged testosterone level rather than the result of metrosexual preening.

That prickling electricity danced up her arms now, tingling across her scalp even as something low in her belly began a slow burn.

There was something about his eyes. Dark, brooding and framed by thick, expressive brows, those eyes were spectacular. They were also mischievous, if not downright wicked—as if he knew an amusing secret he'd tell her when he decided the time was right.

He had a pirate's eyes.

A pirate with a sense of humor, as though he'd make her laugh even as he overpowered and then pillaged her ship.

Dara stared, feeling as though she'd tapped into an invisible power source that hummed and vibrated all around her.

He stared back.

After a long moment—way past too long for mere polite interest—his gaze slid down over her white scoop-neck silk T-shirt, which, she suddenly realized, fit snugly across her breasts. Then it traveled to her slim black pants … to her black strappy sandals and brightly painted toenails … and back up again, to her eyes.

It was the most emphatic sexual message she'd ever received from a man:

I. Want. You
.

Her pebbling nipples, tightening sex and racing heartbeat all answered him right back:

Take me! Take me! I'm yours!

Irritated now, with herself more than him—he was a man and men were predictable, but what the hell was going on with her body?—she narrowed her eyes at him. He was bold. She'd give him that. This was not a college boy she could easily handle. He looked at her as if they were lovers alone in their bed and she was his to enjoy—to devour—in his own good time. He seemed unaware of all the people or, more likely, was aware but didn't give a damn.

Case in point: his response to her glare?

His lips arranged themselves into an admiring and dimpled smile that was just this side of a leer.

Yeah, okay, Mr. Arrogant.

She'd have to take him down a notch or two—or fifty—if they ever met.

Since she'd never felt more exhilarated in her life, she almost looked forward to it.

For a moment, she feared she'd smile back at him, but at the last second, she managed to purse her lips and raise her chin before she looked away.

There was one tiny moment of triumph—
screw you, Mr. Arrogant
—before he laughed.

She knew it was him. No one else here could have a laugh that deep, warm, and unabashed.

That lusty.

Heat from his gaze burned the side of her face, but she wouldn't—
wouldn't
—look at him again.

A few minutes later, when the woman left the great room by herself, Mike, who'd been sipping his drink and biding his time, knew his opportunity to talk to her had come.

Skirting the crowd, he followed her down a long hallway leading to another wing of the house, then into a beautiful library, with hundreds of books on the shelves and tufted leather furniture in every direction.

And there she was, staring up at him from several feet away, her eyes wide with wary surprise.

His heart stuttered with the oddest jolt of recognition. Which was impossible because he knew he'd never seen this glorious angel before tonight. Well aware that he was tiptoeing along the edge of stalker territory, he froze and gave her some space. The last thing he wanted was for her to scurry off.

He couldn't move anyway, and his throat was suddenly on lockdown.

That was what looking at her at close range did to him.

So for a long beat or two, he, Mike Baldwin, criminal defense attorney, law firm owner, electrical engineer by training, former Boy Scout, long-ago all-state basketball forward, generally okay guy and quick thinker, simply could not put two coherent words together.

She was spectacular. Smooth skin, sweetly oval face, long black hair sleek as a seal's pelt.

All that was secondary to her almond-tipped dark eyes.

And her mouth.

A mouth that was berry ripe and pouty, even though the edges wanted to turn up into a smile for him.

He could tell by the way her eyes crinkled, just a touch, at the corners.

He shook his head in a vain attempt to break her spell.

“I followed you,” he blurted, the first thing he could think of to say.

Dara
vainly tried to gather her wits, but her wits were nowhere to be found. Probably because this guy was more impressive than he'd been from across the room, if that was even possible. He was way tall, for one thing, and he didn't walk so much as he prowled, like a sleek black panther that had spied a monkey in the trees and climbed up for a closer look. Plus, his energy and vitality were so magnetic she half expected to see a blue aura glowing around him.

She opened her mouth and prayed her voice still worked. “Followed me, eh? I see that.”

He grinned sheepishly, ducking his head. “Do you mind?”

“Too soon to say,” she said, laughing. “Do I know you?”

“No.” His eyes focused on her mouth and then returned, reluctantly, to her eyes. “Not yet.”

“Was there something you wanted?” she asked.

Poor word choice.

His admiring eyes slid over her face again, lingering on her lips. Once again, his thoughts couldn't have been clearer if he'd taken out a full-page ad in the
New York Times
. He wanted
her
. Bad. If she gave him the slightest encouragement, she'd find herself at home with him—in his bed—before the hour was out.

The idea didn't outrage her nearly as much as it should have.

To his credit, he reeled in all that want and cooled his gaze down by several degrees.

“I wanted to find out whether you're as beautiful up close as you are from across the room. You are.”

Oh, please
, she wanted to say.

Except that he was dead serious. The devilish glint was gone from his eyes now, and he seemed reluctant, almost begrudging, with his compliments. Almost as if he hated to admit how deeply she affected him. But she'd seen this routine before, no matter how sincere he seemed.

Please, baby, baby, please
. Yeah, right.

“Do you always accost strange women at parties?” she asked.

He grinned, and Dara wanted to kick herself. This specimen of masculine perfection clearly did not have to bother accosting women.

“I didn't think I was accosting you, or that you were a strange woman,” he told her, “but no, I don't.”

In spite of herself, she was utterly captivated. His eyes glittered with amusement and mischief, and his smile was devastating: wide, dimpled, and boyish, with perfect white teeth gleaming in the light.

“Really? So you just stare at them, then.”

His smile grew even brighter. More dazzling.

“As I recall, you stared back. But, no, I don't usually stare at women.”

Dara was grateful for the dim lighting so he couldn't see her burning cheeks.

“So have you seen everything you wanted to see?”

“Nope. Not even close.”

His gaze dipped again, lingering, just for a second, on her breasts. The girls tightened accordingly, the stupid bitches.

“Who are you?” she demanded, flustered.

“Mike Baldwin.”

A distant bell of recognition rang in her mind, but since her mind was only nominally in charge of her actions at the moment, she dismissed it.

He stepped closer. “Let's go somewhere and get some dinner.”

That low murmur of his slid over her like water, as hypnotic as ocean waves, and made her breath catch.

“I came here for dinner,” she said, knowing this man wouldn't take
no
, however it was disguised, for an answer. A man like this would disregard her second excuse as he had the first and as he would the tenth. The power of his will felt like a force of nature; saying no to him was like saying no to a tornado. This man was trouble in all caps. He was older and more experienced, and she was smart enough to know when she was out of her league. If she had any sense at all, she'd leave right now. She needed to become involved with him like she needed a couple of hits of heroin. He'd be just as addictive and much more damaging.

“But you haven't eaten yet,” he persisted.

“I don't leave parties with men I don't know.”

“You can meet me at a restaurant,” he suggested reasonably.

She hesitated, finally running out of excuses although, admittedly, it was hard to keep coming up with excuses when she couldn't think of anything more intriguing than getting to know him better.

“I can't.”

His thick brows lowered into a frustrated frown.

“Why? It's not because you don't want to.”

Great. On top of everything else, he could read her like a book.

“I'm meeting someone here,” she said, belatedly remembering Sean, who'd probably be surprised to hear she'd just promoted him to her date for the night. “I should get back to the party.”

His frown deepened. “You're seeing someone?”

Trapped, Dara said nothing. She hated to lie, which made her a terrible liar.

“Who is he?” Mike asked sharply.

“None of your business,” she said, fighting the ridiculous urge to assure him he had nothing to be jealous about.

Grudging respect appeared in his eyes. He pressed his lips together for a long moment, clearly outlining his strategy.